#funky little grumpy man

[the-blazing-light]

Chip Ironwelder commission for @brightwingedbat! Thank you so much for commissioning me again, he was a blast to draw! <3

[elkkiel]

I have made sleep token progress with father! He admits that he likes the music a lot and appreciates why I personally connect with the lore, he's just still hesitant about it because of the cult metaphor/aesthetics.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part One

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, mild angst, mild hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: choppy -- like real life lol, open ending, smut & suggestive content (18+), criminal minds cases & violence, sooo in love, people being mean to Spencer, reader is nervous, reader is also grumpy when woken up (real), virgin!Spencer, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like a year…

Word count: 20.4k

a/n: i just keep imagining what it would be like to be true, domestic partner's with spencer *sighhhhh* i would love to make this a series if anyone has any suggestions for real-life scenarios with our man!!! part two is already underwayyyyyyy

main masterlist part two

It started, of all places, in a post office.

Spencer was there to send a specialty package to his mom, carefully wrapped and labeled in his neatest handwriting and checked at least three times before approaching the counter. You were there picking up a fresh sheet of funky stamps for the biweekly cards you sent to your own mom. You caught him eyeing your stamps; he caught you noticing how he triple-checked the zip code, and before either of you knew it, you were both lingering by the door, pretending you weren’t waiting for the other to say something.

He didn’t ask for your number that day. He didn’t even ask your name. But you remembered his awkward smile, and he remembered how your laugh sounded like a punctuation mark at the end of his favorite kind of sentence.

Approximately two months later, after a few more accidental post office encounters—some real, some not-so-accidental on his part—Spencer finally worked up the courage to ask if you’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime. Nothing fancy. Just... coffee. You said yes without hesitation. Not because you loved coffee or anything—you didn’t even drink it that much—but because it was him.

About five weeks after that first coffee—after getting to know each other over steaming mugs, awkward pauses, and shared smiles that turned less awkward with every meeting—Spencer asked you on an official date. He said it like it was a formal event, and you agreed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three weeks after the first date, you had your first kiss. He asked, of course—“Can I kiss you?”—softly, like a secret he wasn’t sure he could say aloud. You whispered “Please” and met him halfway.

One day later, he showed up at your doorstep, cheeks pink, breath short, and hands full of slightly wilted grocery store flowers. He blurted out, “I’d like to be your boyfriend officially. I wish I had more patience, but I don’t.” You laughed, said yes, and pulled him inside for some checkers and records. You both forgot the flowers on the kitchen counter until hours later when he gasped and apologized profusely for “botching the presentation.”

One month into dating, you finally had a proper make-out session. It happened on your couch after you watched an old movie you’d half-paid attention to. His hands were still a little unsure like he was afraid of taking up too much space, but you guided them to your hips gently, making room for all the ways he was still learning how to want.

Three months after that—after gentle kisses, warm touches, and whispered confessions—you started experimenting more fully. Slowly. Carefully. Clothes stayed mostly, but curiosity replaced fear. Hands explored. Bodies pressed close. 

When you start experimenting, it’s clear right away that Spencer is a complete virgin.

Not in the accidental, whoops-it-just-never-happened kind of way. No—he carried this with him deliberately, quietly, like a fragile artifact wrapped up in careful layers of hesitation and logic.

He’d had a few kisses here and there—fumbling, fleeting moments of curiosity and awkward courage—but nothing past that. The most notable, of course, was the one in the pool with Lila Archer, which he mentioned to you once with a sheepish, barely-there smile and a lot of eye contact with the floor.

But what else could anyone expect? He was a child prodigy placed in public schools in Las Vegas—twelve years old, surrounded by kids over his age, twice his size, and with none of the social tools they’d already started to learn. By the time those awkward, formative years passed him by, he was in college. Then, the Bureau. Then, the field.

Life didn’t exactly leave time or space for learning how to kiss someone without overthinking it, how to touch someone like it was normal, or how to be touched without freezing.

So, with you, it starts very slow.

Very, very, painfully, reverently slow.

Not because he doesn’t want it. And not because you’re hesitant, either. But because he feels everything. Every brush of your fingers over his collarbone. Every time your thigh touches his on the couch. Every time your lips linger too long near the corner of his mouth, just waiting for him to close the gap.

And Spencer doesn’t want just to do things. He wants to understand them. Feel them. Memorize the lines of your body like poetry he’s afraid to get wrong.

So the first time your hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, his breath stutters like a skipped heartbeat.

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t panic. But he’s so still.

Like his body doesn’t know yet what it’s allowed to want.

And you… you go slowly. Tenderly. You kiss him like you have all the time in the world and like he’s never been kissed quite right before. You let your hands rest on his chest, warm and grounding, not moving unless he shifts toward you first.

And when he finally does—when Spencer leans in, his lips parting slightly and his hands shaking just a little as they find your waist—you can feel the trust. You can feel how much it took for him to get there.

…

After all the slow touches, the careful kisses, the long silences that weren’t uncomfortable but sacred, it finally reached that tipping point. That moment when your hand, light and sure, drifted lower, brushing down the center of his chest, past his ribs, over the soft skin of his stomach—just warm skin beneath your fingers, taut with tension but never rejection.

You weren’t rushing. You would never rush him.

But he was trembling now, just slightly, beneath your hand, and when your fingers reached the waistband of his pants, pressing there gently like a question—Can I? Are we okay?—

Spencer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his entire body freezing like someone had hit pause on him mid-thought, mid-movement, mid-desire.

And then—

“Virgin!” he blurted out, like a siren going off in the middle of a church.

You blinked. Pulled back just a little, more surprised by the sudden volume than anything else.

He was already burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” you said softly, trying not to laugh—not at him, never at him, but just at the Spencer-ness of the entire thing. “Did you just—did you just shout the word ‘virgin’ at me?”

His voice was muffled through his hands. “I panicked.”

You bit your lip, reaching out to gently tug his hands away so you could see his face, which was redder than you’d ever seen it.

“I figured,” you said with a small smile, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “That you hadn’t… done this before.”

Spencer stared at you, his eyes wide and embarrassed and pleading for you not to think less of him. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t want to ruin anything. And then your hand was—you were right there—and I didn’t know what to do or say, and I—”

“Spence,” you cut in gently, placing your hand over his heart. “Hey. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m really glad you told me.”

He swallowed hard, trying to read your expression. “You are?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “I want all of you. That includes all the firsts, too. I don’t care how much or how little you’ve done. I just care that you’re here and that you trust me.”

He looked like he was still trying to compute that. His jaw flexed slightly, eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes and back. “I do,” he said softly. “Trust you, I mean.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and slow. “Then let’s take our time.”

—

It happened in the quietest moment, a few months in.

Not during a grand gesture, not in the middle of a kiss, or some cinematic slow dance under string lights. It happened while you sat on the couch with your legs draped over his, your shared dinner growing cold on the coffee table, and an old record playing in the background.

Spencer looked over at you—your hair a little messy, one sock slipping down, hoodie too frumpy, and absolutely the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and said it.

“I love you.”

Just like that.

No stutter. No warning. No long-winded buildup, though with Spencer, that in itself was a miracle. Just three soft, perfectly-formed words like he'd been thinking them every day and finally found the courage to let them go.

You blinked.

Your chest swelled instantly, and that kind of joy was so overwhelming that it felt like your heart might burst right through your ribs. Your whole body felt lighter like gravity itself had relaxed around you. You wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Climb into his lap and never get up again.

Because you loved him. So much. And hearing it from him—from Spencer, who measures his words with surgical precision, who doesn’t say things unless he means them with his entire being—meant everything.

And yet.

Your brain-to-mouth connection short-circuited.

Like… completely fried.

You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him how long you’d wanted to say it, how long you’d wanted to hear it, how long you’d been feeling it—but nothing came out. Not one word. Not even a breath.

You could feel your face trying to smile or do something, but it wasn’t a smile. Oh God, it wasn’t a smile. It was… it was a grimace.

Not because of him. Not because of the words. Not because of the moment.

Because of you.

You were mad at yourself for freezing. For making this look like anything other than the greatest thing ever said to you—that’s ever happened to you.

Spencer’s face fell just a little—not much, just the faintest furrow of his brow, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t apologize. But he noticed. Of course, he did.

And still, you couldn’t speak.

Inside, you were screaming I love you too, so loud the words echoed through your bones, pounding against your ribs like they were trying to break free.

But your lips stayed parted in useless shock, your eyes wide, and that half smile half grimace—God, that awful grimace—still hovering across your face.

And Spencer, sweet, brilliant Spencer, reached out slowly, brushing your hand with his fingertips.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say it back yet.”

But you shook your head, once, twice—because no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why you couldn’t talk. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt.

It was love. Overwhelming, soul-consuming love. So big and deep it clogged your throat, tripped over every nerve ending, shorted out the parts of you meant to speak.

“Please just tell me what you’re thinking,” Spencer tried again, his voice barely above a whisper now, brittle at the edges with the kind of laugh that only shows up when someone is trying really hard not to fall apart. “I—” he looked down, smiled, almost like he was apologizing just for existing, “I can’t read you right now, and it’s… really scary.”

You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out except a soft breath that shook with the effort. You reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly in yours, grounding yourself, grounding him.

Inside, your thoughts were screaming:

I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

Why won’t the words come out?

You wanted to say it perfectly. You tried to mirror what he gave you. But your brain was betraying you in real-time, too caught up in the height of the moment to deliver the simple truth you’d been carrying around for weeks.

So you just stared at him—at the man who loved you, who chose you to say those words to first, who gave them to you without condition, without waiting for safety or the right moment. He gave them to you because they were true.

And the best you could do right now was squeeze his hand tighter and will your heart to speak for you.

But you saw the hurt flash across his face. Subtle. Quick. He blinked it away like it hadn’t happened, but it had.

Your silence was crushing him.

And still, the words wouldn’t come.

“Do you…” Spencer started, and you felt it in the way his hands tightened just slightly around yours, and his eyes searched your face like he was trying to read a language he suddenly didn’t understand. “Do you want to slow things down?”

He asked it like it physically pained him to say. Like the words had to be forced out through a throat full of thorns. Like he was terrified, they might be the match that set the whole thing on fire.

Your heart broke.

That wasn’t it at all. Not even close.

But from his side of things—from the outside looking in—it must’ve seemed like you froze because you didn’t want him to say it. Like your silence was a retreat. A signal to pump the brakes.

You shook your head so quickly that it blurred your vision, your voice finally punching through the barricade in your chest. “No.”

Spencer exhaled all at once like the breath had been stuck somewhere in his lungs since the moment he said I love you. His shoulders slumped, his expression softening instantly.

“Okay,” he breathed, a tiny smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay… Do you, um—” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly shy again—“do you love me?”

You nodded fast, almost too fast. “Yes.”

His face lit up—full and real. His grin was goofy and toothy and completely unguarded, like the question had been blooming in his heart for weeks, and your answer finally let it open.

“Did you forget how to speak?” he teased gently, eyes dancing now, the tension gone.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your bottom lip as you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

Spencer laughed softly and leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, still smiling. “I’ll take unintelligible nodding,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, warm, teasing, and thick with affection.

Then he tilted his head just slightly and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, sweet kiss—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything, only offered.

It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It wasn’t about the fear of losing each other or the relief of still being here. It was quiet. Certain. Gentle in the way only love can be when it’s finally spoken aloud.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and your hand curled into the soft cotton of his shirt as you kissed him back, anchoring yourself to the moment and to him.

And just before you pulled apart, he whispered against your lips, “I love you,” again, like he’d never get tired of saying it.

You kissed him once more instead. Slow. Firm. Certain.

…

The exploration continued—sweet, slow, exploratory. Neither of you were in a rush to reach any finish line, and truthfully, there was something delicious about not rushing. About drawing everything out until the tension between you was so thick, it clung to your skin like humidity.

It started with kisses that deepened over time—long, open-mouthed, tongue-slow kisses that left both of you breathless and warm. Your hands started roaming more freely, lingering on his hips, his ribs, and the dip of his lower back, and when you slid them beneath his shirt just to feel the heat of him, Spencer whimpered like you’d done something forbidden.

And he loved it.

You touched over clothes for a long time, and somehow, that made it feel more intense. The layers didn’t mute anything—they made it better. More anticipation. More teasing. Rubbing, pressing, dragging your palm down the length of him through denim, through soft cotton pajama pants when he was sleepily pliant in bed—he’d gasp like he couldn’t believe how good it felt. Like you were magic, and he was still trying to figure out how.

But grinding?

Spencer really, really liked grinding.

The first time it happened, it hadn’t been intentional. You were in his lap, straddling him during a particularly intense makeout session on your couch, your bodies pressed so close you couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster. You shifted your hips without thinking, just adjusting your weight—and he whined.

A real, honest-to-God whine. High-pitched and needy, muffled by the kiss but unmistakable.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, lips swollen, your breath ghosting over his. “Oh,” you said, surprised and wickedly delighted. “You like that.”

His head fell back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut, throat working hard around the truth. “Yes,” he breathed, like it pained him to admit it. “So much.”

From then on, it became a regular part of your experimentation. Clothes stayed on, but the heat between your bodies didn’t need anything more. You’d climb into his lap or pull him into yours, and slowly, so slowly, you’d move, letting your hips rock against his, coaxing out all those noises he barely knew he could make.

He’d grip your hips like you might float away, bury his face in your shoulder, and whisper your name over and over like it was a prayer. Sometimes, he’d tremble before anything even happened—just from the rhythm, the friction, the build.

And you loved watching him unravel.

You made it safe. You made it sweet. You made it good.

And Spencer? Spencer made it feel like no one else had ever touched you like this. Because no one had ever made him feel like this.

But the first time Spencer finished in his pants?

God, was he mortified.

It wasn’t even supposed to go that far—not technically. You’d been kissing in bed, bodies pressed close, your hands under his shirt, his on your thighs, your hips moving in lazy, deliberate circles against his. It was slow, indulgent, just another one of those experimental nights where nothing needed to happen, where the point wasn’t release—it was intimacy.

But his breathing had gone uneven, his hands had tightened their grip, and he had buried his face in your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you completely. You knew. You knew what was coming. You could feel it.

And then, with a gasp so quiet it sounded like he was shocked it happened at all—he came.

In his pants.

And froze.

Completely, totally, tragically still.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, his face still pressed into your skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from his ears. “Oh my God. Don’t say anything.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned, then slowly pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was red. Not blushing. Not pink. Red. Like he was seconds away from dissolving into atoms and leaving this plane of existence entirely.

“I—” he stammered, already reaching for the edge of the blanket like he might try to escape from under it. “That wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t mean to—God.”

But you couldn’t even speak.

Not because you were embarrassed. Not because you were annoyed.

Because you were floored.

You had never seen anything so honest, so raw, so real in your life.

You bit your lip, watching him scramble, and you could swear to God you’d died and gone to heaven.

The man you loved had just lost control with you.

You could feel the mortification radiating off of him in waves. His entire body had gone still in that telltale Spencer Reid way like he was internally building a forty-page psychological thesis on his own perceived humiliation.

You sat back slowly, your hands still on his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him.

“Hey,” you whispered, leaning in to nudge his temple with your nose. “Look at me?”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his face just barely, just enough for you to see the blooming red flush across his cheeks and neck. His lashes lowered like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“I—” he started voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. It just—you—and then—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, cradling his jaw in both hands. “You’re okay.”

His eyes fluttered shut again, lips pressing into a tight line, but then you kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, reassuring, no heat this time, just warmth.

When you pulled back, your smile was easy, teasing, but genuine. “Spencer… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He let out a choked laugh—more like a groan, really—and dropped his hands over his face in total embarrassment.

And then—

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice muffled by the back of his hand, but it didn’t have an ounce of venom. If anything, it was laced with disbelief. With wonder. With that particular kind of amazement, only Spencer could radiate after experiencing something that both shocked and deeply overwhelmed him.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just smiled against his skin, pressing lazy, lingering kisses along the edge of his jaw, then lower, to the slope of his throat—soothing, adoring. Reassuring him with touch, because you knew his brain was still spinning, his thoughts still racing, probably analyzing your tone, your face, your body language, checking for signs of judgment that would never be there.

“I mean it,” you whispered eventually, your voice warm and honest against the damp heat of his neck. “That was… incredibly hot.”

Spencer groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, grinning. “Forever. I’ll probably bring it up at random moments. Grocery store. Your birthday. Funerals—”

“Funerals?!” he squeaked, lifting his head to look at you, horrified and helpless.

You shrugged, delighted. “If the memory hits, it hits.”

He dropped his head back onto the pillow with a dramatic thunk. “I’ve created a monster.”

“You created a very happy girlfriend,” you corrected, crawling up just enough to look him in the eyes. His were still wide, still a little panicked, but they’d softened now—especially under the weight of your smile.

Your hand came to rest against his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. “Spence,” you said softly, seriously, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t embarrass yourself. You didn’t scare me off. You let yourself feel, and that’s beautiful. It’s real.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… I’ve never—”

“I know.” You kissed him again, this time slow and deep and full of all the words you hadn’t yet said.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy in that way that always made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you said gently, almost like a secret. “Every part of you. Even the part that panics when things feel too good.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath, one that felt like a release, and turned his face into your palm.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Then, after a beat—

“…But I do need to change my pants.”

You snorted, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a fit of laughter. “Deal. But I’m helping.”

“Of course you are,” he grumbled, but you could feel him smiling.

…

And approximately five months after that, he asked if you wanted to have sex.

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t push. He sat beside you in bed after a particularly long, drawn-out evening of tangled limbs, whispered names, and asked quietly, “Would you want to, sometime?”

You turned to him, brushing the hair from his forehead, and asked just as gently, “Do you feel ready?”

And when he nodded—just once, eyes wide and sure—you kissed him and said, “Then yes.”

—

You and Spencer had joined the team out for a night at O’Kieffe’s, the warm, slightly too loud bar just a block away from Quantico that everyone seemed to gravitate toward after a good case or a big change. It was the latter tonight—David Rossi had officially joined the BAU, and the team wanted to mark the occasion with drinks, stories, and maybe a little too much bar food.

Spencer had been hesitant at first. Bars weren’t exactly in his comfort zone—the crowd, the noise, the unpredictable lighting, the clinking of glasses, and the echo of music bouncing off the wood-paneled walls all tended to overwhelm him faster than he liked to admit. But when you gently placed your hand on his arm, reminding him that this wasn’t a night about chaos but celebration, he nodded.

He could do this—for you. And maybe even a little for Rossi.

Because the truth was, Spencer was excited. Really, truly excited. He wasn’t always great at expressing that kind of thing in the ways people expected—there’d be no loud cheers or performative toasts—but there was a particular brightness in his eyes as he adjusted his sweater cuffs and followed you into the bar.

Rossi was a legend. Spencer had read everything the man had written—twice—and the idea of learning from someone with field experience that rivaled Gideon's but without the same emotional volatility was, in his words, “an intellectually stabilizing opportunity.” You’d laughed when he said it, but you’d seen it for what it was: Spencer was hopeful. That was rare. And beautiful.

As for you, you were just happy to see the team again. The BAU didn’t often give space to breathe, let alone celebrate, and being surrounded by the people who lived in the trenches with Spencer—Derek with his teasing, Penelope with her sparkle, JJ already organizing everyone's drink orders, and Emily nursing a beer in her corner—made the night feel a little lighter.

You and Spencer had slid into the booth side by side, your thigh resting against his under the table. He was already reciting a fact about Italian wine in Rossi’s honor before you’d even removed your jacket, and you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder for just a second as the bar's noise faded into the background.

“Hey,” JJ grinned as she approached with two menus and two drinks. “Look who came out of his cave tonight.”

Spencer blinked up at her, already mid-sentence about vineyard elevations. “Technically, I was in the lab today—”

JJ handed you a drink and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Uh-huh. Sure, genius. Welcome to the land of the living.”

You laughed softly into your glass. Spencer looked at you, eyes squinting like, is that supposed to be funny?, and you just leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing great, baby.”

Spencer relaxed for the first time since walking in—just a little, but it was enough.

Predictably, Spencer asked for an Arnold Palmer—his go-to when he wanted to blend in at a bar. The bartender raised an eyebrow, as they always did, but he didn’t notice. Or if he did, he pretended not to, too focused on getting the ratio of iced tea to lemonade just right when he asked. You, on the other hand, simply shrugged when the girls offered to order something for you.

“Surprise me,” you’d told Penelope, sliding the laminated menu back across the sticky table. “Just nothing blue.”

Penelope gasped, one hand over her heart. “Blasphemy. You don’t like blue drinks?”

“I don’t like them when they come up,” you replied, and Emily, across from you, choked on her beer from laughing.

JJ leaned in. “I’m getting you something sweet but deadly. You’re welcome.”

You grinned. “I trust you with my life and my blood sugar.”

By the time your mystery drink arrived—pink, fizzy, and dangerously good—you were nestled between Spencer and Emily, your arm tucked behind Spencer’s back along the booth. He sat upright, knees a little too close together, fingers twitching over his glass as he listened intently to Rossi talk about his early days in the field.

He wasn’t talking much, but his eyes were wide and bright, darting between whoever was speaking and the condensation on his glass like he was cataloging every second of the conversation. Every now and then, he’d lean into you slightly when he heard something particularly interesting or particularly absurd, his shoulder bumping yours like a silent: Did you catch that?

You didn’t work for the BAU, didn’t know all the lingo, the history, the inside jokes that shot back and forth like rubber bands across the table—but it didn’t matter. You liked watching them. The way JJ would cover her mouth when she laughed too hard. The way Derek told a story with his whole body, practically reenacting the events across the table. The way Penelope reached for everyone’s arm when she got excited, physically incapable of holding her enthusiasm in place.

“I’m telling you,” Derek said now, pointing an accusatory finger at Emily. She dropped her badge into the sewer grate and then tried to fish it out with a police baton—in front of the suspect.”

“I still caught him,” Emily muttered, nursing her drink.

“Yeah, because he was laughing too hard to run.”

Everyone howled. Even Spencer, who usually reserved his laughter for niche jokes or obscure references, chuckled into his Arnold Palmer.

You leaned in, mouth near his ear. “You look happy,” you said softly.

He turned to you, his smile shy but steady. “I am.” He looked back at the table, then at you again. “I think… this is good. It feels good.”

And it did. There was something about the warmth of the bar, the laughter, the closeness of bodies pressed into booths and leaning across tabletops that felt more like a family reunion than a work celebration.

When Rossi raised his glass and toasted to “the next chapter,” everyone clinked their drinks together with grins and mock solemnity. You lifted yours, too, even though you didn’t know what chapter they were on.

Spencer clinked your glass gently with his own, then held your gaze for a second too long.

“What?” you asked, amused.

He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just glad you’re here.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Morgan groaned dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Reid, you’re buying the next round for burning our eyes with your little love fest over here.” He fake gagged for good measure, head tilted back like he was in the final scene of a tragedy.

Penelope slapped his shoulder with a firm thwack, her bangled wrist jingling as she did. “Derek! He’s in love! Leave him alone!”

Spencer, mid-sip of his Arnold Palmer, choked slightly on the lemonade, the tips of his ears immediately blooming pink.

Across the booth, Hotch barely disguised his amusement, lips twitching toward a smile that never fully broke through—but his eyes gave him away. “It is Spencer’s turn,” he said, deadpan.

That was all it took.

With a quiet sigh and cheeks still flushed like he'd accidentally been assigned to deliver a TED Talk on romance, Spencer gave you a look that was half wish me luck and half I should’ve stayed home. Then, wordlessly, he scooted out of the booth, brushing your knee as he passed, and stood beside the table, preparing to memorize everyone’s drink orders.

“Okay,” he muttered, locking in. “Everyone… just… say it slowly. No overlapping. JJ, you first.”

It was a mess, of course. Everyone calling out orders with no respect for his system—Penelope wanted something sparkly and strong but not too strong, Derek wanted whatever beer came in a glass, not a mason jar, JJ changed her mind twice, and Emily was now teasing Spencer by naming obscure cocktails just to see if he’d recognize the ingredients.

He somehow caught it all with focused determination.

As he finally finished and headed for the bar, Rossi leaned back in his seat with the kind of casual flair that only came with age and absolute confidence. Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and slipped a black card between two fingers, holding it just low enough that only Spencer could see.

Spencer blinked at him.

Rossi gave a sly wink. “Go on, kid. It’s on me tonight.”

Spencer hesitated, brow furrowed, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “But—”

“No buts,” Rossi interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re celebrating me, remember? Least I can do is pay for the honor.”

Spencer looked down at the card now resting in his palm, then back at Rossi. The older man was already returning to his drink as if the conversation was finished.

And, well, it was.

Spencer tucked the card carefully into his wallet and headed for the bar, still blushing, still flustered—but smiling all the same.

So he made it up there—shoulders slightly hunched, hands fidgeting with the corner of a cocktail napkin, cheeks still pink from Rossi’s gesture, Derek’s teasing, and the general social exhaustion that came with being Spencer Reid in a crowded bar.

He’d given the bartender the list in his soft, fast voice—apologetic but thorough. “One scotch neat, one whiskey sour, one gin and tonic, two beers, one cosmopolitan, one appletini, and—uh—an Arnold Palmer. Please.”

The bartender, to their credit, didn’t even blink. They just nodded and turned away, starting on the scotch first. Spencer exhaled, relieved, and stepped aside slightly to make room at the bar for someone else.

But apparently, someone had been listening.

And wasn’t impressed.

Behind him, a man snorted loudly—one of those exaggerated, performative sounds meant to be heard. “Jesus, what are you ordering for? A daycare?”

Spencer blinked, head turning slowly, confused. “I—what?”

The man was older, maybe in his late thirties or forties. He was tall and broad, with the overconfident stance of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. He was nursing a Jack and Coke as if it gave him some kind of authority, his eyes rolling toward Spencer as if he were the one holding up the entire establishment.

“I said,” the man drawled, louder now, clearly looking for an audience, “if you’re gonna order drinks for the whole choir group, maybe let the rest of us get a round in first.”

Spencer stared, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a limit on group orders.”

The man snorted again. “Well, there should be. Who even drinks an appletini anymore? You trying to get your girlfriend drunk off juice boxes?”

Spencer's mouth opened, then closed again, a dozen facts about cocktail popularity and historical alcohol trends immediately loading into his brain, ready to be deployed like a defense mechanism. But something about the man’s smug grin—so certain, so pleased with himself—stopped him.

Because this wasn’t a conversation. It was a provocation.

Spencer shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable but unwilling to rise to the bait. “They're for my friends,” he said simply, voice low. “It’s a celebration.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, genius. How about next time you call ahead for catering?”

At that moment, the bartender slid the scotch in front of Spencer, followed quickly by the whiskey sour.

Spencer nodded his thanks but didn’t look away from the man, who had turned back to his drink with a smirk, clearly satisfied he’d gotten in the last word.

But then, with a calmness that even surprised himself, Spencer murmured, “You know, statistically, men who police other people’s drink orders are often projecting latent insecurities about their own masculinity, particularly when in public settings designed to measure dominance, such as bars.”

The man blinked.

Spencer reached for the next glass being slid across to him. “But please,” he added, without looking up, “tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens you.”

It was clinical. Precise. Barely a jab at all—at least, not to most people. But to a drunk man with too much ego and not enough brain cells to process nuance, it was fighting words.

The stool next to Spencer scraped back with an ugly screech as the man stood, puffing out his chest like a cartoon character about to pick a bar brawl.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he slurred, stepping in too close, looming over Spencer like that would somehow make him feel bigger, stronger, smarter.

Spencer stiffened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly around the rim of the next drink, his eyes fixed forward like if he didn’t make direct eye contact, he could defuse the situation with sheer avoidance.

“I didn’t insult you,” he said carefully, quietly. “I made an observation. Based on empirical data.”

“Oh, data?” the man sneered, leaning in now, the smell of cheap liquor wafting off him. “You one of those little trivia guys? That it? You think you’re better than me because you read a book?”

Spencer’s breath caught, his shoulders rising a little, defensively—familiar posture. You’d seen it before. Fight or freeze.

And this wasn’t Spencer’s scene. Not by a long shot. He could navigate conversations with senators, unravel a serial killer’s psychosis with a few words—but bar aggression? Drunk men with something to prove? That was another beast entirely.

“I’m just here to pick up drinks for my team,” Spencer said, holding the man’s stare now, standing his ground but not escalating. “I don’t want trouble.”

Unfortunately, the guy did.

He shoved Spencer’s shoulder hard enough to slosh two drinks onto the bar. “Then don’t go running your mouth like a smartass, Poindexter.”

The bartender snapped to attention. “Hey!”

And before the situation could combust any further—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Derek Morgan appeared out of nowhere behind the guy, voice low, controlled, but laced with threat. He placed one firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turned him just enough to get him out of Spencer’s space.

“This guy bothering you, Pretty Boy?” Derek asked without breaking eye contact with the drunk.

Spencer cleared his throat, stepped back, adjusting his glasses. “He had some… strong opinions about fruit-based beverages.”

Derek clicked his tongue, expression flat as he stared the man down. “Yeah, well, I have strong opinions about idiots starting fights in public places. You wanna keep going?”

The man blinked, unsteady on his feet now that he was no longer the biggest guy in the conversation. He mumbled something that might have been “not worth it,” and turned, staggering back to his bar stool further down the line.

Derek waited a beat, watching him go. Then he turned back to Spencer, his demeanor shifting instantly. “You good?”

Spencer nodded, still holding two drinks with extreme care. “Yes. That was… unpleasant.”

“You wanna head back with what you’ve got? I can come grab the rest.”

“No,” Spencer said, squaring his shoulders like he needed to prove to himself that he could finish the job. “I’m okay.”

Derek smiled, clapped a hand to his back. “Proud of you, man.”

Spencer sighed. “I was trying to de-escalate.”

Derek chuckled. “Spencer. You probably just told a drunk guy his manhood was tied to a cosmo.”

“…Statistically, it probably is.”

“Let’s just get these drinks.”

When the two men arrived back at the booth, arms full of drinks and expressions full of something, the mood shifted immediately. Whatever easygoing laughter had been drifting between the team members froze mid-air the second they saw Spencer’s pink ears and Derek’s look of guarded amusement.

You sat up straight, eyes narrowing instinctively as you scanned Spencer’s face—flushed, stiff around the jaw, very clearly trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Emily was the first to speak, her voice laced with suspicion. “What the hell was all that?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, frowning as she took her drink from the line Spencer was meticulously assembling on the table. “What did Macho Man want with Spence?”

Penelope gasped. “Wait—was there drama?!”

Spencer sighed, softly and with great effort, as if this was the last thing he wanted to relive. Derek, on the other hand, leaned back in the booth like he was settling in for storytime.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Derek said, grinning. “Reid here almost triggered a bar fight because someone took offense to him ordering an appletini.”

“It was not about the appletini,” Spencer muttered, sitting down beside you. “It was about the man’s deeply rooted insecurities surrounding masculinity and his inappropriate hostility in response to a completely factual observation.”

You turned to him immediately. “What did you say?”

Spencer gave you a look. The one that always meant you’re going to mock me but I’m not wrong. He folded his hands in front of him like he was testifying in court. “I asked him to tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens him.”

Emily slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. JJ stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Derek confirmed, shaking his head. “I got over there just in time to stop the guy from launching into him.”

“Is he okay?” Penelope asked, peering over Spencer’s shoulder as if expecting to find evidence of bruising or trauma.

“I’m fine,” Spencer said flatly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… a little overstimulated. I didn’t expect to be insulted over a beverage. And shoved.”

You frowned, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Someone touched you?”

Spencer nodded. “It wasn’t hard. It was just… unwelcome.”

“That’s it,” you said, scooting back in your seat as if about to go confront the man yourself. “Where is he? I just wanna talk. Maybe throw an appletini in his face.”

Spencer caught your hand quickly, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s okay. Derek handled it.”

You looked at Derek, who gave you a look that said handled might be a mild way of putting it.

“I used my words,” Derek said innocently. “Mostly.”

The table burst into laughter, and the tension slowly unraveled.

But you leaned in close to Spencer, lowering your voice just enough so it was only for him. “Are you okay, baby?”

His eyes met yours instantly, the tension still clinging to the corners of his mouth but softening under your gaze. You could see how hard he was trying to seem fine for everyone else’s sake—keeping his posture stiff, his voice level—but here, with you so close, it cracked a little.

Spencer nodded quickly, that earnest little head bob that told you he was trying to be brave. “I am,” he said, almost like a question he was answering for himself as much as for you. Then, more gently, “Can we go soon?”

“We can leave whenever you want, my love,” you said without hesitation, your hand sliding to rest on his thigh under the table—a quiet, grounding touch, warm and solid.

Unlike the man at the bar, whose shove had left a static buzz of tension under Spencer’s skin, your touch had the opposite effect. His muscles eased almost instantly under your palm like a string had been loosened somewhere deep in his chest.

He exhaled. Really exhaled. Not one of those shallow, polite breaths he gave when people asked how he was—but a real, whole-body sigh.

Spencer reached down to place his hand over yours on his thigh, holding it there like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave him a small smile, one that said always and pressed your thumb against his leg in a slow, gentle circle.

The rest of the table carried on around you—Derek recounting the confrontation to Penelope with far more dramatic flair than necessary, JJ laughing into her drink, Emily shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this night was real—but all you could focus on was Spencer.

His hand in yours. His heartbeat slowing. The way his body leaned subtly closer to you now, like he knew he was safe again.

And soon, the two of you would be walking out of this place together, hand in hand, far from anyone who’d ever make him feel small.

—

You wanted to make tonight special for your man.

Spencer deserves so much. The world and more.

But tonight, you’ll start with a room—his room—lit soft and made sacred with intention.

So you get a little cheesy with it. Romantic. Old-school. The kind of thing people roll their eyes at in movies but secretly dream of. You plan.

You sneak into his apartment while he’s at work—not really sneaking, of course; you have a key, gifted in a quiet moment weeks ago when he pressed it into your hand like he was asking a question he couldn’t voice.

You let yourself in and begin.

First, the bed. His iron-framed, slightly squeaky, endearingly old-fashioned bed that he once admitted, reminded him of something he saw in a museum as a kid. You wind strands of fairy lights around the bars—golden and warm, gentle on the eyes, soft enough to keep the room dreamy but clear. You test them a few times, adjusting one crooked hook, unplugging, and replugging until they fall just right.

Next, come the flower petals—not just roses. You went for color. Texture. Variety.

Soft pinks, fiery oranges, cool lavender, pale yellows. A little chaotic. A little wild. Like your love for him. You scatter them across the sheets like confetti at a celebration. Because it is one.

You set out the unscented candles on his nightstand—small, discreet, and safe. You almost got the kind that crackles like a fire, but you remembered his sensitivity to noise as much as scent.

You want to indulge him, not overwhelm him.

On the foot of the bed, you place the box of condoms and a bottle of lube—both neatly arranged, unassuming, and respectful, but there. Like a promise, not a demand.

It’s not about seduction, not in the usual sense. It’s about care.

It’s about telling him without words, You are safe here. You are wanted. You are adored.

And it’s about readiness. His and yours.

So you sit on the edge of the bed when it’s all finished, looking around the room, heart full and nervous, because love like this—good love—always comes with a bit of fear.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the man you love to walk through the door.

…

Spencer trudged up the steps to his apartment, every muscle in his body heavy with the weight of the day. His satchel strap bit into his shoulder, and the knot in his neck hadn’t loosened since 2:17 p.m. when the case had turned from frustrating to tragic. By the time he reached his front door, he was fully prepared to collapse, microwave something vaguely edible, and not speak to another human being until at least tomorrow.

But then—

He opened the door and paused.

Your shoes. Neatly placed by his coat rack.

You wore the same pair when you went to that used bookstore downtown and got caught in the rain on the walk back. They were the ones with the faint scuff mark near the toe where you tripped trying to race him to the car.

Spencer’s breath caught, and without even realizing it, his hand relaxed on the strap of his satchel.

“Y/N?” he called out, his voice already softer. Hopeful.

“In here, lover,” you sang back, your voice floating out from his bedroom, warm and amused and full of something deliciously mischievous.

Spencer blinked, confused for half a second by the nickname—it wasn’t your usual one. Then he laughed under his breath, his lips twitching into a smile that pushed away the rest of the day’s gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.

He slipped off his shoes, his heart pounding faster now—not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

He had no idea what was waiting for him. Only that you were here. And that was always enough.

He dropped his satchel carefully by the door, toes brushing his shoes into their usual corner, both out of habit and because he knew you liked when things were neat. And something about tonight—something about your voice and the way it lilted with that playful energy—told him this wasn’t a night for messes.

He padded down the hallway slowly, each step easing him further out of his work mindset.

You called him lover.

Lover.

His ears were still warm from it.

The bedroom door was open, but dimly lit from within, and when Spencer stepped into the doorway—his hand grazing the frame like he needed to steady himself—his breath left him in a stunned, hushed exhale.

“Y/N…” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. It was a reverent acknowledgment.

The fairy lights cast golden halos over everything—the iron of the bedframe, the petals scattered in a riot of color over his sheets, your silhouette seated calmly in the middle of it all, serene and radiant and waiting for him.

The room looked like something out of a book he hadn’t read yet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly. Like something dreamed about.

You looked at him with a grin that betrayed your nerves and your excitement all at once. “Hi,” you said, your voice gentler now. “Rough day?”

Spencer’s hand dragged slowly down his chest like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He nodded, blinking at you like you were a mirage. “It… was. But this—” he gestured to the lights, the petals, you— “This is…”

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head fast, walking toward you now like he remembered how to move. “No. No, it’s—perfect.”

You reached for him, and he came willingly, kneeling on the bed beside you, hands cautious as they cupped your face.

“I didn’t want to rush,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the slight furrow between his brows. “But I wanted you to know I’m still ready. If you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and he swallowed hard, his forehead leaning against yours like he needed the contact to hold himself together.

“I’ve never felt more ready for anything,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with awe.

But still, Spencer was nervous.

No, nervous didn’t quite cover it—he was trembling with a complex blend of anticipation, reverence, and a lingering thread of panic that tugged at him even as he stood in front of you, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as you helped him out of his shirt, your touch so gentle, so patient, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Every movement of yours said we’re okay. You’re safe. I want this with you.

And he did want it. He’d said yes with more certainty than he’d ever given anything outside of a statistical theorem. But the reality of it—being here, with you, about to cross that line—was almost too much. He didn’t know where to look. His gaze darted from your eyes to the sheets to the petals and back again, never quite settling.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. Not out of fear but because he wanted so badly to get it right. To be everything you deserved.

You smiled gently, stepping close and running your fingers along his jaw. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone like silk. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know.”

He swallowed hard and gave a jerky little nod. “I know. I just—I’m trying to be respectful. And grounded. And not... combust.”

You giggled, your fingers trailing down to the hem of your own shirt. “Well, if you combust, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t combust,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

And then—without flourish, without teasing—you pulled your shirt up and over your head and tossed it to the floor.

And Spencer—

Spencer stopped functioning.

Whatever careful control he’d been trying to maintain, whatever self-soothing technique he was cycling through in his mind—it all evaporated.

His jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes widened like a Victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time.

You had never seen anyone look more stunned.

And then he said it. Barely above a whisper. Like it was a scientific observation, a sacred discovery, and a prayer, all at once:

“…Boobs.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Yes, Spence. Boobs.”

He blinked, still staring. “Those are… incredible.”

You stepped closer, chest brushing against his, watching as his entire body stiffened, overwhelmed in the most delightful way. “You can touch them, you know.”

“I can?” he asked, eyes snapping to yours with something just shy of awe.

With your guidance, you nodded slowly, and his hands lifted, tentative but eager, warm palms grazing over your skin like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

And that was it.

That was when all of Spencer Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge, IQ points, and graduate degrees—just left the building.

His brain?

Off.

His mouth?

Open.

His dick?

Throbbing.

His hands cupped you with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts or first editions.

And you? You were beaming.

Because seeing Spencer lose his carefully composed mind over you—over something as simple and as yours as your bare chest—was everything you’d hoped for and more.

His hands, once tentative, were now resting firmly on your chest. Spencer had gone quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him—he was a man who could live inside silence with ease—but this was different. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide as he watched his own hands explore you, gently, like you were something fragile and sacred.

He looked up at you with wonder written all over his face, his cheeks flushed, curls hanging slightly over his forehead. “You’re so soft,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid saying it too loud would break the moment.

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest at the way he marveled at you like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew technically, but—” his eyes flicked back down, thumbs brushing slowly over your skin, “—this is better than any description I’ve ever read.”

That made you laugh, and the sound of it seemed to ground him, his shoulders relaxing just enough that you could see him starting to come back to himself. Not the nervous, overthinking version—your Spencer. The one who trusted you. The one who wanted this.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I think I’m in love with your entire body,” he murmured, dazed and breathless. Then blinked. “And yes. I’m okay.”

You leaned forward and kissed him soft and slow, letting your fingers trail down his spine, pressing gently at the small of his back. He gasped a little when your hips shifted, brushing against him where he was already hard and twitching in his boxers.

He whimpered. You felt it rather than heard it—low in his throat, vibrating through his chest.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You moved slowly, tugging his pants and underwear down with care, and he hissed through his teeth when the cool air met his skin. He was already flushed, already leaking at the tip, and so sensitive that when you brushed your hand along him lightly, his whole body arched.

“God,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck. “I—I might not last long. I’m sorry.”

You smiled and turned your face to kiss his temple. “Spence. I want you to feel good. That’s the whole point.”

He nodded, clinging to you, one arm wrapping around your waist as if he needed to anchor himself. You made sure everything was slow. Gentle. The kind of slow that said there’s no rush, that said we have all the time in the world, that said I want you to feel safe.

Every touch was measured—not tentative, not clinical, but intentional. Like music played on vinyl, every movement had its own warm, human hum. 

When you reached for the condom, he caught your wrist—not firmly, not to stop you, but just enough to pause you.

“C-can I… can I do it?” he asked, voice so quiet it cracked in the middle. “I—I read about it. I practiced.”

Your heart nearly burst.

You nodded immediately, smiling, letting the packet rest in his palm. “Of course, baby. I love that you did research.”

Spencer exhaled and nodded like you’d given him permission to breathe for the first time in ten minutes. His fingers worked the foil carefully, a little clumsy but deliberate. You saw the concentration on his face, the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he rolled it down himself with both hands, going slow and steady like it was an experiment he’d studied and was now conducting in real-time.

When he finished, he looked up at you, a little pink from embarrassment, a little proud. “I, uh… I read that using both hands gives you better control and minimizes breakage. And I didn’t want to fumble if I waited till the moment—”

You leaned down and kissed him before he could spiral. “You did perfect.”

He flushed deeper, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the Nobel Prize.

Then you reached for the lube.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He watched with fascination—his eyes dark and wide—as you popped the cap and squeezed a small amount onto your fingers.

“Okay?” you asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded slowly, lips slightly parted. “Yeah… yes. Please.”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your slicked hand around him, and he gasped.

Not just a sharp intake of breath, not just a quiet sound—a whole-body gasp. His hips twitched off the bed, his fingers dug into the sheets like he was trying to stay grounded, and his head tipped back into the pillow with a groan that echoed in the quiet room.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

You stroked him once, slow and careful, and his whole body shuddered.

You leaned close to his ear, voice low and teasing but full of love. “Too much?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head furiously. “Not too much. Just… a lot. I’m trying not to—”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “You don’t have to try so hard. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He let go.

Of the nerves. Of the pressure. Of the shame.

He let himself be exactly who he was—soft, flushed, wide-eyed, and open—yours.

And when you finally guided him inside you—after his hands had gripped the sheets, after you’d whispered to each other that you were ready—he gasped so hard you worried for a moment he’d stopped breathing.

His hands found your waist. His head tipped back. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh my God.” Spencer squeaked more than said.

You stilled, letting him adjust, letting both of you adjust. You were warm and tight and Spencer was entirely overwhelmed. You leaned forward to kiss him, your hair brushing his cheek, and he kissed you back like he had nothing else to hold onto.

“Is it okay?” you whispered.

“Better,” he gasped. “So much better.”

You moved gently at first—carefully, deliberately—just shifting your hips enough to feel him deeper, to let your bodies adjust to each other, to the newness of it all. Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glossy as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands gripped your hips—not possessively, but like he was grounding himself. His fingers trembled where they rested against your skin, his thumbs brushing mindless, reverent circles, like he was trying to memorize your shape through touch alone.

You leaned down slightly, brushing your nose against his. “Still okay?” you whispered, watching every little flicker in his expression.

His breath left him in a soft, unsteady sigh. “Yes,” he managed, the word barely audible like it had to travel through his entire body before it reached his mouth. “Yes, but I—God, you feel—”

He trailed off, not because he didn’t want to finish the sentence, but because he couldn’t. Because Spencer Reid—man of thousands of words, probably fluent in countless languages, master of articulation—had gone completely, blissfully, speechless.

You pressed your lips to his jaw, then his cheekbone, and then the corner of his mouth, letting your own breath warm his skin as you began to move again.

Slow. So slow it didn’t even feel like movement at first—just heat, friction, pressure, and presence.

You watched him like it was your full-time job, like nothing else mattered. The way his mouth trembled with every shallow thrust. The way his eyes kept trying to stay on you, but fluttered shut when the sensation overwhelmed him. The way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something far more profound than pleasure.

His entire body was taut with restraint like he was terrified to let go.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes again, wide and fragile and desperate all at once. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

You smiled softly, brushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “Don’t worry about that, baby. We can go again later. Or not. But you don’t need to prove anything, Spence. Just let me take care of you.”

That undid him more than anything. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands dragged up your sides, shaking slightly. He nodded—almost frantically—but his voice was quiet. “Okay. Okay.”

You picked up the pace just slightly, just enough to build tension, just enough to draw a longer moan from his chest. It was low and raw like he hadn’t meant to let it out, but you kissed him before he could shrink away from the sound.

“You sound so good, baby,” you whispered.

That almost did it.

His head tilted back, jaw slack, brows furrowed like the pleasure hurt in the best way. His legs shifted beneath you, trying to find stability in a moment where he felt anything but stable.

And then he said your name.

Not just said it—moaned it.

Like it had been carved into the moment. Like it was the only word he knew.

Your bounces were deliberate, and your thighs were sore. His chest was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. And when your hands slid up his ribs, he reached for you—pulling you closer, needing the anchor of your body against his.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent and murmuring soft encouragements, each one laced with love. And he whimpered your name again, his hands tightening on your back.

“I—I’m close,” he whispered as if confessing a secret. “I—I don’t want to, but I—I can’t stop—”

You kissed the hinge of his jaw, your voice breathless but tender. “Don’t stop. Let go, Spence. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

With one last, desperate gasp—your name caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer—he came. Hard. His whole body curling into you as if the force of it broke something open inside him.

You didn’t move right away. You let him ride it out, breathing him in, one hand combing gently through his hair as his arms wrapped around you, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally blinked up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

You smiled, cupping his face like he was made of something precious. “I know, baby.”

“I… I love you.”

You kissed him, slow and full and deep. “I love you too.”

You collapsed beside him afterward, pressing your forehead to his, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Spencer was panting softly, blinking up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered.

You kissed him once, twice, as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “It’s not always like that,” you said honestly. “But with you? I hoped it would be.”

He turned his head to look at you, his expression open and unguarded, his smile small and unbelievably tender.

“I think I’m gonna love you even more now,” he whispered.

You laughed, soft and full, your chest aching with how much you adored him. “Good. Because I already do.”

Then—just as your breathing began to slow, your heartbeat settling into that warm, post-release haze of intimacy—Spencer suddenly shot up.

Not all the way, not jarringly, but enough that his arms unwrapped from around your back, and he was propping himself on one elbow, brows furrowed in frantic realization. His eyes, still glassy and dazed from everything you'd just shared, snapped open with a kind of panic so sincere it was almost endearing.

“You didn’t finish,” he said, voice high and tight, like he’d just remembered he'd left the oven on.

You blinked, a little startled, then broke into a laugh so warm and affectionate it made your chest ache. “Spence—”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

“No—I mean—you didn’t,” he said again, the urgency in his tone almost comical as he began searching your face, your body, trying to confirm with his eyes what he already knew. “I—I wasn’t paying attention like I should have—I was too in my own head—”

“Baby,” you cut in, reaching up to smooth your hand over his hair, which had gone wild in the most adorable way. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he blurted, his hand already sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t imagine not finishing what he started. “I need to. Please let me—can I?”

You blinked again, caught somewhere between touched and incredibly turned on by how serious he was, how devoted.

“Spencer,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “you just lost your virginity about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, and you gave me the most incredible experience of my life,” he said without missing a beat. “And it would be a travesty if I didn’t do the same for you.”

You bit your lip, utterly undone by the sheer passion in his voice, the way his brow pinched like this was the most urgent mission he’d ever undertaken.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added, now trailing kisses along your shoulder, his hand dipping lower with increasing confidence, “but I’m not sleeping until you finish, too.”

You sighed, already melting beneath his touch. “You really are the sweetest man alive.”

“Statistically speaking,” he mumbled against your skin, “I hope to be the most attentive man alive.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, affection coloring your voice even as your body already started to respond to his touch. “Okay, but Spence—”

The rest of your sentence dissolved into a shaky moan as his fingers, always so long and graceful and careful, pushed gently inside of you with the kind of curious reverence only he could carry. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t practiced—it was Spencer. Learning you. Exploring you. Honoring you.

“Yes?” he asked innocently, blinking up at you like he hadn’t just curled his finger in a way that sent heat shooting up your spine.

You tried to compose yourself, your hands fisting lightly in the sheets. “I don’t always finish—Jesus—even with proper stimulation. Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

Rather than looking disappointed, Spencer tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with interest like you’d just given him an unsolved puzzle. “I read that some women can’t,” he said calmly, his voice low and thoughtful, still curling his finger slowly, watching your body respond with studious awe. “There are a variety of contributing factors—psychological, physiological, environmental. In fact, studies show that up to ten to fifteen percent of women may experience lifelong anorgasmia, meaning they’ve never had an orgasm, while others may experience situational or acquired anorgasmia due to stress, trauma, or hormonal imbalances.”

You were trying to stay focused, truly, but it was hard when he was speaking in that careful, clinical tone—that tone—while his finger was so very much not clinical.

“Some data also suggests,” he continued, utterly unbothered by your increasingly unsteady breathing, “that difficulty reaching climax can be compounded by performance anxiety or pressure, even in safe, loving relationships, which is why it’s especially important to prioritize pleasure over completion and—”

You whined. Loudly.

It tore out of you unbidden, high, and needy, and Spencer’s fingers stilled immediately. His brows lifted in alarm as he looked up at you, concern flickering in his eyes despite the obvious state of bliss you were in.

“Wait—are you okay?” he asked gently, the pads of his fingers softening their pressure but not withdrawing entirely. “Too much? Did I—”

“No, no,” you gasped, one hand flailing out to grab at his wrist again, grounding yourself. “Please don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment, scanning your face like he was recalibrating, and you managed a breathless, half-laugh, half-moan.

“Please keep telling me your nerdy shit,” you begged, tilting your hips ever so slightly toward his hand, needing more of him. “It’s working, baby.”

Spencer’s eyes widened like he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. “It is?”

You nodded emphatically, lips parted, your whole body flushed with need. “So much. Talk to me. Please.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

His mouth quirked into a crooked, bashful smile—adorably smug now that he knew what effect he was having—and he cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a keynote address.

“Well… the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings, which is actually more than the penis,” he murmured, returning his fingers to their earlier rhythm, slow and steady, curling just right, “and it's the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. Studies show that stimulation of this area often requires consistency and pressure—not necessarily penetration—and…”

You moaned again, louder this time, arching under the weight of both his fingers and his voice.

He kept going.

“…and many women experience heightened sensitivity when paired with psychological stimulation, such as auditory input or praise, which might be why you’re reacting so strongly to this right now—your mind and body are responding in tandem, which is actually ideal for maximizing the—”

You cut him off with a cry, your hand slamming down against the mattress beside you, voice breaking on his name as you got closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer's pupils blew wide, lips parted as he watched you unravel beneath him. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly now. “You’re so responsive, you’re—God, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, your voice trembling, high and thin, your body arched against the sheets as your thighs quivered around his wrist. “Please—”

Spencer's breath hitched, the seriousness in your tone lighting something molten in his chest. He didn’t stop—not even a little. His fingers kept their firm, deliberate rhythm, his knuckles glistening in the warm light, his eyes fixed on your face like he was reading your every reaction like scripture.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips parted, breath catching on every syllable. “I won’t. I promise. Just… breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

But then, as if his brain couldn’t help itself—as if the next fact physically needed to be said or he might combust—he added, almost breathless with excitement, “You know, some evolutionary biologists argue that the clitoris evolved as a mechanism to promote pair bonding, not reproduction. Which would mean that your pleasure is literally coded into our species to keep us together—emotionally, and psychologically. It’s one of the few functions that exists solely to reinforce trust and intimacy between partners, which I think is just…”

You whimpered beneath him, your body shuddering. “Spencer—oh my God—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, but with a lopsided, flushed grin. “I can’t help it. You’re letting me touch you, and my brain is like, ‘Now’s the time to dump eight thousand years of evolutionary sexual research.’”

Your laugh cracked open into another moan as his fingers curled again—just right.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” you gasped, hands clenching the sheets. “If you don’t make me come right now while quoting Darwin, I swear to God—”

“Technically it was Sarah Blaffer Hrdy who first—”

“SPENCER.”

“Right. Shutting up. But also not stopping.”

And he didn’t.

Your whole body was shaking, strung tight as a wire, teetering right on the edge—but you couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him. Because Spencer Reid, brilliant and so sweet and currently knuckle-deep inside you, was passionately info-dumping about sexual evolution and female anatomy like he was reading it straight from a journal he co-authored.

And it was the sexiest goddamn thing you’d ever heard.

“—and actually, there’s evidence in Bonobo communities that female orgasm plays a social role in maintaining alliances, which some anthropologists believe might translate to human behavior as well—oh, right there?” he asked mid-sentence, breathcatching as he felt your body clench around his fingers.

You gasped, gripping the sheets as heat coiled tighter in your belly. “Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he grew more focused, his voice dropping lower, rougher now with awe and affection. “You’re so responsive, it’s beautiful. The way your pelvic floor contracts during climax is—statistically—it’s just—God, I could write a thesis on this. You, I mean. This.”

That was it.

Something about the way he said write a thesis on this while his fingers moved in perfect rhythm, while his thumb gently pressed right there, while his wide, eager eyes stayed locked on your face like you were the most precious discovery he’d ever made—

It sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a loud, stuttering cry, your body curling in on itself as Spencer kept his touch steady through the waves of it, like he knew exactly how to help you ride it out. Your orgasm pulsed hard and fast, and he felt it—his jaw dropping, his own breath shaky with awe.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, still stroking you so gently it nearly drove you mad. “You just came while I was talking about Bonobos.”

You nodded weakly, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your lips split in a wrecked smile. “Your brain is so hot, baby.”

Spencer let out a stunned laugh, curling beside you, hand now resting on your thigh as he kissed your temple with reverence.

“I feel like I should give a TED Talk after this,” he whispered, still a little breathless.

You giggled, voice still hoarse. “You just did.”

And somewhere in Spencer’s mind, he filed this away under Data Collection: Partner’s Orgasm Most Frequently Triggered by Academic Enthusiasm.

He was absolutely taking notes.

“See?” Spencer said softly, still flushed, still basking in the wonder of what just happened like he’d accidentally discovered a new element. His fingers brushed over your thigh, gentle and aimless, as he smiled down at you with all the smug pride of a man who had just scientifically rocked your world.

“Told you data is sexy.”

You let out a breathless laugh—a mix of exhaustion and affection—and rolled your head toward him on the pillow. “You have literally never said that before.”

His grin only widened, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tucked one hand under his cheek like he was trying to play coy. “I’ve thought it. Repeatedly. Constantly. For years.”

You gave him a tired huff of a laugh, your hand lazily tracing circles on his chest. “Well… you might want to prepare some new information for next time, then. Maybe a bibliography. A few case studies. Something about… I don’t know—neurochemical bonding during prolonged foreplay?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a Christmas morning of erotically charged research prompts.

“I have articles on that,” he whispered, delighted. “I mean, obviously not for this exact context, but the neurobiological mechanisms of oxytocin release are actually—”

“Next time, baby,” you said, pulling the blanket over both of you with a giggle. “I need to regain function first.”

He chuckled, kissed your shoulder, and snuggled in close, already mentally drafting an annotated lecture for your next round.

Because if Spencer Reid had learned one thing tonight, it was this: 

Your pleasure wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust and love… and, just maybe, a full-body response to the words evolutionary psychology.

God help you. You’d created a monster.

And you couldn’t wait for next time.

“Um… darling, I need to shower,” Spencer said suddenly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets, his voice soft but tinged with just enough awkward urgency to make you blink.

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing over at him with a sleepy smile, your cheek still resting against his shoulder.

He hesitated. “I… forgot to take the condom off.”

You sat up so fast the blanket fell from your shoulders. “Ew! Spencer!” you yelped, though your voice was laced with disbelief and laughter more than actual disgust.

He winced, scrunching his nose, clearly embarrassed. “I got distracted by your brain and your body and your orgasm and also your face, so—yes, I forgot.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Sometimes I forget that even though you are a very good, clean, above-average man—you are still, at the end of the day, just a man.”

“I deserve that,” he muttered, already standing and gingerly tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a child who just got scolded for forgetting to put away their science fair volcano.

“You go shower and I’ll go pee,” you called after him, swinging your legs off the bed.

“Peeing after sex is actually good for both men and women,” he called from the bathroom, his voice already returning to its usual scholarly rhythm, “because it helps prevent urinary tract infections by flushing out any bacteria that may have—”

You cut him off with a laugh, padding toward the hallway bathroom. “Save the dirty talk, please,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked grin.

He poked his head around the doorframe, shirtless, blushing, and grinning right back at you. “I’m literally talking about hygiene—”

“And somehow,” you smirked, disappearing into the bathroom, “you’re still turning me on.”

You heard him laugh through the door, the warm sound echoing through your apartment like a promise of many, many more awkwardly perfect nights to come.

—

Spencer had been shot.

The words alone were enough to send the entire team spiraling, every muscle in motion, every decision sharpened by panic laced with practiced urgency. It had happened while Spencer was protecting a victim from the unsub, and then a single, deafening shot that echoed louder than anything else that day.

The bullet hit Spencer in the leg. Not a graze. A hit.

It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, not by a mile—not chest, not head—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to people who had already seen this man bleeding and broken before, carried out on a stretcher but unable to leave the pain behind. The last time he’d been seriously injured in the field, it had left emotional (and physical) scars that never quite healed. So no, it wasn’t just a leg. It was Spencer. It was history repeating itself.

They got him to the hospital as fast as possible, local sirens blaring, uniforms parting like the Red Sea to make way for the gurney. Hotch barked orders with a clenched jaw, Rossi moved like a soldier who’d done this too many times, and JJ never let go of his hand until she physically had to.

Penelope wasn’t on the scene.

She was over two hundred miles away, back at Quantico, surrounded by her banks of monitors and softly glowing LED lights, but it might as well have been a different planet. When the call came in—that Spencer had been shot—her hands froze mid-keystroke. For a second, her entire world narrowed to the sound of Hotch’s voice crackling through her headset and the sharp, clinical way he’d said, “Reid’s been hit.”

She didn’t hear anything after that.

The room around her blurred as her fingers slowly slipped away from the keyboard, her chair spinning a fraction as she pushed back, needing space that didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to this kind of helplessness.

Because this time, she couldn’t run searches or hack into anything that would make a damn bit of difference.

All she could do was wait.

She sat in her chair like the floor had dropped out from beneath her, her fingers laced tightly in her lap—knuckles white, nails pressing into her skin. The BAU bullpen buzzed faintly behind her, voices low and moving fast, but she felt suspended in a slow-motion kind of grief that hadn’t hit its target yet.

Her screens were still lit up with the case. But she didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just stared at the wall, heart thudding in her throat.

And then she remembered you.

You weren’t there. You hadn’t been on this case—you didn’t even know.

The thought nearly made her nauseous.

“I’ll call,” she told them before Hotch could speak. “You’ll be too clinical. Y/N deserves more than that.”

He didn’t argue.

Penelope stepped away from her desk, heart hammering as she pressed your name on her phone and held it to her ear. She expected tears. Gasps. Maybe even anger.

What she got instead… was calm.

“Hey, Penelope,” you answered on the second ring, voice groggy like you’d been napping or just getting in from something mundane.

“Hi, um… okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” she said immediately, pacing the linoleum tiles, hand pressed to her chest. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Spencer’s alive.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” you said quietly, no tremor in your tone. “What happened?”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “He was—uh, he was shot. In the leg. They’re still at the hospital in Detroit. He’s stable. He was awake in the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, but they think the bullet missed the femoral artery. He’s in surgery now.”

“Okay,” you said again, the word even and deliberate. “And he's… alive. Just to confirm.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice cracking. “Yes, he is. I swear to you.”

Penelope waited, unsure what to say next.

You exhaled through the line. “Thank you for calling. Please text me the name of the hospital. I’m getting on a flight.”

Penelope nodded, even though you couldn’t see her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you everything. And if you need me to help book—”

“I’ll take care of it, thank you, Penelope. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“I will,” she promised. 

And with that, the call ended, and Penelope stared down at her screen with tears in her eyes, already typing the hospital info into a message, already knowing you’d be on the next flight out.

You were a complete wreck while grabbing your stuff, arms moving too fast, heart pounding harder than your body could keep up with. Your fingers fumbled clumsily over zippers and drawers, not bothering to fold anything, not checking the weather, not even thinking about what you might need once you got there.

There.

Detroit.

Where Spencer was.

Dating Spencer had taught you many things—how to listen differently, be patient in silence, and decode the pauses between his words—but it had also taught you how to prepare. You had a go bag because of him. A real one. The kind people made fun of on TV, but the kind you knew might be the difference between being there when it mattered or showing up too late.

And you weren’t going to be late.

By the time you were out the door and in the car, you were already on the phone with the airport. You didn’t care about the airline. You didn’t care about the seat. 

It was mildly irrational. Definitely not budget-friendly. But you couldn’t help it.

You weren’t dating Spencer when he was kidnapped. You hadn’t even met him yet. But you knew. You knew. Not all of it—never all of it—but you knew enough. Enough to make your stomach turn with what-ifs. Enough to know that field injuries like this weren’t just about bullets and blood loss. They were about fear. Trauma. Flashbacks. They were about the past coming back up through the cracks.

You didn’t know what state you were going to find him in.

And that’s what made your hands shake.

The flight felt like forever, even though you got lucky with timing and minimal delays. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drank anything. You hadn’t spoken to anyone except for a rushed text to Penelope saying boarding now.

It wasn’t until the plane reached altitude—until the jolt of ascent settled into the hum of flight and the flight attendant started her quiet aisle shuffle—that you felt like you could breathe.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

You leaned back into your seat, closing your eyes, the ache of your worry pulling behind your ribs like it had settled there for good. You hoped—God, you hoped—that maybe sleep would find you.

And if it did, you hoped your dreams would be filled with happy Spencer. The version of him who laughed too hard at his own obscure jokes. The one who sipped his coffee with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t hold on tight. The one who woke you up by reading to you.

Not the one bleeding in an ambulance. Not the one in a hospital gown.

Just him. Just yours.

…

JJ was sitting with Spencer, perched on the small plastic chair beside his hospital bed, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing softly as she kept the mood light, steady—talking about whatever came to mind. She was recounting something Penelope had said on the phone earlier, something about a new case file font she’d tried out just to annoy Hotch, and though Spencer’s laugh was more of a soft exhale, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was tired, yes, pale and sore and dressed in one of those thin, awful gowns—but he was okay.

The surgery had gone well. It was a clean removal with minimal damage. It would take time to recover, but physically, he’d be fine.

Still, the team wasn’t taking any chances. They were rotating in and out of the room, never leaving him alone—not just for his safety, but for his comfort. For the emotional fallout that might come later. No one said it aloud, but they all remembered what happened the last time Spencer returned from a hospital bed.

Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Derek stood up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking up every time the elevator dinged. When he spotted you—wrinkled from travel, hair messy, eyes burning with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation—he moved fast.

“Hey,” he said, walking quickly toward you.

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Derek interrupted gently, placing both hands on your shoulders as if to hold you up and reassure you simultaneously. “He’s really okay. Out of surgery, awake. JJ’s in there with him now. He’s a little loopy, but he’s fine.”

For the first time since Penelope’s call, your lungs actually filled. Not just shallow breaths or half inhalations, but real, full air. You closed your eyes briefly and nodded, a shaky sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaping your throat.

Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Derek, hugging him tight—tighter than he expected, but he didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He rubbed your back once, steady, and said, “He’s been asking about you.”

You pulled away, nodded again, and then took off, your footsteps fast and sure down the hallway as you followed Derek’s directions toward Spencer’s room.

As you pushed the door open, your fingers trembling just slightly around the handle, you couldn't help yourself. Even with your heart hammering, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting your nose, and the distant beep of monitors echoing down the hall, your instinct kicked in.

“Knock knock,” you called softly into the room, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as your chest swelled with emotion.

You said it automatically now, like muscle memory. Because you knew it bothered him.

“Why do you have to say it when you’re already doing it?” he’d asked you once, eyebrows knit in frustration, voice laced with genuine confusion.

And you had just grinned at him with all the smug delight of someone discovering the easiest way to get under a person’s skin. Ever since it has become your thing.

Now, standing in the doorway of a bright white hospital room that smelled too clean and looked too sharp, the words felt softer than usual. They were familiar, a tether to normalcy.

JJ was the first thing you saw—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes wide, already filled with a deep, quiet sympathy that made your stomach tighten all over again. She rose from her seat beside the bed, stepping back gently, making space for you without saying a word.

And then you looked at him.

Spencer.

Awake. Propped up against thin pillows in an oversized gown, his blanket drawn up to his waist. His curls were a little flattened, his face pale, but his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were fixed on you.

His expression shifted the moment your eyes met. Not relief, not even joy—fear.

Like he didn’t know what you were going to say. Like he was preparing for disappointment or maybe even anger. Like a part of him still hadn’t entirely accepted that you came. That you would always come.

You stepped inside without thinking, letting the door swing slowly shut behind you.

“Hey there, handsome,” you said with a grin, your voice all honey and lightness, doing everything in your power to wrap him in reassurance from the second you stepped inside. You needed him to see it in your face—it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

“Hi,” Spencer replied, smiling back, but the expression was small, a little hesitant like he still wasn’t sure he deserved your warmth just yet. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket, and you could see it all—every flicker of worry, every ounce of vulnerability behind those eyes.

You didn’t let it linger. You walked fully into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you, and stopped at the foot of his bed. Then, very dramatically, you planted both hands on your hips and gave him your best mock-disappointed look, brows drawn, chin tilted.

“Now, Spencer,” you began sternly, “what are we not supposed to do?”

His brows furrowed immediately in confusion, and he looked to JJ for help, who shrugged back at him like don’t look at me.

You huffed, all theatrical sigh and exaggerated disappointment, before prompting him with the first few syllables: “Not… get… sh—”

“Not get shot,” he said quickly, nodding solemnly like a child admitting to having snuck a cookie. His lips twitched upward, and the sparkle in his eyes was back, even if just faintly.

“Exactly,” you said, stepping closer now. “And what did you do, Spencer?”

“I got shot,” he said, shrugging slightly, finally getting into the silliness of your game but still watching your face like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in trouble or not.

“You got shot,” you repeated with a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” you added as you perched gently on the edge of the bed, “it’s probably for the best that it missed any major organs… or your chest… or your head…”

“Probably,” Spencer giggled, his voice light for the first time all day, the sound bubbling up like it surprised even him.

JJ let out a breath she’d been holding, smiling quietly as she excused herself from the room, giving you both the privacy you needed.

But you barely noticed. All your focus was on him—his smile, his soft laugh, the way his shoulders started to drop from around his ears, the tension finally easing under your presence.

You reached up gently, your fingers trailing over the small, scattered freckles on his cheek—the ones you always traced when you were trying to calm yourself as much as him. He leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again to meet yours.

“How’s your pain?” you asked softly, voice low and even.

“Tolerable,” he replied, pressing his lips together tightly in that way that told you it wasn’t exactly tolerable but that he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You tilted your head just a little. “Did you let them give you anything?”

“Only to put me under,” he said, shifting uncomfortably like he expected a lecture.

“Understood,” you nodded, not pushing, already moving on to keep him from feeling like he had to defend himself. “When can you bathe?”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked, genuinely scandalized, like you’d just called him unhygienic in front of a live audience.

“No…” you said carefully.

Spencer groaned, head falling back against the pillow, a dramatic whine escaping him. “Ughhh.”

“It’s not that, baby,” you assured him quickly, your hand stroking gently over his curls as you leaned closer, your smile widening. “Your curls are just a bit greasy, and I was going to offer to wash them for you…”

His groan cut off immediately.

“Oh,” he said. Quietly. Sheepishly. His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink.

“Yeah,” you grinned, lowering your voice to something teasing. “You know I like taking care of you, right?”

He blinked at you, lips twitching up. “…Even when I stink?”

You squinted at him playfully, pulling back a few inches like you had to really think about it. “Hmm… so every morning then?”

“Y/N!” Spencer gasped, completely betrayed, his mouth hanging open as if you’d just published a scientific paper slandering his good name.

“I’m just saying!” you defended, raising both hands in a mock surrender. “You’re a sweaty sleeper, babe. I didn’t invent thermoregulation.”

He narrowed his eyes at you; lower lip puffed out in an almost comically perfect pout. “You’re supposed to be comforting me in my time of need, and instead, you’re making fun of me for bodily functions I can’t control.”

“Not quite,” you grinned, settling back in closer. “If I were going to make fun of you for bodily functions you can’t control, I’d bring up how often you prematur—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Spencer’s hand darted up and cupped your cheek, and in a split second, he pulled you into a kiss—not aggressive, but firm enough to make it very clear that this was an intervention.

He kissed you like it had been years instead of days. Like the pain, the fear, the sterile room, none of it mattered anymore because you were here, and he was still breathing, and this—your lips on his, the way your breath caught slightly in surprise—was the only thing that had felt real all day.

And yes, part of it was to shut you up. But mostly, it was because he’d been aching to kiss you since the moment he walked out of your apartment and onto that case.

So he did.

And you let him.

Until finally, you pulled back just slightly, your forehead still pressed to his.

“Okay,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You’re forgiven for getting shot.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re forgiven for being the worst.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. Your lips barely moved as you mumbled against his mouth, “You need to brush your teeth.”

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, blinking in slow treachery.

“I hate you,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile.

You beamed. “That’s fair.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping his head back against the pillow like you’d wounded him more than the bullet. “Shot in the leg, emotionally abused by my girlfriend, and now I’m being accused of poor hygiene… what a week.”

You tucked yourself gently under his arm, careful of the IV and monitor wires, laying your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll still love you. Even if your breath could melt glass.”

“You’re lucky I can’t chase you right now.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all, stinky.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I really am.”

…

Once Spencer had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, his hand still loosely curled around yours atop the blanket, you waited a minute longer—just to be sure. You brushed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, letting the steady beep of the monitor reassure you that he was still right there.

When you were sure he was out, you stood up carefully, placing his hand down with the kind of tender precision you only ever used on him, and slipped quietly from the room.

You found the rest of the team just outside in the family waiting area, spread out across plastic chairs and vending machines, all looking somewhere between emotionally drained and physically wrecked. JJ was the first to notice you, sitting forward slightly when she saw the door shut behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly, and several shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ve got him. You all can go. Seriously. Get some rest. I’ll stay and fly back with him when he’s cleared for travel.”

Rossi nodded first, reassuringly touching your shoulder as he passed. Derek gave you a tired smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Emily offered you her water bottle and a “Call us if you need anything.” One by one, they all filed out, grateful and exhausted.

JJ lingered.

She stood beside you for a moment, her arms folded loosely, her expression thoughtful. She looked at the door to Spencer’s room, then back to you.

“How are you so calm?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

JJ’s gaze softened, but she looked genuinely curious. “You just… even when you first walked in there, you were joking around. Will would’ve been crying the second he saw me like that.”

You smiled a little at that, but it wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, knowing. A little sad.

You shrugged. “Spencer would only feel worse if he knew I was scared.”

JJ tilted her head, watching you carefully.

“He knows I’m worried,” you continued, your voice softening, “he knows I care. But taking his mind off the bad things for a bit… it always seems to bring him back to me.” You let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t need my fear. He needs my peace.”

JJ nodded slowly, her eyes glistening just slightly as she looked at you—not just as someone Spencer loved, but someone who understood him, down to the very thread.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, I try to be,” you replied. Then, with a tired smile, “Please go home and rest, JJ. We’re okay.”

And you meant it. Even if your hands were still shaking. Even if you knew the actual processing would hit you later. For now, Spencer was sleeping. He was safe. And you’d be the calm. For both of you.

—

You stood up abruptly from where you were hunched over your laptop, notes, and reference books spread out like an academic battlefield. Spencer looked up from where he was quietly reading across from you, a slight crease in his brow as your chair scraped back a little too fast.

“Spencer.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he was immediately attentive. “Yes?”

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and tried—tried—to channel some confidence, even as you felt your face go warm. “I think this is going to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we… break a certain barrier in our relationship due to… pressing matters.”

Spencer closed his book slowly. “Okay…” he said cautiously, clearly preparing himself for anything from an emotional confession to a breakup to a shared trauma.

“I need to poop.”

There was a beat of silence. Just a breath, just a blink.

And then Spencer burst out laughing.

You gasped in protest. “Spencer!”

He tried to hold it in; he really did, but his shoulders shook as he pressed his hand to his mouth. “Darling,” he said through chuckles, “that is a perfectly normal and healthy bodily function without which you would die. I hardly think it’s uncomfortable to know you poop. I do, too. I wish you wouldn’t find it so embarrassing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughter muffled through your fingers. “Can you just like, put your headphones in please?”

Spencer paused, then blinked. “Oh! Yes,” he said, like he’d just solved a logic problem. He reached over for his headphones with a smile so sweet it made your stomach flip, even now.

As you shuffled toward the bathroom, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of shame and dignity combined, he called after you with barely concealed amusement:

“Fan setting five!”

You groaned again—louder this time—but it was laced with affection and appreciation and the kind of mortification that only happens when you’re fully, disgustingly in love.

Behind you, Spencer chuckled softly to himself and returned to his book, utterly unfazed. 

—

Healed and walking without a cane, Spencer Reid finds himself craving something beyond his lonely apartment after a long, taxing case. The case had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The images were still fresh in his mind, too vivid and raw to shake off. He had returned to the BAU with the team, but instead of heading home to his own place, something—perhaps instinct or something deeper he didn’t quite have words for—drew him elsewhere.

He needed comfort. Not in the abstract sense but in the form of something familiar, warm, grounding. And his thoughts turned to you.

Maybe it was how you listened without interruption or how your presence made his pulse slow to something bearable. Maybe it was the memory of your hands brushing through his hair the last time he confessed a hard case to you or how you didn’t try to fix things; you just made space for him to feel. Whatever the reason, he found himself heading to your apartment without really making the decision to do so—it was simply where he needed to be.

You hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, you were fast asleep due to the late hour of the night. Usually, he wasn’t someone you ever needed to prepare for. He came as he was, and you let him.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know yet—was how tightly he was holding himself together just outside your door. He hadn't texted or called ahead. Part of him wanted to, part of him worried it wasn’t fair just to show up. But the rest of him, the exhausted, rattled, overwhelmed part of him, hoped—needed—you to be there. 

And so, now, he stands on the other side of your apartment door.

He hasn’t opened it with his key yet.

He hasn’t gathered the strength.

But he’s there.

Moments from walking through it.

Moments from letting everything he's been holding in finally fall apart in the one place he thinks he might be able to survive doing so—with you.

You’re typically a deep sleeper. The kind who can sleep through a thunderstorm, a neighbor’s dog barking, or even Spencer fidgeting beside you in the middle of the night when his brain just won’t let him rest. You’ve slept through him flipping through pages at 2 a.m., through him pacing quietly down the hallway while whispering to himself about theories and timelines. You’ve even managed to sleep through a bout of him reorganizing your bookshelf once—though, to be fair, you had threatened him with death afterward.

But when you are woken up, it’s never graceful. It’s never subtle. Your body feels it before your brain catches up, dragging you into the gray haze of almost consciousness with a heavy reluctance that makes every movement around you feel like a personal offense.

So, when Spencer walks through the door sometime past midnight, utterly wrung out from whatever horrors the case held, he’s doing his very best to be quiet. His best, which is, as you’ve come to know, not quite good enough.

The first offense is the keys. Instead of placing them down gently on the little wooden table, you bought specifically for this purpose—the one that lives inches from the door and makes not a sound when used properly—he goes for the hooks. Of course, he does. And the second the metal keyring clatters against the other keys already hanging there, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of cutlery in your skull.

You stir beneath the covers, brows knitting without opening your eyes.

Then it’s the lock. Not just the turn of the deadbolt, which would have been fine, but the chain. He slides the latch into place with the kind of finality that belongs more to vaults or prison cells, and your face scrunches tighter as a small, annoyed breath escapes you.

He doesn't hear it.

Next, he hangs his coat—and his satchel. Not one. Not the other. Both. They swing and tap against the wall and the hooks with a dull thud and a slight clang of hardware, as if he’s installing wind chimes instead of shedding layers.

You shift in bed, blinking against the dark, still too sleep-heavy to sit up but now fully aware that he's home.

And then—then—he kneels to untie his shoes.

He can’t just kick them off. Oh no. He has to bend, untie, straighten, and remove each shoe like he’s unwrapping a rare artifact. It takes forever. Or maybe only thirty seconds. But it feels like an eternity in your freshly awoken, vaguely grumpy haze.

You lie there, motionless except for the long exhale that slips from your lips, face buried into the pillow as your fingers curl beneath your cheek.

And from the other room, completely unaware that you’re already awake—and annoyed—you hear Spencer sigh. A quiet, heavy, weary sound. The kind of sound that has less to do with your frustration and more to do with the weight he’s brought in with him.

And just like that, your irritation flickers and begins to dissolve.

Because it’s Spencer. And if he’s doing a bad job at being quiet, it’s only because he’s holding himself together by threads. 

Just as you begin to drift back toward something like rest, eyes fluttering shut again, there’s another sound—sharp, hollow, metallic.

Clang.

Your eyelids fly back open, face pressed flat into the pillow as you exhale sharply through your nose, teeth gently clenching.

That was the soap bottle. It had to be. You know that sound. It’s the specific, hollow bop of the plastic pump top smacking against the side of the sink—a sound that could only happen if someone, say, reached over a bit too carelessly and knocked it over with the back of their hand.

You know because you’ve done it yourself before, and you know because Spencer—you love him—does it every single time he washes his hands in your kitchen.

Which, naturally, is what he’s doing now. Of course, he is. Even in the dead of night, with half his mind fogged over and weighed down by a brutal case, he’s still Spencer—still meticulous, still compulsive, still so anchored to his rituals that he has to scrub the case off his skin before he can do anything else.

You listen to the sound of the faucet running muted splashes as he scrubs. Then, a quiet squeak squeak squeak from the way the old tap vibrates when it’s twisted shut. Silence again—for all of two seconds.

Then you hear the cabinet door open and the soft clink of glass—he’s getting a cup, which you expect. You anticipate it. You brace for it.

But your patience wasn’t strong enough to brace for the next thing.

The dishwasher.

That damn dishwasher.

It’s old. Loud. Temperamental. You’ve both talked about replacing it at least a dozen times, but somehow, it still hangs on, groaning through each cycle like a cranky elderly relative refusing to retire. Even just opening the door sounds like someone’s dragging furniture across a hardwood floor.

So when Spencer, dear, considerate, detail-oriented Spencer, finishes his glass of water and—rather than setting it on the counter or even tucking it into the sink like a normal sleep-deprived human—opens the dishwasher to place it inside?

You groan.

Out loud this time. A soft, pained, muffled groan into your pillow.

“Are you fucking serious, Spencer?” you mutter, barely audible, eyes still closed but now tinged with the kind of sleepy irritation only reserved for people you trust enough to hate momentarily.

He still hasn’t realized you’re awake. You know, because he hasn’t apologized yet. And Spencer always apologizes when he knows he's woken you up.

So you wait. Eyes closed. Limbs heavy. Ears sharp and honed like some kind of war veteran for the next sound he might make, wondering if he’s going to open the fridge for no reason or maybe alphabetize your spice rack.

Because at this rate, you wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time Spencer finally makes it to the bedroom—after clanging through the kitchen like a one-man orchestra, after the soap bottle debacle, after summoning the ghost of your dishwasher—you’re fuming. Not in a rageful, righteous kind of way, but in the profoundly exhausted, silently seething way that only someone who was sound asleep fifteen minutes ago and is now wide awake can truly understand. Every muscle in your body aches for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, your bones practically begging to sink back into the mattress, curled up against the person responsible for your current irritation.

You’re ready to cuddle your boyfriend. Feel his arms slip around your body, press your face into the soft cotton of whatever shirt he’ll wear, and fall back asleep surrounded by warmth and familiarity. That’s what you want.

But no.

Apparently, Spencer has other plans.

You hear the gentle sound of movement as he approaches. And for a blissful moment, you think maybe he’s finally going to settle. Finally, he’s going to be still.

And then—click.

A golden halo of light floods the room, piercing against your closed eyelids.

He turned on the fucking lamp.

“Spencer!” you groan, your voice thick with the weight of sleep and disbelief. You don’t even lift your head; just bury your face deeper into the pillow like maybe if you suffocate yourself fast enough, you’ll get some peace.

You hear a sharp inhale from across the bed, followed by the scrambling guilt in his voice as he fumbles to switch the lamp back off. “Oh—I’m so sorry, my love,” he blurts out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other like a toppled stack of books. You can practically hear the wince in his voice. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You shot him a deathly glare, your eyes narrow and glittering with exhaustion-fueled fury, your cheek still pressed into the pillow.

“And you thought the lamp wouldn’t wake me up?” you snapped, voice muffled but cutting.

Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—soft, sheepish, and entirely too amused for someone who had just committed a domestic war crime.

“Angel, I’ve turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds, and you slept through it,” he said with an unapologetic shrug, pulling off his cardigan like this was a perfectly rational argument.

You only rolled your eyes, dragging the covers over your shoulder and throwing your head back down dramatically, your silent message clear: you were Done.

But Spencer wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

Now came the process of taking off his clothing items one by one—meticulous as ever—folding them neatly and placing them in a precise little pile on your dresser. Shirt, pants, socks. Each with a pause in between, as though he were entering a meditative state instead of preparing for bed at an ungodly hour.

You thought he would be done. He should have been done.

But no.

“Spence, baby, please come to bed,” you whined, voice thick and laced with misery so intense it bordered on theatrical.

“I can’t just yet, need to shower. I’ve been in the jet.”

You groaned again, long and guttural. “I don’t care!”

He froze in place, hands halfway to his waistband, and you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. That neurotic, overtired, rule-following brain of his was calculating, weighing the comfort of a hot shower against the wrath of his barely conscious girlfriend.

Finally, you sighed. “Whatever. Just—be fast. And don’t get your hair wet.”

Spencer opened his mouth like he was about to protest—something about hygiene or flight germs or possibly the sanctity of scalp cleanliness—but one look at your face told him to cut his losses.

By the time he got out of the shower, the bathroom door creaking open quietly, towel slung low on his hips, and found spare clothes in the second drawer of your dresser (the one you'd unofficially reserved for him), you had already drifted back to sleep.

He moved gently, slipping on an old T-shirt and sweats and carefully easing into bed beside you. He tried to be careful, tried to match your breathing, tried not to jostle the mattress too much. He scooted behind you, winding an arm around your body, tucking his body against yours like a perfect puzzle piece.

Even in your sleep, you instinctively nudged closer, your head coming to rest on his chest, your body curving against his. It should’ve been a perfect moment.

But then—

“Did you sanitize?”

Your voice was slurred and drowsy but suspicious. Too suspicious.

Spencer stayed quiet.

He sanitized your fucking shower like he didn’t trust you to keep it clean yourself.

“I can’t—” you sighed, pulling away. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

And just like that, your warmth disappeared, taking with it the fleeting peace Spencer had hoped to find.

Spencer let out the softest, most pitiful exhale—half sigh, half whimper—as you peeled yourself away from his hold. The sheets rustled with protest as you threw them off your legs in a dramatic flourish that would've been funny if it weren't for the sheer, bone-deep fatigue clinging to both of you. You didn’t even open your eyes all the way. You didn’t need to. Your body was moving on instinct now, led by principle and pride.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching helplessly as you dragged your sleepy form out of the bed with the kind of slow, exaggerated misery that only someone who’d just started to fall back into a good sleep could produce. Your blanket trailed behind you, caught on your foot, and when you reached down to yank it free, you muttered something under your breath that sounded like a curse aimed squarely at him.

Spencer stayed frozen, guilt draped over his shoulders like another weighted blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he finally said, his voice hushed but urgent, like he knew if he raised it even a little, you'd bolt. “Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

You were already halfway to the door. “So is you climbing into bed an unsanitized like a reckless public health risk,” you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled forward.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry I cleaned your shower, I just—you know I can’t help it.”

You sighed, hard and sharp through your nose, arms crossed tightly over your chest as though holding yourself together. “We can have this argument tomorrow,” you muttered, voice strained. “I’m too tired right now.”

Spencer nodded slowly, guilt still weighing down his features. “So come back to bed,” he pleaded, soft and hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to ask.

“No. I’m mad at you,” you huffed, your tone petulant but cracking at the edges. You turned your face slightly away from him as if even looking at him would break the last thread of your patience.

There was a beat of silence, tense and stretched. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I can just go home then… I’ll come over tomorrow.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer emotional mess of being woken up, being irritated, feeling like your effort and your space weren’t enough for the person you love—all of it slammed into you at once no warning. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him to do whatever he wanted—but instead, all that came out was a strangled, breathless sob.

Your shoulders shook as the tears slipped down, hot and fast. The kind of crying that happens when you’ve held it in too long when your chest tightens up and your throat closes, and suddenly you’re not just crying about one thing, but everything.

Spencer immediately scrambled out of bed, panic flooding his features. “Hey—hey, no, please don’t cry,” he said in a rush, crossing the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want to be here—God, please don’t cry—”

He reached for you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if you’d swat him away. “I’m such an idiot,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face, helpless. “You clean your place better than I do mine, I just—after cases, I get weird, and I didn’t want to bring the jet germs into your space, and I overthought it and—”

You just kept crying. Silent now, but still unraveling.

“I love your shower,” he said desperately. “I love you. I want to be here. Please don’t make me go.”

Your face crumpled even more. You didn’t have the energy to yell. Didn’t have the willpower to keep storming off.

“I just wanted to sleep next to you,” you whispered through the tears, voice tiny and cracked. “That’s all I wanted.”

Spencer’s heart broke right there in his chest.

“Okay,” he said immediately, wrapping his arms around you. “Okay. I’ve got you. Come here. We’ll go to bed. No more disturbances. Just sleep. You and me.”

And this time, when he guided you back to the bed, you let him.

Well—for a second.

“Wait.”

Spencer froze mid-step, one arm still around you, the other half-lifting the blanket. He held his breath like the wrong response might send you spiraling again.

“Yes, baby?” he asked, soft and cautious.

You sniffled, then let out the tiniest, soggiest giggle through your still-wobbly breath. “I need to blow my nose now.”

He blinked. Then smiled, wide and helpless, pure affection melting across his features.

“Okay,” he said, already turning to grab the tissue box from your nightstand like it was the most urgent task he’d ever been assigned. “Emergency tissue protocol engaged.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound breaking through the remnants of your tears like sunlight through clouds. “Cover your ears; I’m going into the bathroom.”

Spencer furrowed his brows, confused but obedient. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to hear me!” you called over your shoulder as you hurried toward the bathroom, tissue clutched in hand like a weapon.

He blinked after you, then shrugged, deadpan: “...I’ve had worse fluids of yours on me—”

“EW!” you yelped from inside the bathroom, your voice muffled by the door you slammed behind you. “Why would you say that?! You absolute menace!”

Spencer chuckled to himself, crawling back into bed and tucking the blankets around him with a smug grin. “I was just saying,” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well you could still hear him. “Boundaries seem a little inconsistent.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound somewhere between scandalized and exhausted. “You’re so lucky I love you,” you shouted through a noseful of tissues. “If we were six months earlier into this relationship, I’d be drafting the breakup text right now.”

Spencer smiled, stretching out in the bed with his hands folded under his head like the little shit he absolutely was. “You’d never,” he called back, sing-songy and far too comfortable. “You’re too emotionally invested.”

You flung the door open so hard it could have bounced off the stopper. “Keep talking, Doctor Reid, and I will send you home just to prove a point.”

He sat up, eyes wide, all mock innocence. “I’m silent. I’m asleep. I don’t even exist. I’m vapor.” He dove under the covers in a ridiculous display of peacekeeping, burrowing himself down to the chin and blinking up at you like a chastised golden retriever.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again. Not just a giggle this time, but an actual, warm laugh that curled in your chest.

You trudged back to bed, dramatically wiping your nose one last time before dropping the tissues in the little wastebasket by the nightstand. “You’re annoying,” you said as you climbed in.

“And yet, you let me stay.” He opened his arms wide, a smug little smile creeping in again. “Incredible.”

You glared at him but curled into his side anyway, letting your head rest on his chest with a huffy sigh.

“I cleaned your shower because I’m obsessive-compulsive and could only see in germs,” he mumbled into your hair. “Not because I think you’re dirty.”

“I know,” you whispered, already half-asleep. “But next time? Just… don’t make it sound like I live in filth.”

“I’d never.”

“You basically did.”

Spencer kissed your forehead. “You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“You’re literally falling asleep on me right now.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tightened his arms around you, and finally, you both fell asleep this time.

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee

[astonmartinii]

reluctant cupid | lando norris social media au

pairing: lando norris x fem bff!reader

you could set your bestie up with a driver or you could confess your feelings? lando norris is dumb.

based on this request: Could you write something about being best friends with lando and he tries to help set you up with another driver you have a crush on, but then he realises he actually likes you so he has to sabotage all the wingmanning he’s done and you end up together Idk if that makes sense 😭🫶🏼🫶🏼 -@mbappesleftthigh

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

yourusername

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 49,340 others

yourusername: someone please save me from the grips of hinge and this oh so lonesome life

view all comments

user1: girl knows the whole f1 paddock and looks like that and is still alone there is NO HOPE for me

user2: this post might have thrown me over the edge

landonorris: "i'm so lonely" "why don't you approach that guy" "no too scary"

user3: that's so real though

yourusername: thank you!

landonorris: how do you expect to find a boyfriend when you don't like to talk to anyone and treat hinge like a gameshow

yourusername: i didn't come here for actual advice let me commiserate in peace. god, can women have anything these days?

landonorris: ???

yourusername: oh! idea! pretty please set me up with one of your friends? they have to be great otherwise you wouldn't be friends with them, right? RIGHT?

landonorris: i guess...

yourusername: please lando, i've never asked for anything before

landonorris: i can feel you pouting through the phone

yourusername: so you'll consider ?

landonorris: fine...

user4: bro either gotta admit his feelings now or be condemned to be in the plot of a weird romantic comedy

user5: i personally don't think i can wait until the third act break up with this side character LANDO ACT NOW

oscarpiastri: you'd really trust lando's judgement?

yourusername: he's friends with me, he's got good taste?

oscarpiastri: touche

maxverstappen1: whatever you really wanna say oscar, you gotta keep it in, these idiots will figure it out eventually

yourusername: ???

landonorris: ???

user6: the grid are so done with their asses i can't 😭

user7: but what if the universe doesn't intervene and lando really has just lost the girl forever?

user8: bestie we can't be thinking like this

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, yourusername and 812,047 others

tagged: yourusername

landonorris: being back home means being bothered by her (and whatever is her newest hyperfixation - it's sylvanian families this month if you couldn't tell)

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user9: i am so sorry but they are so in love

user10: it's cute in the movies, but these blind bitches are starting to piss me off

yourusername: THEY CAN HEAR YOU, BE A BETTER DAD

landonorris: they're not my children

yourusername: you take that back right now, you LOVE them

landonorris: you spent my money on them yes

yourusername: that's fatherhood, buddy. buckle up

user11: whoever he sets her up (if he's still dumb enough to do that) is gonna be the biggest third wheel in history

user12: who would willingly sign up for that

user13: me. i would. i have two working eyes and have seen y/n

maxverstappen1: who are these funky little critters and how can i procure some for p?

yourusername: finally a man with sense, literally any grocery store or toy store

maxverstappen1: perf

yourusername: if lando stops being mr. grumpy i'll ask him if i can come to a race and p and i can play animal families

landonorris: i am NOT mr. grumpy

maxverstappen1: you kinda are dude. is it the set-up is it stressing you out?

landonorris: nO

yourusername: then why are you putting it off !!! lando i might die from terminal yearning !!!

landonorris: i have an interested candidate

yourusername: really? do you think they'll actually like me? like this isn't a pity date right?

landonorris: nope!

user14: lando is typing through tears as we speak

user15: if y/n does go on a date with someone from the paddock i actually hope it goes well, as one lonely girl to another, it's tough out here we need one win

f1wagupdates

liked by user18, user19 and 11,043 others

tagged: yourusername & carlossainz55

f1wagupdates: turns out lando is a bit of a cupid as his childhood friend y/n y/ln was spotted out and about with carlos sainz.

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user20: HE ACTUALLY DID IT

user21: that moment when you're so down bad for a girl that you set her up with your best friend

user22: that moment when you're such a wimp you can't admit your feelings and set up the girl you like with a literal GREEK GOD

user23: i am so bamboozled by this move he literally looked like a kicked puppy on his stream bro this is your doing 😭

user24: she's a lover girl she's going to get her heart broken :(

user25: this has mess written all over it

user26: she's literally described herself as a terminal yearner i feel like she'll throw herself in and will get hurt

user27: UNLESS! this is all part of the plan? what if lando set her up with a messy guy like carlos so he can be the shoulder to cry on and that's how he slides in?

user28: that's very convoluted, very rom-com but i'll take it if it means we get lando and y/n together in the end

user29: i know this probably won't last long but can we all appreciate how hot this couple is?

user30: lando and y/n runs rings round y/n and carlos

user31: lol lando is a bad friend for setting her up with CARLOS him and charles are THEE red flags

user32: i hope y/n is prepared

user33: also lando hasn't thought it fully out if his plan is to be the shoulder to cry on because he's just opening her up to be called a homie hopper or a paddock bunny

carlossainz55

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and 702,554 others

carlossainz55: productive weekend with my girl

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user34: well that's not y/n

user35: that finished faster than i expected

user36: lando DO NOT quit your day job

landonorris: call me bro

carlossainz55: si, cabron

user37: i don't think they'll be cabrons after this call

user38: maybe this is all just going to plan?

user39: yall gotta give up this conspiracy theory maybe these people are just as dumb and mean as they seem to be

user40: soooooo... what did we all do this weeekend?

user41: i broke a girl's heart @carlossainz55 twins 👯‍♂️

user42: AHHHH???

maxverstappen1: oh that's not-

yourusername: you're so chronically online :(

maxverstappen1: you're alive?

yourusername: yes. coming at you live from the bed i'm currently rotting in

maxverstappen1: not going to say i didn't warn you?

carlossainz55: really? in my own comment section?

yourusername: one second, we're having a conversation here

maxverstappen1: yeah carlos, gosh.

carlossainz55: i'm so confused

user43: okay power move to just start a conversation in his comments?

user44: the power of confusion is simply unmatched

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 56,309 others

yourusername: certified boy hater

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user45: a ferrari boy will do that to you

landonorris: feeling hashtag victimised rn

yourusername: obviously doesn't include you girlypop. but you seriously need to reevaluate your judgement

landonorris: carlos is attractive?

yourusername: he ghosted me?

carlossainz55: i am right here

yourusername: blocked.

landonorris: did you actually just block him?

yourusername: yes 😀 !

landonorris: god this is a nightmare

yourusername: not if you'd take a GOD DAMN HINT

landonorris: WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

user46: yall this is a public instagram comment section

user47: don't say that, this is their argument in the rain moment

user48: lemme grab the popcorn 🍿

maxverstappen1: this better not include the real number one girlypop here

yourusername: of course not pookie

oscarpiastri: you gonna continue the lil spat above this?

yourusername: no?

oscarpiastri: well some people (max and i) would like to listen so please continue

yourusername: no, i don't think i will

oscarpiastri: GOD YOU PEOPLE ARE INSUFFERABLE

maxverstappen1: what oscar said

user49: oscar and max are so real

user50: they can't leave us on this cliff hanger

landonorris

liked by yourusername, danielricciardo and 1,043,788 others

landonorris: some snaps from '23

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user51: have we just been thirst trapped?

user52: i don't think it was intended for us

user53: this has "i am hotter than carlos sainz" written all over it

yourusername: posting tits on main, brave.

landonorris: i came second in singapore.

yourusername: sureeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. modesty, ever heard of it lan?

landonorris: slutshaming isn't cute y/n

yourusername: you kinda have to pull to be a slut lan. you are under qualified for the position

landonorris: if you keep being mean to me i will call your mum or my mum.

yourusername: try it. i see cisca more than you, i have faith in her

landonorris: the line is busy. are you on the phone to MY mum right now?

yourusername: maybe.

user54: we're so close to them getting their heads out of their asses

user55: don't get my hopes up

danielricciardo: i hope this works lol

landonorris: you don't think i'm sexy?

danielricciardo: it doesn't matter what i think

landonorris: i'm not sexy :(

danielricciardo: you're baiting me but yes, you are sexy.

user56: i'll fight anyone who made this man believe he's not beautiful

liked by yourusername

user57: I SAW THAT 📸

user58: someone just lock them in a cupboard at this point

oscarpiastri: noted.

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 89,034 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: yeah, yeah. you can stop yelling at us now.

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user61: LET'S FUCKING GO

user62: it was worth all that yelling. i expect an invite to the wedding now.

user63: wedding? girly they only just realised their feelings after a DECADE

maxverstappen1: it was about fucking time

yourusername: okay miss ma'am. some people are EMOTIONALLY VULNERABLE AND NOT VERY GOOD AT PROCESSING THEM

maxverstappen1: you must've been emotionally constipated because this was painful

yourusername: it was painful for me too

maxverstappen1: so painful that you dated CARLOS

yourusername: one date! ONE!

maxverstappen1: carlos said can you unblock him so he can be mean to me?

yourusername: fine.

carlossainz55: STOP MAKING ME LOOK LIKE A BAD PERSON. YES I AM NOT THE BEST AT RELATIONSHIPS BUT LEAVE ME BE

maxverstappen1: lol

yourusername: lol

user64: unblocking carlos to hit him with the lol max and y/n might be more iconic than lando and y/n

landonorris: not on our relationship announcement post 🤨

user65: OOP.

landonorris: i love you doofus

yourusername: i love you too muppet

landonorris: how much was the betting pool for your family?

yourusername: it got to over £300

landonorris: ours was £750

yourusername: are we dumb?

landonorris: no!

oscarpiastri: two dumbass girls saying 'yass' to each other

yourusername: LEAVE US BE

landonorris: oscar :(

user66: not their own families betting on when they'd get together 😭

landonorris

liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername and 1,430,778 others

tagged: yourusername

landonorris: first win, hopefully not my only one.

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user67: MY BABIES

user68: i feel like i've been on this journey with them

oscarpiastri: thank god you guys got your shit together, i was THIS close to jumping out the nearest window if i had to watch lando mope around like a kicked puppy when y/n had the lil thing with carlos

user69: so it wasn't some grand plan?

oscarpiastri: no he's just dumb enough to actually set up his first love with his best friend

landonorris: OSCAR!

oscarpiastri: am i wrong?

landonorris: no... but! i got there in the end

oscarpiastri: good thing you're faster on track

user70: the grid being just as done with them as us is killing me

maxfewtrell: finally this unnecessarily long and overly convoluted saga has come to and end, lets never do this again!

landonorris: i'm locked in for life bro no worries

yourusername: awwwwwwwwwwwwww i love you too bubs

maxfewtrell: stop being sappy under my comment

yourusername: you just complained we didn't sort out our shit fast enough and now we're too sappy?

landonorris: STICK TO A STORY BOZO

maxfewtrell: now you're even more ride or die... can we go back?

yourusername: nope!

landonorris: nope!

maxverstappen1: i for one am very happy for you both

yourusername: thank you max !!

landonorris: not so fast, he had the biggest bet on us in the paddock

yourusername: get that bag sis

landonorris: ???

yourusername: we can't fight it anymore, let them have their jokes, we actually have each other now :)

landonorris: yes we do :) xx

user71: golly gosh this is so fucking cute

fin.

note: i hope this is what you were looking for and that you all enjoyed!!

[monsoon-of-art]

I know all the Light mers were rescued as pups, but I haven't been able to get rid of the image in my head of Wily "rescuing" the second line mers. Just Wily in scuba gear going; I'll take one of these, and one of these, and oh! you look like you'll grow up to be big and mean! Just like, swimming down the rows of nests like he's shopping. Yoinking all the little baby seconds as he goes. And then of COURSE telling them all as they get older that he so selflessly rescued them all. and they should be grateful that people like him exist to save helpless little pups like them.

................................................................................................................ Your mer art is also just SO GOOD! It always makes me giggle and smile whenever I see those funky lil mermaids! <3

God as funny as "Wily in scuba gear stealing babies" is, in my mind, Wily genetically engineered them so he had control over what they'd be. So instead, please imagine him slowly going through a library book and picking the Scariest Sounding Fish he can.

This also gives him the arguably BETTER guilt trip of "I literally made you, you wouldn't be here without me, you're lucky and should be grateful" spiel...as he's welding armor that cannot be removed lmao. This man should not have fish.

I also think he did something to speed up their growth because he's impatient and did not want to deal with babies BUT here's some babies anyway. They were grumpy little things.

[thisuserislilsilly]

Summary: shocking news, grumpy psyker Nomad showing a bit of emotion and...some quite colorful imagination about a ship crew member. Things get a little spicy

Genre: fluff with some smut

Pairing: Nomad space marine x fem!oc

TW: Explicit "funky" times near the end Idk the clothes get torn and the psyker is h0rny so-, dom space marine, fluff stuff more than spicy one.

Also first time ever I am posting something slightly more spicy so beware of inexperience (heh pun intended)...I TRIED OKAY qwq

Word count: 3020 words

Goblin tag squad (lemme know if you wanna get tagged too): @cardinalcanis

Blind words and crimson demigods

Roaring laughter and mirth filled the room; the Emperor's Laughter pub was bustling with activity—servitors roamed to and fro, tending to the tables whilst customers caroused and drank themselves into total blackout. A few were discussing the latest news; others played the traditional Imperium tarot, gambling away their meager fortunes.

The place was packed with all manner of citizens, most being part of the stationed Ember Nomads fleet. A group of unruly, obstreperous Ogryns bashed their tankards on the pub’s countertop, ale spilling everywhere and drenching the surrounding soldiers with their stench and spilled drinks.

At the sound of a newcomer arriving into the room everyone fell silent, chairs were quickly moved as every single soul rushed to stand up and salute the giant figure that had just entered the pub; the only human that hadn't stood up was a Iterator in the farthest table, seemingly not aware of her surroundings or just too focused on her meal to pay proper respects.

A giant, almost seven feet tall man stood by the doorframe, all of his yellow and crimson armor reflecting the lights of the pub in an almost blinding light. On the middle of his pauldron laid a insignia, the image of a single rune in the Cthonipem language, marking instantly the Order of Demigods he belonged to; a Nomad, in the flesh, standing right in front of all those people.

The man, if he could ever be called that, had been on the ship of his Chapter but, unlike his battle-brothers, not once the visage of that particular warrior had been seen by anyone in the ship until then. He was one of the psykers, a Witcher of the Storm.

He looked around the room, taking in every soul and every expression; he didn't seem to mind the sudden silence, in fact, it was normal to him and it wasn't the first time the common citizen had looked upon him that way; his helmet slowly pointed to the Iterator, who had yet to move an inch. He took a deep breath and made a single, slow movement.

His heavy footsteps resonated in the room like two giant rocks slamming against the floor, the jittering and clanking noises of his armor increased in volume as the giant approached the table of the Iterator. He stopped, towering above the woman who finally raised her head at whoever had approached her, the crowd gasped and held their breaths, thinking the lady had just offended one of the most elite warriors in the entire universe, but the woman didn't flinch, didn't move and didn't show any kind of fear. She simply put the cup of recaff down and smiled so brightly and innocent it bordered the limit of mockery.

"May I help you, Sir?" the woman asked, not a single sign of hesitation in her voice; the Nomad, however, didn't move an inch, his helmeted head looked at the woman for a long moment

"What is this?" The Astartes deep voice resonated like a giant bell, the words sounding as if coming from every direction at once.

"What is what?" The Iterator answered back. The man tightened his grip on the sheathed blade upon his right hip.

Everyone witnessing the scene felt a shiver run down their spine, a feeling of dread, a warning, a premonition of imminent danger, yet the woman kept her smile, unfazed by the imposing figure, even after feeling the change in the air, she remained calm and collected.

"I'm sorry, my Lord but, I do not understand"

The Nomad raised a hand, the gauntlet's metal shone and glistened, and pointed at her, the people surrounding the scene began whispering amongst themselves, trying to guess the meaning of the gesture. The Iterator felt a gust of wind hit her face from the sudden movement.

"Why are you not standing?" his tone was harsh, but not as harsh as his expression under the helmet

The Iterator tilted her head slightly to the right in confusion, then she understood. She began to laugh, a clear, innocent and cheerful laugh that surprised the giant before her, who tensed his muscles and grabbed the handle of his sword.

"It is not out of disrespect" She said after calming herself down and smiling again, her expression was soft and warm. "It is simply because of...this" She moved the strands of hair out of her face, showing her glassy white eyes, she was blind. "I cannot see you, I don't know who you are, my Lord"

The Nomad loosened the grip on the sword, the tension on his shoulders seemed to ease as he looked at her, then, the realization came to him, prompting the man to quickly speak once again, but with a hint of softness in his tone

"I see, my apologies"

"Oh, there's nothing to apologize for, my Lord. Do not worry" The woman waved her hand and went back to eating.

The Astartes didn't move, he kept looking at the woman, the crowd around the table exhaled relieved, loosening their shoulders after the tense moment had passed.

"So who am I speaking to, a noble? The captain of the ship?" she asked him after taking a sip from her recaff.

"A member of the Witchers" He answered dryly

"Oh-" The Iterator coughed, fixing her hair and clothes as soon as she heard the name

"It is quite surprising to see a blind Iterator, as your craft demands-" The Witcher paid no mind to her actions

"Sight? I know, trust me, I know" she laughed again. "But it is not as big as a problem as you may think, I can still do my work"

"Then why are you in a pub, instead of a more...suitable place for your occupation?"

"I could ask the same question, my Lord"

"I'm afraid I'm not understanding your question" His voice was firm and authoritative.

"Why is one of the Seers of the Nomads mingling with a mere human?" She asked with sincerity, not hostility or sarcasm.

The marine stood there, motionless, pondering his options. The Iterator didn't say a word, patiently waiting for an answer, she could feel his gaze fixed on her, she heard his heavy breathing and the clank of his armor. After a few moments of contemplation, the Nomad spoke again.

"A omen has guided me here for a reason, I was wondering if the Emperor's sight would show me the way, and it guided me here" his tone was serious.

"That is good to know, my Lord" the Iterator smiled, raising the cup to her lips and finishing the last drop of recaff.

The Nomad was about to walk away, turn around and leave the pub after satisfying his inspection of the place when the voice of the Iterator stopped his tracks.

"You should not be so harsh, my Lord, sometimes, enjoying moments of peace harden our resolve in times of conflict"

The marine turned his head back to the woman, who was still sitting, smiling. Under his helmet, where no one would know, a small smirk formed in his lips.

The crimson giant walked away from the pub, his steps heavy and loud as he disappeared behind the doors, leaving everyone still processing the fact one of those Demi-Gods had come to such a place.

The Iterator, feeling the surge of inspiration soaring in her heart, quickly snapped her fingers and asked for a pen and a piece of paper, ready to write down a new speech, the next one being inspired by the encounter with the wild warrior.

Days flew by for the Iterator, she had finished her speech just in time to present it in public, as she was supposed to accompany the Ecclesiarchy official who would be supervising her task to be accomplished righteously and, too, testify if her speech was up to standards for the Imperial Cult. It was the second time she had been asked to give such speeches, as the Ecclesiarchy was aware of her talent, for as "useless" and "stagnant" her job had become, just preserving the title of "Iterator" but, in reality, she was treated more like a poet than a recorder of history or how respected were the Iterators in the 30k millennium. Her speech was delivered as planned, the audience cheered and clapped, the Iterator couldn't see it but, she could hear the joy in their voices, it was the best she could do, to let them know she was proud to serve the Emperor and, even if she could never see His glorious image, her words would reach His ears.

As she stepped down from the platform, she felt a chill running down her spine that weakened her legs and almost made her fall to the ground, but her shaky legs stabilized just in time to regain her standing. She dismissed the few serfs that went to help her, excusing herself speaking of how it was probably the nerves making her act this way.

"Lady Iterator"

The sound of a deep voice, like the one she had heard from the Nomad in their encounter at the pub, echoed through her mind, she gasped as soon as the words hit her, but her expression remained unchanged. She turned around but heard no one calling for her again, there was nobody there. It was all a message, a private one, that she could only hear inside of her head; a psyker was doing this.

"Your speech was quite good, the words were…passionate" "Thank you, my Lord" she thought, knowing the message would reach the Astartes. "Do not mention it"

She could feel the marine was near, but she had no idea where, all she knew was that the warrior was close. She tried to focus her hearing as best as she could, attempting to hear a distant sound that would be unmistakable for a marine to do, or perhaps hear someone addressing a "Lord" so she could know where... "Don't do that" The voice of the Witcher interrupted her trail of thoughts, she could visualize him grinning for some reason "There is no need for you to search for me, I already know where you are Roza" The Iterator slowly nodded; feeling her body trembling again, she felt helpless, disarmed in mind and body by the sudden intrusion of the psyker in her mind, scared if she even thought something out of line the end of her life would be near, just a flick of his tongue or hand was going to be enough to blow her head from the inside out with some sort of Warp power. She tried not to think of that, instead the best she could do at that moment was trying to flee from the scene and find a good spot to hide in her own mind.

"I'm not going to kill you, I promise" The voice returned, and Roza could feel him smiling, as if he was amused by the situation. "You promise?" Her mental voice echoed. "Yes"

She nodded once again, her mind trying to find a good response to that, but none came up. She could feel her heartbeat increasing, her breath getting short, the sweat running down her back, her hands shaking uncontrollably, the urge to run away was too strong and yet there she was, unable to do so because a part of her felt attracted somehow to all of this, to have such an important figure as a psyker notice her to the point he was speaking to Roza in the most private of places: her own mind. The Iterator bit her lower lip and held her holopad tightly, trying to get that thought out of her mind and at least focus on what she should be doing at that moment. The ceremony, it had concluded, what was expected of her was to return to her room, reinforcing that idea were the two escort guardsmen that by now had a puzzled expression on their faces, wondering why the poet was acting in such a strange manner.

"I'm sorry, I-I will be leaving now" She said in a weak tone of voice, feeling as if the world around her was spinning, she took one step forward, followed by another, the escort guardsman followed her with puzzled looks, not knowing exactly why the poet was acting so strangely once she had done her duty for the day.

She tried to walk in a normal way, even though she was shaking like a leaf in the wind, there was no need to rush, even though it was clear that the person who was talking to her wasn't going to do anything bad to her or the like, there was a sense of uneasiness in the air, the Witcher's presence in her mind was still there, although he wasn't doing anything to her, the mere fact he could chime in at any second was not the most calmest of thoughts, it only made her more nervous. Roza walked slowly down the aisle, towards the large metal door that would lead her to the outside and back to the guest quarters where she was supposed to be resting by now. It took a while for her to reach the exit, each step was slow and steady, almost as if she was trying to delay her return as much as possible. The door opened with a loud screech, the metal grinding against each other as it did, the Iterator took another step forward before stopping; her heart racing inside her chest, her hands shaking uncontrollably, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she remained silent for a second. She didn't know why she was feeling so anxious about all of this, perhaps it was the fear of having the undivided attention of an Astartes, a Nomad no less, or maybe she just wanted to know what he wanted from her. It was then that a sudden realization dawned upon her, she had been so focused on the Witcher himself, on the fact he was talking to her that she hadn't even considered the reason for it; it couldn't be just because he wanted to tease her, nor could it be for any military subject since she was only a poet. It was other, much more intimate reason, wasn't it? She felt her face burn up at that thought, and for a few seconds she forgot about the fact there was an Astartes inside her mind. It was then that a sudden realization dawned upon her, she had been so focused on the Witcher himself, on the fact he was talking to her that she hadn't even considered the reason for it; it couldn't be just because he wanted to "play" with her, nor could it be for any military subject since she was only a poet. It was other, much more intimate reason, wasn't it? She felt her face burn up at that thought, and for a few seconds she forgot about the fact there was an Astartes inside her mind. So focused she was on that trail of thought she didn't heard someone knocking at the door, only snapping out of it when the knocking became banging. Rushing with trembling hands she pushed the button and the door grind upwards, showing the figure of a tall man with his face uncovered. It was him, the Witcher, and it was here right in front of her, even if she did not had eyesight, she just knew it was him.

"Can I come in?" His voice was surreal coming from a real mouth and not inside her head "I…I…of-of course" She stuttered still in shock

Once she moved out of the way, the Witcher had to lower his head to fit in the "small" space of the room, he towered even the largest of bookshelf in her chambers; his gloved hands passing through some of the literature and opening a few of the books before putting them back in their right places. His demeanor was different from that which had been on her mind since the speech, confusing Roza even more than what she already was.

"My people have a habit when courting" The Witcher whispered "If you truly love someone you give them a gift so unique, so big and beautiful no other suitor can ever attempt to surpass your show of appreciation…and then your beloved would understand nobody else wants them more than you" He closed the gap between them in one swift step "Your gift…?" Roza spoke up until the Witcher placed one finger in her lips to silence her

"Yes, my gift to you is the connection through my psyker abilities, one I have not shared with anyone before and will not share ever with nobody else" He looked directly at Roza eyes even if she couldn't see him in return

Roza inhaled deeply and held her breath, the Nomad was so close to her she could almost touch his face; she felt the heat emanating from his breath whenever he exhaled. It created some "heretical" thoughts inside her head that were very difficult to shake off.

"I want you" The Witcher gave one step towards her and she backed up, he stepped forward again and she again took a step back "I have seen you in my dreams, at first you were a shadow, a figure in the distance. Then your features became more clearer, I could hear your voice, your poems, your speeches. Then I could see your back, but your face was still hidden from me...I only realized it was you today, when I heard that speech, my songbird" He said so soothingly

"Lord…I-" She touched the edge of her bed with her body

She felt something touching her between her legs, his breathing hitting her naked thighs and then something wet….a sudden bliss took her by surprise when Roza guessed too late what was touching her body: his tongue. A bliss that for the next hour would only increase to heights Roza could had not dream of even in her most vivid dreams.

[mercymermaid]

mouthwashing hcs but it's all just daisuke because he's my favorite

- has an account for basically every social media you can think of, and posts regularly on the tulpar's questionable wifi

- ^ regarding this, quotes completely random brainrot phrases or old vines or just god knows what, specifically to swansea just to piss him off (he eventually gets anya to join in, she's not some innocent unicorn this girl knows)

- has beads on his boot laces

- wears all types of bracelets; he snuck a good chunk of them onto the ship, and matches them to his hawaiian shirt of the day (specifically made sure that his nails coordinated with all the shirts he packed), along with endless funky earrings

- anya lets him experiment with designs on her nails and practice braiding her hair, he lets her try short styles on his hair and practice makeup, it's become their mutual 'talk it out' time; if anya ever tells him about juul pod, it's during a hang out session

- gets super competitive against anya at game nights, will eat game pieces (win no matter what mentality) and get yelled at by anya

- him and anya are ao3 twins; what they write and discuss is taken to their graves

- sings in the shower. really loudly. like 'swansea threatens to replace the water with emergency foam' loud. he eats it up though this man is in the middle of his world tour nobody's stopping him

- genuinely really looks up to swansea, sees his personality as grumpy-grandpa-with-mystic-backstory-esque, and is enamored with his engineering skills

- tries really, REALLY hard to succeed, and takes pride in his 'useless ray of sunshine' persona because at least he matters somewhat despite his failures

- is the type to fall asleep in a completely normal position and wake up with his pillow on the ceiling, time wound back three years, and completely out of it. as he shares a room with swansea, this is very unappreciated.

- pretends to like the pony express cake because swansea does, secretly despises it (big sweet tooth and the cake is an offense)

- ^ regarding this, steals sweeteners once he figures out the code on the daily, and shares them with anya during their hangouts

- terrible sleep schedule that only worsened once they made it into space

- can't sleep without a nightlight; swansea was really annoyed about it at first, but on the first night when daisuke kept tossing and turning on the verge of tears because everything was unfamiliar and dark and loud and scary, gave in, let the kid plug in his teeny little cat lamp, and put on an eye mask

- warrior cats kid, without a doubt, and has professionally dabbled in wings of fire and harry potter

- chronic doodler, can and will spend hours daydreaming and drawing god knows what, and he's good at it too

- subscribed to about twenty thousand webcomics across too many platforms and websites, keeps up with them all religiously, gets anya into a few

- stuffed animal hoarder, could only bring one on board and it's a little golden retriever plush from his favorite high school teacher, to inspire him and motivate him to fight the haters

- the most eclectic music taste known to humanity but they're all certified bangers

- cracks his joints like a 9-5 job, can only be beat by swansea and curly

- had a grand vision for how to decorate his room on the tulpar, dreams were crushed when it was stated that he couldn't

- back on earth; would change his phone case to match his outfit, jewelry galore, plan fits before each week, had a whole hour-long skin routine that meant he had to wake up at 4am for school, the whole shabang

- minecraft builder, exclusively in creative

- really strong sense in color theory and design, should've gone into graphic design instead of spaceship engineering internship

[lovelytsunoda]

INDYCAR DRIVERS AS ROMANCE BOOK TROPES

summary: I give romance tropes to my favourite funky indycar men. if y’all actually want to see me do any of these, please tell me in the comments 🫣

dedicated to my bestie @magnummagnussen who helped ghostwrite and give her ideas on a few of the tropes! (sorry for not including sting ray bestie, I have his trope to callum!)

pato o ward

reverse grumpy sunshine!!! pato is a bright ball of sunshine and in an ideal romance book he would pair with a girl who is a little grumpy (just a little bit) and cynical about falling in love and then dear sweet patricio would sweep in and show her just how magical being in love can be and show her that soulmates are real and life doesn’t have to be doom and gloom all the time

josef newgarden

single dad x nanny trope! I can see this playing out as recently widowed josef (probably not the right word) struggling to balance being the only caregiver for his son next to his racing career. cue y/n, the nanny he hires to watch after his son while he’s away and competing. he’s scared to fall in love again because he’s still grieving what he once had, but his son grows attached to y/n and how could josef not fall in love with someone his son loves so much?

kyle kirkwood

second chance romance! he lost her once, and now that she’s back in his life he won’t give her up!! the way I see this one playing out is that maybe they were together before kyle made it to the big leagues, back when nobody in america knew his name. but while she was deciding which ivy league scholarship to choose, Kyle is thinking about his career. she gives him an ultimatum, and he picks racing. so she goes to her big fancy school and forgets about him. but when a family tragedy brings her back to florida and she comes face to face with kyle, who is now a grand prix winner, hes desperate to keep her from being the one who got away.

colton herta

accidental pregnancy!! their relationship was falling apart, the distance and the pressures of colton’s career. eating them alive. words were said that couldn’t be taken back. so they called it quits, he moved to nashville and she tried to keep her head down and finish school. until she missed her period. her world seems to be ending with those two little lines, but she still cares about him. she can’t just keep coltons child a secret from him, this disaster is as much his fault as it is hers. so she goes to indiana the weekend before the 500 and she tells him. tensions are running high between them both, but they’re trying to do right by each other and the baby, and the experience reminds them that maybe they were meant to be together all along.

marcus armstrong

brothers best friend!!! y/n ilott knows that marcus is off limits. since she was fifteen she’s thought all her brothers friends were gross anyways. marcus was always by far the most annoying. fast forward a few years and they’re racing together in the same series again and suddenly marcus armstrong isn’t a gross as she remembers. and has his voice always been that sexy?? but callum can NEVER know.

david malukas

wrong number! let’s face it this man is too lazy to make contacts for half of the names in his phone. he was so sure that was sting rays number. why wouldn’t it be, the man from idaho had typed it in himself. turns out, it wasn’t sting ray at all, but some random college student who lived over a thousand miles away. he starts to text her when she gets bored, eventually progressing to face time calls, and begins to get flustered once he has a face to put with the personality. ends with him flying out to meet in her in person.

christian lundgaard

fake dating! he shouldn’t have done it. every bone in his body told him not to do it but the panicked look on her face was enough to make christian agree to pretend to be her boyfriend to scare off her cheating ex boyfriend, who was making her seriously uncomfortable. it was just supposed to be for the weekend, until the guy started leaving her alone. but a lot can happen on one race weekend and suddenly it doesn’t seem so fake anymore.

callum ilott

childhood friends to lovers! they were always just supposed to be friends, but if that’s the case, why does callum hate her new boyfriend now that the relationship is getting serious? why does y/n still feel like something is missing? cue a drunken night out leading to the hottest sex callum has ever had and lingering questions on both sides about what they really truly want out of life and love.

TAGS:

@clemswrld @httpiastri @libraryofloveletters @sidcrosbyspuck @scuderiasundays @scuderiamh @lorarri

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

HEY HEY HEY so I’ve never requested anything before bc I’m new to tumblr and idk if this is even where I’m supposed to request thing so if i’m wrong then I sincerely apologise.

BUT, if I am then slay I have a funky idea for a tangerine fic that I think you would write so well :)

So I saw you said you’re British but idk if you ever went to a youth club? Like where they have 5-12 year olds come for group games in a sports hall and they do arts and crafts and play with the big rainbow parachute thing on the ground?? Well anyhoo I’ve been stuck on this non hitmen au where I can see reader being one of the leaders who takes the club and usually lemon is the other one, but for whatever reason, maybe like a recreational injury, he needs tangerine to fill in for a few weeks. So this is reader and tan meeting for the first time other than Lemon mentioning him and obviously Tan isn’t used to being around kids and is a grumpy dude and doesn’t know how to talk to them while playing the games but reader finds it funny because she knows them all well. Some funny Tangerine and kiddio interactions results in him catching her attention and the two become better friends while the group are away with the arts and crafts leader. Maybe they get up to some interesting stuff after a few weeks in the sports supply store room?? I just think it’s a fun little thing and the idea gives me nostalgia because if my old youth club lol

HI HI HII!! don’t worry you did it right! okay so, for this I had too many ideas (as it felt so nostalgic to write) I kinda added too much but not enough and feel as though it may not make any sense (like I waffled) I really loved this idea and don’t know if I did as well as I could’ve. but thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌

uncle lemon’s brother

tangerine x f reader

wc || 1.2k

warnings || none

masterlist + rules

taglist

Most days, you worked at the local youth club, where you'd lead all sorts of fun activities for the kids. Whether that be arts and crafts, sports in the indoor hall or nature walks, whatever it was that kept the kids entertained, you did it. 

Luckily you have a work partner that helps lighten the weight of the kids' intense energy. He's much like a child himself, so he fits in perfectly. When he first joined several months back, the kids gave him a nickname before he could even introduce himself, naming him Lemon, well, Uncle Lemon. There was no reason behind the nickname other than it was 'funny'.

You and Lemon were quite a pair when handling the kids. You had worked out a system that allowed the children to do as much as possible in the short time you had available. You'd lead the artsy sessions, and Lemon managed the sporty activities. 

Last week, during one of the after-school sessions, Lemon ironically injured his wrist on one of the climbing apparatuses while on lookout duty. So for his temporary replacement, he asked his brother to fill in. You've never met his brother before, only hearing bits of him when Lemon would share stories or memories. You were a little uncertain if he would be a good substitute considering how much of a grump he was described as. 

-

Today is his brother's first day, so you were patiently waiting by the front desk to give him a quick tour before the kids arrived. Hearing a car pull up out front, you hastily organise the schedule for this afternoon, flicking through the papers as you make your way to the entrance.

"Hey, 'lright?" the man greets, extending a hand.

"Hi," you reply, shaking his hand as you hold his intense eye contact. "You're Lemon's brother, right?"

"Yeah-- Lemon?" he questions, his head slightly cocking.

Snickering. "Yeah, the uh- kids gave him that nickname when he joined. Clearly, it's stuck. How is he doing, by the way?"

"So dramatic," he scoffs. "Acting like he broke his whole body. Can't believe the knob-- sorry, the idiot broke his wrist on a climbing frame," he snickers, following after you. 

"Yeah, that sounds about right," chuckling. 

-

It took a little time for Lemon's brother to settle into his new role. It was quite clear that he was not used to being around kids, but as the afternoon went on, he grew more comfortable, and his demeanour began to change. Soften, even.

He was 'coaching' a game of dodgeball while you entertained the eliminated kids, telling them stories until the next round. 

"Bob..." a little boy asks, lightly tugging on your hand.

"We're still calling me 'Bob'?" you question, your features playful as you act displeased. "But, yes, munchkin. What's up?" you ask, ruffling his hair.

"What should we call him?" he asks, blatantly pointing across the hall.

"I think something funny," someone else adds, giggling.

"I think we should call him turd man,"

"Turd man?" you entertain, pretending to be disgusted. "That's so disgusting."

"I like turd man,"

"Me too," another adds.

"Mr Grump,"

"Don't forget he's Lemon's brother, so we should call him something similar?" you prompt, trying to ease them into a less disgusting name. 

"BANANA," a young boy calls out, practically jumping in excitement.

"Apple,"

"Orange,"

"Lemon number two,"

"Oh, how about something citrus-like. Something sour, maybe?" you chuckle, occasionally catching eyes with the new replacement across the way.

"Satsuma," a little girl calls out, pulling the small orange from her shoe.

"Sweetie, that's a tangerine," you smile.

"That's a good name,"

"We should call him that,"

"Please can we call him that, Bob?"

"Please..."

"Hm, I don't see why not," you laugh, ushering the kids along to join in the new game.

"Tangerine," a young girl calls out, rushing over.

"Tangerine!" another screams. 

"Why the calling me that?" he whispers, his head hung low as he leans towards you. 

"Ask them," you snicker, talking close to his ear. "Could be worse. They call me Bob,"

"Okay, yeah, you're right. That's much worse," he chuckles. "'lright," he claps, gathering the kids together. "We got time for one more game, ain't we, Bob?"

Grinning. "Yeah, I think so, Tangerine."

After one quick game of dodgeball later, you, Tangerine and the kids walked back to the main rec room to wind down before hometime. All sat in a circle as you all took turns to share your favourite part of the day.

"Where are you from, Tangerine?" a little boy asks, picking his nose as he poked him with his free hand.

He turns to look at you, his features begging for help as he leans away from the bogey picker. "Um... from my house,"

"Me too,"

"And me,"

"I'm from Poland,"

"Me too,"

"My daddy is from Ireland,"

"Where is that?"

"Near Spain,"

"No, that's an island,"

"You're wrong,"

Listening to all the kids blabber on, you face Tangerine, masking a snicker when you see his exasperated expression. "Hang in there," you mouth, a smile pulling on the corners of your lips. 

Playing along, he checks the time on his watch. "Almost there," he whispers. 

As the days went on, Tangerine grew a lot more comfortable with the kids, and he looked as though he was starting to enjoy his time with them. There was something so endearing about seeing a burly, attractive man acting so juvenile while entertaining kids, how soft and gentle he could be while speaking to them. 

-

The two of you had spent lots of time together over the last couple of weeks, hanging out and chatting whenever there was a moment free. Tangerine was very slow to warm up, very reserved, but once you got past the first layer, you realised just how decent a person he is. 

The kids had just left for the day, so you and Tangerine had to pack away the equipment in the sports cupboard that was left out.

"Hey, pass us that, would ya?" he asks, nodding to the bag of balls behind you. 

"The ballbag?" you grin, reaching over the messily organised area. "You gotta say it. That's the rule round here," you joke.

"Ballbag," he says flatly, extending a hand. "Now give it," 

"Yeah, one min, my legs stuck,"

"Stuck?"

"Yeah," you sigh.

"Don't move. I'll come help," grinning.

"You're a funny man,"

He parts the boxes to the side as he makes his way over to you, moving the equipment out of the way so he can crouch to the floor beside you. His hand is warm and firm as he grips your ankle, slowly guiding it from the crack, looking up at you. 

He coughs in his fist, clearing his throat. "There we go," he says, glancing away from your admiration-filled gaze.

Clearing your own throat, awkwardly looking away. "Thanks,"

"Yeah," he nods, meeting your eyes once more. 

He slowly stands up, keeping his eyes glued to yours. His head hangs low as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his eyes darting over you. "No problem," he whispers. 

"We should get going," you whisper back, practically pulling away.

"Don't worry. I weren't gonna kiss ya," Tan chuckles, lacing his hands into yours. Smirking. "Not yet, anyway."

@tangerinesgf @kpopgirlbtssvt @v1ntage-daydr3am @earth-elemental18 @ashlynhasmanyhyperfixations @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @thewinterv @navs-bhat @ilovetangerinewithallmyheart @theredvelvetbitch @randomawesomeperson102 @lov3lypeaches7 @princess-pebbles-things @astermath @dynamitehacke @ugh09876554444 @boldlyimportantface @charmedkim @fruitlovertangerine @psiiconic @bubblezuku @sporadiccherryblossomfan @landryslove

[angiiepaniic]

hiii giving you an excuse to talk about your bill because i also like him a lot and know your pain about never being able to talk about him. so heres your divine excuse to ^-^ i wanna hear

AAAA YOU DONT KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE this will be VERY LONG and VERY RAMBLY so like u asked for this (thank u btw ur my first ask)

man idek where to like start :,D

(should note that this is mainly a modern rendition but sometimes i picture us in his world too so it goes either way, really :3)

if you want me to elaborate on anything then just lmk! (that goes for anyone who wants to)

OH OH ok so i’ve been REALLY getting into the band sleep token and there’s like 4 songs that remind me of him and as a result CANNOT stop listening to them (namely rain, give, mine, and telomeres - i highly recommend them!)

bill will listen to just about anything music wise but has a particular soft spot for things like blues, country, and some older rock like billy joel (also really likes soul and r&b like h.e.r. and muni long but will never admit it) — but generally, in his eyes, if it’s a good song it’s a good song, regardless of genre or artist.

he’s even more open with food, like, he will eat anything in front of him even if he doesn’t like it - just how he was raised. he doesn’t have any set favourites besides some southern classics (he will eat 25 servings of mac n cheese in one sitting if u let him)

i on the other hand am VERY iffy with food and find it hard to eat a lot of things, but we know each other so well now that bill will just eat off my plate sometimes (with consent ofc)

he’s not the best cook but is an absolute GRILL MASTER. all gang cookouts are held at his place (and pearson can’t decide if that’s insulting or not)

we spend like 90% of our time just relaxing together, but he does boxing on the weekends to (and i quote) ‘’stay strong for his lady’’

very protective, ABSOLUTELY the jealous type - not in a toxic way, just a bit grumpy sometimes (as always, this is bill we’re talking about)

he’s SO pleasant to be around. we have the same awful humour, the same love languages (we’re both so touch starved that we cling to each other like a curse)

he can be a bit a of a bastard with all the playful teasing but i do the same so it’s an even battleground. i can call him stupid and it’s fine, anyone else does and im THROWING HANDS (and so will he, probably) — and in turn, he’s the only one who can call ME stupid or HE will throw hands while i cry in the corner LMAO

the modern stuff doesn’t have very specific lore, just some cross-dimensional shenanigans. most of it is just based around my actual day-to-day and how i think we’d be living together — but i have a bunch of little aus! got a goth one, got a biker one (one of my personal faves), got a gender bend one because i’ll be damned if bill can’t ALSO be my girlfriend

when i imagine us in the red dead universe i refuse to let him have the bad ending he gets canonically - my funky little brain says that everyone’s healthy and happy in a little ranch or settlement somewhere because that’s what EVERYONE deserves (except micah)

i know most people view him as gay, but i personally headcanon him as pansexual and into everyone regardless of gender because I feel like that fits him quite well

he really is quite loveable, just sometimes he has trouble showing it - but he’s getting better. his ‘i love you’s come out as random hugs, random compliments, and endearing nicknames (as embarrassing as it is i imagine his go-to is calling me bunny :3)

we’re both kinda insecure so sometimes we have a back-and-forth but it’s compliments. i’ve been telling him every day that he’s wonderful and amazing and the best and that his belly’s one of my favourite things and i will DIE on that hill idc how much he complains.

ik that if he was reading the above paragraph he’d look at me and go ‘’BUT YOU COMPLAIN LIKE THAT TOO’’ and yk what he’s right - but that’s why we have each other

our relationship is very healing for the both of us. we both get the love we need and deserve after being deprived of it for so long, and genuinely we’re happier for it. i got out of a lot really bad habits thanks to him, and i’ve been doing my best to help him too <3

[stuurman]

other versions under the cut :3 so... I had this funky idea of a new character. a scientist from Aperture who miraculously survived GLaDOS neurotoxin attack but fully lost his sight because of it. but this idea came out of control real quick and I got a little obsessed with it. and also connected him with a nice amount of hl2 canon characters. and and now he also takes a part in hl2 storyline (during the combine occupation yk). and I actually think it's g-man's fault of why the heck this buddy is still alive. at this point I don't even care if I'm cringe it's so much fun to think about him being in the White Forest and constantly having a beef with dr. Magnusson because both of them are grumpy old men who can't just shut their mouths. in the meantime........ this is where i get off.....

i just love how his face turned out tbh! <:)

[possiblyeldritch]

Hrnnngg, I really need to talk about why I love playing DnD with my friends and why I love their characters.

Rambling below the cut. It’s long.

SO,

My friends and I have been playing the same DnD campaign for about two and a half years now and I absolutely love their characters. It’s something I’ve said to them multiple times but I don’t think I’ve ever truly expressed just how much I love these funky little guys.

Obviously, when the campaign started, the characters weren’t that fleshed out and half our party was new to DnD, so my best friend (another player) and I had to teach them, but it didn’t take long.

Their characters were kind of generic at the start, I’ll admit, but through guidance from their resident author (me) and through roleplaying/slow progression, their characters grew to feel like real people who reacted to world in a very real way.

Let’s start with Isaac. Isaac is a human sorcerer played by a friend who was new to the game. Isaac was the only full spell caster in the party. Isaac started the campaign with no backstory to speak of and his personality was just the generic grumpy character. However, as time progressed and I talked with Isaac’s player more, we were able to create a real backstory for him, and it was one that helped to put his personally into a realistic context.

> Isaac was a slave, sold off to flesh traders by his birth parents. He killed his captors and escaped from them during a thunderstorm one night while aboard a ship. The storm awakened him to his sorcerer blood and allowed him to destroy the ship through the storm magic he carried (this also ties into the main plot of our campaign because the villain was the god of storms).

> The impact of Isaac being a slave carried into his adult life, aka, his personality during the campaign. One of Isaac’s main traits that was originally played for laughs was that fact that he was a mean, distrustful, drunk. He spent most of his money on alcohol and he was generally rude to everyone. It wasn’t until many sessions later (and some character progression) that Isaac finally told the party about his time as a slave and showed them the scars that covered his back. Suddenly, he wasn’t just a generic angry drunk, instead he was a man who was hurt and struggles to trust people. But he would begin to trust others and that would lead him to becoming kinder (although begrudgingly).

In order to get full context for Isaac, I need to talk about Zulton, the one person in the party who proved himself trustworthy enough to make the sorcerer open up and allow himself to heal. That character is Zulton.

Zulton is played by my best friend. Zulton is a Minotaur paladin. Zulton is best described as a big sweetheart who genuinely wants to help people. He was not a simple, generic character in the first session, his player came prepared with a backstory that would shock the other characters when it was revealed.

> Zulton was orphaned at a very young age and was taken in by a pair of adoptive parents who raised him in an unnamed village somewhere near a forest. Zulton grew up learning how to hunt animals and track prey. It would be during one of these hunting expeditions that he would meet a man that would change his life.

> Zulton became quick friends with the man and the two began hunting together. The man would gain Zulton’s trust and that would be the downfall. The man manipulated Zulton into thinking he was good when in reality, the man was a werewolf who wanted nothing more than to make the people of Zulton’s home into his prey. Everyone Zulton ever knew would be killed by the man, and he would be left as the only survivor.

> I mentioned that Zulton was a sweetheart and that he was a paladin, but what I failed to mention is that he is a Paladin who swore an oath of vengeance against the man who killed his family. Zulton is a kind person because he has seen the evil of the world and he wants to protect others from it, but underneath the hopeful mask he wears, he is a horribly broken man filled with a boiling hatred for the man who killed his family.

But Zulton only brought up his backstory once with the party and he did it to help Isaac. Zulton may be someone fueled by rage, but he is still a good person. He wants to help and he wants to make the world a better place because he knows just how much it can suck. It’s his persistent kindness and genuine love for others that helped him finally crack through Isaac’s hard exterior and make the sorcerer confide in Zulton.

The dynamic of the party is always interesting to me because the characters feels so real, and my friends and I have often agreed that the party has the same energy as a bunch of coworkers. But, when we talk about Isaac and Zulton specifically, we all agree that those two are genuine friends and that’s because of how they treat each other and respect one another.

Now let’s talk about Raymond. He is played by my brother. Raymond is a halfling fighter. Raymond is an agent of chaos. Raymond is a cryptid. Raymond may or may not be a trickster deity who just wants to have some fun.

Raymond has no real backstory to speak of, and that may sound like he’d be a boring character to some, but not to us. Raymond’s lack of a backstory is what makes him interesting, that, and the way my brother chooses to play him.

Raymond likes to have fun and collect woodland animals as pets. Raymond likes to play pranks. Raymond likes to be someone who tags along with the party whether they (Isaac) like it or not.

He is persistent. He is strong. He is crafty. And he is a walking mystery. Raymond likes to randomly talk about little bits of his past during party interactions but then refuse to elaborate, causing chaos amongst the party and making them wonder more and more what this little man is exactly.

Because he is played as a mysterious, almost cryptid like man who just likes doing things for the hell of it, Raymond very quickly became the comedic heart of the party. This love of being a prankster and general nuisance cause Isaac to take a disliking to Raymond resulting in a friendly rivalry that usually helped bring the party close together.

Finally, the character who was a later addition to the party: Veda. Veda is a satyr ranger. Veda is from the Feywild. Veda is a pothead. Veda is the woman out of place in this story.

> Veda’s backstory is simple. She was a nuisance in the feywild, partying too hard and causing to many problems. So, she was booted out until she could learn to behave. This led to Veda meeting Raymond and him claiming her as one of his many pets, refusing to acknowledge that she was not a goat but instead a person.

Veda was introduced to the party as a newcomer, someone who’d never seen the world before or who understood the conflict the party was involved with. She was the perfect way for me to give more exposition about the world while also fitting nicely into the party as the last missing piece to make the dynamic whole.

Veda was a kind person who didn’t understand why the party would sometimes jump to violence to solve a problem and this created conflict. She always wanted to talk things out and find alternative solutions, which were often supported by Zulton, the unofficial voice of the party.

But she would soon have to accept that the main antagonists were not of the negotiating sort. They wanted violence and death, so she had no choice but to follow the party’s lead and handle things with violence. This resolution of violence actually broke Veda’s original character of being a carefree, flirty fun loving girl. She became someone who had her original worldview, forged of privilege, shattered. She did not experience the tragedy of Isaac and Zulton, nor did she have the almost uncanny knowledge and desires of Raymond. She was a person who grew up with privilege and was then forced to face the world as it was.

This break in her character changed her as a person. She suddenly became more thoughtful, down to earth, reasonable and mature. But even though she lost her rose colored world, she didn’t let it hurt her basics. She was still kind. She was still good. The world beat her down but she still stood up and assessed the wounds of others before her own.

Part of the reason she was able to keep her hope and her kindness is because she had the help of Zulton and a recovering Isaac to hold her in reality and remind her why they fought with the people she had wanted to talk down.

Veda was a good person who wanted good things for others even if she often felt powerless to help.

The core of why I love these characters and why I struggle so much to explain it is because these silly guys, played by my friends, are genuinely well made characters. They aren’t perfect. They aren’t Mary Sues or cardboard cutouts. They are real, nuanced people who experience struggles, happiness, conflict with the world, conflict with each other, and conflict with themselves. They are people who have all experienced hurt and betrayal, but it was through opening up to each other and finding others like themselves that they were able to get better together. We often joke about their dynamic being that of coworkers, but genuinely, I believe they are a found family. They are unlikely friends who found each other through circumstances that would change their lives.

They are not perfect, but they are good people who were hurt and who believe no one else should have to experience avoidable misery. They want to be a force of good, despite everything that has hurt them and tried to push them down a darker path.

I love this party because they are little pieces of my friends. They are pieces of their beliefs, their personalities, their personal histories, their emotions, and of their own insecurities.

I love these characters, because they ARE my friends, and through our funny sessions of fighting evil and role play, I think we were all able to open up to and help each other, whether we realized it or not.

[oddishblossom]

OHMYGODDDD I HOPE YOU ENJOYED SANDMAN'S FIRST SEASON!!!!! a second is cooking up btw!!!

this story about stories is definitely one of my faves from all times<3 what are your thoughts so far????

DUDE IT’S SO GREAT!!!! i watched one episode and i was immediately hooked! i was like that one gordon ramsey meme where he goes “finally some good fuckin food” because the writing, the acting, the directing, the characters, everything’s so well done 🤩! the characters, man… i gotta talk about the characters! they’re so interesting. they really don’t shy away from making deplorable sinister villains that aren’t one dimensional. the corinthian, lucifer, heck even johnny made me want to keep watching (but then again i’m always a sucker for good villains). as for my favorite characters in general, death of the endless was so cool! i love the contrast between being the personification of death, a concept that is so terrifying to humans, and the way she’s so bright and kind and warm and a good sister. matthew the raven is a gem i needed more of that funky little guy. but my favorite has to be dream! he’s so ethereal, like his soothing voice and the way he talks sets him apart from everyone else. and yet even tho he’s kind of a god, he’s also stubborn and grumpy and bad at seeing the error of his ways which is funny to watch (he’s still got a soft side tho ☺️). love all the queerness, too. ppl were not kidding when they said it was made for the gays <3 i may or may not be scrolling through the dreamling tag on ao3 (don’t even get me started on dream and hob. they’re SOOOOOOOO… so good for each other 🥺💖. i see them sit down and softly smile at each other after centuries and it’s like an arrow went through my heart)

so yeah i’m really glad i gave this show a chance! i’m so picky when it comes to starting new shows and i’m always dropping things after a few eps (i blame the bad attention span) but this one sunk it’s claws into me and i’m very excited for season 2 😂

[carsonbeech]

You knocked frantically on your professor’s door at office hours. It was pouring outside and your clothes had been soaked through. After about a minute, the door opened to the tall man looking at you with a hard expression. He moved to the side letting you into the classroom. You quietly said thank you and walked in. The squeaks of your shoes could be heard for miles.

“Why are you here, Y/N?” He asked. His voice sounded like he’d just woken up. Though his question caused you to be worried.

“What do you mean? Is it not office hours?” You checked your watch for the time, “Yeah, Tuesdays and Thursdays from 3-6 pm.” You confirmed for yourself.

“I sent a message out that they weren’t being held today because of the unexpected storm. Do you check your email?” You’d never heard him so grumpy. Dr. Ford was usually a man with a smile. You wondered what had gotten him in such a mood.

“I usually do, actually. I was just in class and ran straight here after. Hence the clothes,” you tried to lighten the mood. It just earned you a grunt.

“Well now that you’re here, what do you need?” He sat behind his desk and placed his fingers on his temple.

Dr. Ford was beautiful. Olive skin with a light stubble casting his face. Hazel eyes that shine when he finds something interesting. Big muscles that you imagined wrapped around your body.

“You know, you don’t have to do this, I can just come back another day,” You gathered your belongings and headed for the door.

“You’re already here, Y/N. Don’t be stupid.”

The comment made your head spin back to him in an instant. One thing a man will not do, is insult your intelligence, “Okay, I don’t know who you think you are to be talking to me that way but it’s unacceptable. Just because you’re in a funky ass mood at your grown age, doesn’t mean you can just make comments sir.”

He sat back in his chair as a small smirk grazed his nude lips, “You’re in my classroom, Y/N. I will speak to you how I please.”

“Oh sorry, do you pay rent here Dr. Ford? The college didn’t hire you to be an ass,” you bit back, “And quit saying my name like we’re cool. I should’ve listened to your reviews on that website. You have a terrible attitude.”

The comment made him stand to his feet, “Those reviews are written by little brats like you. Who think that every professor is supposed to fall at their feet and help them with every little step along the way. You’ve been out of grade school for a while now, act like it.”

“I know where I am, and I know my expectations. They’re not that every professor will help me, it’s that they have common fucking decency which you obviously do not attain. Now excuse me, Dr. Pearce Ford, I have better places to be than here.” You said and spun on your foot towards the door. But he just had to open his handsomely handsome mouth yet again.

“Do you really though?” His voice was getting closer to you.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have anywhere to be. You mapped out the next three hours of your life to be here to get help from me.” He was making his way towards you with both hands in his pockets making his frame look even more lean.

“Well now their mapped out to be spent without an asshole of a man making rude comments about me,” You looked directly up at him as he stood right in front of you. The tension could be cut with a knife.

“What are you gonna do then?”

“What?”

“What. Are. You. Going. To. Do?”

“I’m officially sick of you. Goodbye, Dr. Ford.” For the third time, you turned to leave but you wrist was tightly grabbed by the man in the room, “Let me go.”

“I’ll help you with your coursework, Y/N,” he said with his voice hoarse.

“Too late now,” you said. You weren’t sure if it actually came out. The two of you were standing so close. Chest to chest.

Another smirk lit his lips, this time bigger, “You know, blue is my favorite color.”

Your head tilted sideways, “is it really?”

“Yeah, powder blue. Sometimes with some lace white mixed in.”

You then realized the color of the bra you had on. And your soaked white long sleeve shirt. You shook your head and looked down with a laugh, “Good thing that’s all you’ll be seeing.”

“Is it really?” he repeats back to you. His thumb is suddenly on your chin, tracing your jaw. The professor makes his way up to your bottom lip and pulls it down lightly. You stare up at him with lust in both of your eyes, “Your eyes tell a story, Y/N. A story of seduction. You look at me, say right in the middle of class, a slight smile on your face. To anyone else you look innocent, but i see it. When you undress me with your eyes.”

You could feel your cheeks getting hotter by the second, “Do you imagine me fucking you?” He continues, “Do you imagine my tongue on you, or my fingers inside of you? I’ve seen your eyes while I touch myself, Y/N.”

He puts his finger inside your mouth and you quickly close your mouth and suck on it. You feel your clit beating in your underwear. His other hand slips down to your leggings. Running his hand over your clothed cunt, you whimper, “So sensitive, baby.” He tells you. “How ‘bout you take those off.”

You release his finger from your mouth and slowly take off your leggings, “Matching underwear, of course.” He comments.

“Can I touch you, Dr.?” you ask. You don’t wait for his answer. You palm his hardened cock over his jeans. He grunts and rolls his head back.

Your hand is roughly removed and he turns you around, pressing your back to his chest, “I didn’t say you could, Y/N.”

He roughly pulls down your blue panties and rubs one finger over your shining clit, “O-oh my god,” you whisper. He ignores you and brings his finger back to your folds.

“When did get wet, Y/N? When you walked in? When I called you stupid, Or was it when you were in bed last night planning to come to my office hours hoping I would finally fuck you?”One finger enters you making you gasp loudly. Before you could even say anything, he pulls it out, “You think you get first turn, babe? Again, stupid. Get on your knees.”

You obeyed quickly and sat on your knees in front of him. Dr. Ford pull his belt off and his pants down. When his underwear came off, you held in a whimper of excitement and scared. You grabbed his dick which barely fit your hand. Your mouth latched onto him quickly. Bobbing your head up and down and leaking onto the floor.

“Fuuuck, Y/N.” He groaned out before doing fucking into your throat. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and fucked himself into your mouth. You gagged around him and held onto the back of your thighs. It’s almost like he could read your mind. Getting your mouth fucked is one your many sexual desires, “You like that? You like when I treat you like your a stupid slut?”

You tried to nod but his cock was ripped out your mouth, “Are you touching touching yourself?” he asked angrily, “Did I say you could touch yourself?” You shook your head. You didn’t even realize you were doing it.

He pulled you up by your hair and pushed you back on his desk. You felt a sharp slap to your pussy that made you yell out, “Fuck!”

“I didn’t say you could touch yourself, Y/N.”

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” you bit back, which earned you another hard slap to the pussy.

“Don’t get smart.” He slapped your pussy again even harder, “Now I just have to treat you like a bitch.”

He flipped you over and spit on your cunt. When he rammed himself inside of you, you couldn’t contain your moans. “Oh my fucking god Dr. Ford! Fuck!” All you could do was ball your fist.

His dick was so big inside of you. Stretching you out. You were sure you wouldn’t be walking home, “You just love getting treated like a slut huh?” he asked you. You ignored his question and moaned again, he slammed himself inside of you and didn’t move, “When I ask you a question, you answer me!”

“Yes, I like being treated like a slut Dr. Ford!” you cried out, your body shaking.

He wrapped one hand around your throat and another clasped onto your clit, “Whose pussy is this, Y/N?”

He held onto your throat tight, “Yours, sir.” You gasped out:

His hand moved steadily on your clit, “Whose pussy is this, Y/N?”

You could feel yourself about to come, your body shook and eyes rolled back, “Yours, Dr. Ford!”

“Cum for me, you fucking slut,” he growled in your ear.

Your body shook violently as a clear liquid shot from your pussy, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You yelled out.

“Good girl, Y/N,” Dr. Ford purred, “Now when I cum inside you, don’t let any leak out or we’re going to have a problem.”

He should’ve known by now, you like problems. He sped up and rammed inside, cumming, “Take it, Y/N.”

Your pussy clenched around him as he came.

When he pulled out, you quickly (and purposefully) pulsed your vagina making some of his cum fall out.

“Do you want to have a problem?”

You smirked up at him and rolled onto your back. You sucked your fingers before slowly inserting them inside yourself, “Maybe I do, sir.”

[dufferpuffer]

I wish there was more destructive Wolfstar about. Like make it MORE toxic - in the funky interesting fictional way. Its the only form of the ship I have any interest in, because it is the closest to how their canon personalities would mesh. They are a poor fit for eachother in almost all ways - and that sort of trainwreck is fun to explore... but it rarely ever is. They are both self-destructive and messy men who need alot of something the other cannot supply.

Remus can hardly even manage himself, let alone Sirius' problems - and Sirius can't give Remus the patient babying he needs. How cruel and stifling that life would be for a man trapped for so long already... And yet they both desire so much so strongly. A type of life neither of them can reach, that another has snatched away from them. The last time they met they thought the other was a traitor... and now all they have is eachother. Its like... right there. Something you could make tragic and compelling, or twist a little to be sweet. Something with depth. But it is so much easier to have Sirius be a funky lil twink and Remus a grumpy dom. Le sigh.

I love how wolfstar shippers call remadora toxic as if they don’t make Remus this rude asshole that degrades and is just plain mean to Sirius — like no love,, wolfstar is the toxic one even if it follows their canon characterisations lmao

[solarspike]

i haven’t drawn crab boy in ages, god i just *doubles over, fists tightly clenched* I MISS HIM SO MUCH