#it was an impossibility for me. and now its so near. so terribly near

[snazzi-strawberri]

AAAA college applications AAAA college entrance exams AAAAAA COLLEGE AAAAAAAAAA IM NOT READY FOR COLLEGE AAAAUUUUUUUUGHHHHGGGGGGG

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building��

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[soapcloth]

Fantasy au -> Warrior!Soap x Healer!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI, light bloodplay, noncon undertones, dacryphilia if you squint

not edited - 800 words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

You’ve had just about enough of that axe-swinging asshole, built like an ox and thrice as stubborn.

You’re absolutely beside yourself asking why you’re sticking it out in his half-baked party. John, as he had practically breathed the name down your neck, couldn’t keep a decent healer and now you know all too well why. He was mean, smelly, loud, and worst of all- overly familiar despite your best efforts to stamp out any flame of acquaintanceship. You could write ballads dedicated to reasons you should leave this party, but truth be told? You were down on your luck. You wondered sometimes if you were cursed with misfortune, a hilariously horrid timeline of events leading you to this very position right now. So you’ve made a few mistakes, hasn’t everyone in the pursuit of dungeon crawling?

Even so, was the state of your freelance healing career really so bad that you had to saddle up with someone like John MacTavish? The man had been naught more than a trail thief brute-forcing his way into other parties’ treasure a few years ago, but because of a few lucky encounters in monster slaying, suddenly he was picking up jobs in adventurer hubs like it was something he was born to do. It pissed you off to no end and he knew it. Loved seeing your indignant scowl while you healed him up knowing better work was near impossible for you to come by.

“Och- that’s it, ‘m sore there.” He’d groaned, humid breath fanning your skin, god, why was he always so close? “Gonna show me that pretty glow, lamb?”

“No.” You bit, rubbing the salve a touch deeper than needed. Your lips twitched seeing his eyebrows draw tight. “It’s not so bad that you need healing, stop being a baby.”

The man snorted in response. “That’s why no other parties’ll take ye on, lamb.” His deep blue eyes searched your own, a wild smirk twisting across his mouth. “Terrible bedside manner.” You flushed slightly, shooting him a sharp glare that caused him to lean back on his makeshift fallen and rotted log seat with a pleased grin as he inspected his wound. Like the ever-expressive man he was, his face suddenly took on a shade of concern. “Ach-!”

“Huh?” Was all you could muster, confused as to what he could be so worried about.

“Think I got nicked by something venomous, lamb, need yer healing.” He seethed out. “Oh for- let me see.” You sighed, grabbing his uselessly huge hand. As expected, his palm was fine, albeit still a bit bloody as the salve worked to stop it.

Wrong move.

Upon inspecting his wound, the adventurer managed to shove his palm into your face with a vicious grin, huffing through his nose a bit as he smeared blood across your mouth. Sputtering only invited the acrid taste of bitter salve, sweat, and copper onto your tastebuds as he laughed and continued to wipe his hand across your face. “See?” He chuckled “M’still hurt.” His eyes seemed to glisten like the northern stormy coast seeing his own blood on your skin. “Suits you.”

You pushed his hand away, misinterpreting his words in a way that scratched at a sore spot of your own. “I didn’t kill them, John! Stop holding that over my head!” You snarled, causing his eyes to widen a fraction. You wiped his blood off your face with your arm, only to smear it around more and get it on the limb. Great. It was then you realized you had a runny nose as well, were you starting to cry? “I fucked up- but my god, they lived, okay?” And now you couldn’t get a gig better than this one because of that fact, a voice in the back of your head snarked. It’s true too, they made sure no party worth its salt would ever take you on. You still have no idea why John did either in all honesty, for all his faults and the high turnover rate, he had a seemingly bottomless fount of healers willing to take a shot at being the one to stick.

John cupped your cheeks. “None of tha’.” He spoke lowly. One of his calloused thumbs swiped at an emerging tear before it could fall and you had to watch, mouth slightly agape as he brought the pad of his thumb to his lips without much thought, tongue darting out to taste. You blinked as he clapped that hand down on your shoulder, leaning closer. “None of tha’…” he repeated, quieter this time. He looked so focused. “Dinnae give a shit about those no-names, lamb, neither should you.”

You swallowed audibly when met with his intensity, his voice a rolling growl. “Fuck- seeing ye all covered in my blood’s got me stiffer than a rock. Palm’s busted and you won’t heal me. Cannae do a thing about it, feel like ah’m gonna-“

“I can heal your hand.” You urged, the oppressive haze he left you with suddenly lifting.

He snorted in response. “Though so, lamb.” His palm connected with your hair, ruffling his blood into your locks before moving down to pat your cheek. “What a dutiful healer ye’ are… So good te’ me. Let me see tha’ gorgeous glow.”

[snowballseal]

hihiiii I adoreee your writing, it’s so good! genuinely so fun to read. if it’s not too much trouble, could I possibly request some sylus fluff?

maybe something along the lines of MC craving lots of affection/being a bit clingy towards him and just wanting to be near him after a while of being apart?

absolutely no rush or obligations if this doesn’t exactly pique your interest!! have a lovely day ❤️

Soft

Sylus X Reader (LaDS)

Summary: Just a little fic of you and Sylus reuniting after a while apart. You doesn't want to be apart from him and he obliges.

Word Count: 818

Note: Hi anon! I know this isn't super long, but I hope you like it! I love describing how soft Sylus can be for MC, and it felt like a cute, simple piece. I can write something longer if you'd like, just let me know!

---

“Sylus!”

The man lets out a low chuckle as you practically throw yourself at him. He catches you with practiced ease, arms wrapping securely around your waist as he spins you around. It’s like one of those cheesy romance flicks, other travelers rushing around you to greet their own waiting families, a bubbly yet tired kind of mirth warming the frigid, fall air.

It had been a month since you’d seen Sylus. A long, grueling, horrible month. While you love your job, you hate the extended training camps you have to attend every few years. Always in the middle of nowhere. Always with limited contact with the outside world. Limited contact with Sylus.

You don’t know how many nights you spent staring at the blank walls of your tiny dorm room, sleep nowhere to be found when all you could think about was how much you missed his touch, his warmth, him. It was like being terribly homesick, and all you wanted was to be back in his arms.

And now you are.

Even when your feet touch the ground again, you don’t want to let go. And neither does Sylus. His arms stay curled around your waist, face tucked against your hair as he pulls you impossibly closer, just breathing you in. You all but melt into his warmth, nuzzling against his chest with a happy, content noise.

“My, my, it seems my little kitten missed me,” he murmurs, low and teasing against your ear. You can practically hear the smirk curling his lips.

“Can you blame me?” You draw back a fraction to pout up at him. Those vermillion eyes glint down at you with a smug amusement, but you don’t mind fanning his ego a little right now. “We barely even got the chance to talk on the phone. It was awful and cold and exhausting. I don’t know why they wanted us training in the north, we were all just a bunch of sad popsicles.”

“Mm, sounds quite tragic,” Sylus hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. Your theatrics are endearing, and who is he to not play along? Hands tracing slowly up and down your waist, Sylus gives you a look of teasing sympathy, “Poor kitten. Perhaps I should take you home and find a way to warm you up, hm?”

Home. God, you love the sound of that. You’re home. With him. The thought fills your chest with a fluttering sort of excitement.

“Home sounds perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling back into him with an absolutely giddy smile. “Just, don’t let me go, mkay?”

The man softens and for a moment, he’s not Sylus the leader of Onychinus. He’s just Sylus. Your Sylus.

You make him different. You turn him into something soft, something tender, with your love. Like a balm soothing his sharp edges, his harsh nature. He never thought himself capable of such gentleness until he held you, until he felt the plushness of your body in his hands. Even though you are one of Linkon’s most capable hunters, something in him desires to treat you like porcelain, something otherwise vicious and bloody. Like a feral dog, licking your chin, body curved to be small and nonthreatening despite the sharpness of its fangs pressed against your skin.

And you never once flinched. Never once pulled away from his hands, even when his grip would edge on painful, even when his teeth would sink into your skin with a sinful need to possess something so soft, so sweet.

Though, he’ll play nice tonight, seeing as your body curls so tiredly into his, practically all your weight in his arms.

“Alright, sweetie,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I accept your conditions. You won’t have to worry about anything tonight, I’ll take good care of you.”

You hum your approval, though it sounds more like a purr. A smirk dancing across his lips, Sylus leans down and curls an arm under you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. He grabs your bag with his other hand, and starts back towards his motorcycle.

You forget all about the cold that night. Even the soreness in your muscles seems to fade away as you lay curled against Sylus’ side on his couch, a large, fluffy blanket thrown over the both of you, some movie humming quietly in the background.

And Sylus keeps his word. Not once does he let you go. Even when you start to yawn, eyelids heavy with sleep, Sylus simply lays out across the couch and drags you over his body, until you can stretch out like a cat over his chest. He keeps an arm locked around your waist, making sure you won’t fall as you finally, finally give in to the sleep your body so desperately needs.

It’s perfect.

He’s perfect.

And you hope you never have to go on another blasted training mission again.

---

I'll be real, I think my personal headcannon is that Sylus is like a feral yet loyal dog. I use the comparison a lot, I feel. Like, he can be vicious and wild, but he'd bow for you, he'd get himself killed for you (if he could lol). He would have a loyalty so unwavering, and that's terrifying in a way. But also? Kinda sexy 👀

[hungharrington]

okay steve definitely wouldn’t care about body hair, but i just know that man goes feral over your freshly shaved, smoooooth legs

i took this to make him a sillay boyfriend 🫶 sorry if u wanted HAWTNESS this is just silly LUV…. forgive me

The sheets feel cool against your bare legs.

You can feel the scratch of your hair tucked against your neck but you’re too content, all but sinking into the mattress, to be bothered to move it. Your legs are tucked up, your arms splayed wide across the bed. You’ve just done the hard job of an everything-shower and lying down is your well-earned reward.

Across the room, Steve pulls the curtains to cover the window. Shadow falls across the room, banished after a moment when Steve pads to the bed, turning on the lamp. Amber coats the ceiling.

It’s balmy tonight. You feel warm without even being under the covers. Dozing off sounds like a pretty amazing idea right now.

“Not falling asleep with me, are ya?”

You smile at the sound of Steve’s voice, lifting your heavy eyelids to gaze at him.

He looks scruffy the same way he always does at the end of the day. His hair has lost some of its magnificent volume and he’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt from high school. You can see the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow on his jawline. He’s gorgeous.

And you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. The thought makes you smile wider.

“Mm,” you hum, definitely giving away your sleepiness. “Nope.”

A warm hand touches your knee, Steve’s hand reaching out and rubbing it tenderly. He tsks playfully. “You’re not fooling anyone, baby.”

You huff a quiet laugh and let your eyes fall back closed. Steve’s touch has always had a magnetic property, drawn to you whenever he’s near. It has a similar effect on your heart, which always feels like it’s surging forward in your chest to reach him.

The touch shifts, skimming down your shinbone. You expect him to maybe begin a half-hearted massage on your calves— he’s prone to giving them to you— but then, unexpectedly there’s another touch added to your legs.

You lift your head, peering down at him with squinted eyes. He’s crouched down beside the bed and he’s rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin of your legs.

When he knows he’s been spotted, he only grins, shifting his cheek again. “You’re so… smooooth.”

There’s definitely awe in his voice. You laugh, a real laugh this time, and shake your head. You should really stop being surprised when Steve’s a dork — he’s proven to be one time and time again. If you didn’t know different, you might assume this was his first ever relationship.

“Mhmm,” You hum. “That’s part of the appeal, handsome.”

Something glitters in Steve’s eyes at your pet name for him and his grin melts into something softer. His hand on your shin moves again, stroking softly up your calf. His face shows his bewilderment at your supremely smooth skin— and then betrays the look of mischief that crosses his face.

Your brows furrow instinctively. “Steve—” You warn.

He does it anyway, turning and licking one big stroke up your knee. You squeal, surprised at the sensation, and jerk your leg away from him.

“Steve!”

“What!” He mimics your tone, finally getting up onto the bed and crawling up to meet you. He’s smirking, looking terribly proud of himself. He plops himself down, half of his weight pressing into your shoulder as he nuzzles himself into your neck.

“S’just wanna a little taste, that a crime?”

His breath is hot and almost tickles against your neck. It’s impossible not to dissolve into quiet giggles, leaning into him. He snakes an arm around your waist, pulling the two of you closer.

“You’re a dork.”

You can feel the little puff of air he lets out in a laugh as well as the smile that spreads on his mouth. He pokes his tongue out, a minuscule touch against your neck that has you shrieking again— except this time, Steve’s holding you too tight to squirm away.

“Mmhm,” He says. “Your dork.”

You grin, turning to nose against his temple and make a noise of agreement. “Absolutely.”

[thewritetofreespeech]

Nowhere is Safe

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: you are awoken in the middle of the night to find out your nephew-in-law is dead and Aemond is trying to throw you out.

----------------------------⚔️--------------------------------

It was the dead of night. Which seemed to be when the most horrible, cruel, inconceivable things tended to happen.

You were fast asleep when the commotion woke you. The feeling like a dream. To the point that you try to ignore it and follow the path of more pleasant dreams fading off into your mind’s distance. The door flinging open, nearly off its hinges, was what fully woke you. “Bleeding hells!!”

“Thank the Gods you’re alright.”

You had seen wild looks in Aemond’s eye before. His schemes. His dark thoughts. His cunning designs. But this wild look was not something you were familiar with. Fear. Enough to invoke the Gods? Something you were fairly certain he didn’t even believe in. “What’s going on?”

The prince said nothing as he rushed across the room with all the speed & grace those years of fighting had afforded him and took you in his arms. Aemond was nowhere near as cruel as Aegon, but he wasn’t one for overly affectionate displays. The closest he would come were peaceful, tender moments after your most intimate times. Now you were starting to sprout fear. “Jaehaerys is dead.”

You pulled back from Aemond to look at him in disbelief. His expression smooth and calm like always. Impossible to read for most, but you knew he was telling the truth. “What?! How?!”

“He was murdered by an assassin in our walls.”

The words are so impossible to believe that you think you might still be dreaming. Yes. Dreaming. This was all a bad nightmare. A terrible nightmare. Who would murder a child?! Who would murder someone within the castle walls? Yes, this was war, but deep down you thought none of them really meant to hurt one another. A child….

“You need to pack.”

Startled from your thoughts and swelling grief at Aemond’s words as he moved away, already helping himself to one of your trunks, you manage to ask, “What…? Why? Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He was already throwing all manner things into your trunk. Books, trinkets, some sheer manner of clothing that was more decorative than clothing. All of it going into the trunk with reckless abandon. “Aemond. Aemond stop. Aemond look at me!” He eventually stopped when you grabbed his arm. Ready to throw a vase, flowers, water, and all, in with the rest. “I’m not going anywhere. Alright. I’m not.”

“You have to.” He insisted. “The palace isn’t safe. We must get you somewhere—“If the Keep isn’t safe, then nowhere is safe.”

Aemond seemed to want to argue, but his jaw shut and closed tight. Those sharp lines in his face looking like daggers in his anger. Because he knew you were right. If they could get in here, they could get in anywhere. And more the fools they, but the point was that nowhere was safe now.

“You can’t stay here. I…I cannot protect you here.”

That’s why he was afraid, you realize. Not that you might be dead, though he would torrent the skies if that had been true, but he was scared he couldn’t protect you.

You wrap your arms around Aemond and hold him tight. Who would be next in this ridiculous feud? Aegon’s other children? Rhaenyra other sons? Helaena? Aemond himself?

You feel your grief mounting as you think on it. Who would be next, and who was now lost. Of Jaehaerys sweet face and how you would comment often that you hoped your future children were half as sweet as him. He’d make a fine king, as long as he spent less time with his father. He..would…have made a fine king.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Aemond lifted your head from his chest. “You need to leave.” He brushed the tears from your cheeks, but they all scatter again as you shook your head furiously.

“No. Never.” How could you leave him here, alone, in this place. Where nothing and no one was safe. If you were to die it would be with Aemond. It was the promise you made after all.

The prince let out a sigh. More heaving of shoulder than want of sound. Then he pulled you into his arms again. “You’re a damned fool.” Still, he doesn’t ask you again.

part II III IIII

[vinjinssunglasses]

—————————————————————————

character: kim gitae

summary: him in a relationship w u <33

start: 23 aug

end: 25 aug

a/n: we don’t know much ab him yet, so this definitely had me thinking but he is definitely a red flag 🙏

—————————————————————————

✮ Not the type of guy to chase after people, but he was thrown off balance after you left him a bitter taste in his mouth. It stirred a yearning within that was hard to ignore. That’s when he found himself having a tendency to shadow your every move, unable to overcome the need to be near you, even if it meant watching at a distance.

✮ Gitae wouldn’t outright ask for your affection; instead he’d either catch you off guard or simply command you. Softly whispering, ‘Kiss me,’ into your ear as he’d edge his face closer to yours. You respond with a quick peck on the lips, the sudden close proximity and his soft breath against your ear sending shivers down your spine, all getting you flustered. Even after you fulfilled what his request, he’d still give you an intense, expecting look. That’s when it hits you — he’s craving more than just a small peck, he has an appetite for something that’ll leave you both breathless.

✮ Gitae takes you out in the most expensive and extravagant of dates, preferring a candlelit table and a glass of the finest wine. In his mind, a girl like you deserves nothing but the best, so he effortlessly swipes his card on whatever you ask for, ensuring you have whatever your heart desires.

✮ Gitae’s a ruthless guy who’s never shown affection properly, until you came and taught him how be loved properly. He hates how you tug his strings and push his boundaries, yet loves how you gently coax him to confide in you, bit by bit. It’s a long, slow process that’ll make any impatient person want to pull their hair out, but seeing how docile and cute he is in your arms, you remain determined.

✮ His love language is definitely verbal (as well as physical). Words like “I love you” don’t come out of his mouth easily, he only reserves them to the most intimate of moments, which is why he holds it in such high regard. But Gitae’s undeniably weak in the knees for praises like: “you’re perfect”, “I’m so lucky to have you”. These words have their own way of lifting his spirits for the rest of the day, leaving him unusually distracted as he savours their impact.

✮ Gitae struggles with emotional intimacy; telling all his deepest thoughts to another is almost impossible. Yet when you ruffle your fingers through his hair and whisper endearing words in his ear, Gitae finds himself accidentally spilling some of the emotions he’s been desperately bottling up.

✮ Gitae lacks the ability to express himself correctly, when he pushes you away suddenly you don’t even know what to think. What went wrong? You replay the events that took place in your head —second-guessing yourself and this relationship— but nothing adds up. Then, when you awake the next morning after a late night, you notice a handwritten note with a bouquet of flowers resting on your nightstand. A simple gesture like this speaks volumes louder than anyones words could — his way of expressing the words that he can’t verbalise, attempting to make things right again after he realised his own mistake.

✮ He’s terrible at cooking. After the waking up, you stumble to the kitchen, drawn the smell of eggs and bacon — but you can’t help but notice something about the smell seems off.

“Good morning.” Gitae calls out as he flips an egg, yet you just can’t take your eyes off his muscular, scarred body which was unexpectedly softened by your pastel pink apron tied around his waist. At first, you despised that apron for its childish design, but now you can’t help but love it. Putting the pan aside, he dishes the plate in front of you and leans over the counter, proud and eager to hear your thoughts. As you stare at the plate with a forced smile, a mixture of disgust and guilt churning in your stomach. Gitae’s your boyfriend, and the last thing you want is to disappoint him, however you can’t even imagine having that anywhere near your mouth, let alone near you.

✮ He can come off as controlling, especially when the grip on your waist tightens as you talk to another man, masking his sour expression with a strained smile.

ׂ╰┈➤ On that note, he’s easily jealous and possessive, and successfully hides it under his composed exterior. If he feels that another man is flirting with you, he’ll subtly assert dominance to let him now that your his —and only his. He doesn’t share, and he ensures it obvious.

✮ When he gets close to you, he starts to relax and become clingy, a stark contrast to his usual, unapproachable demeanour. He typically dislikes being in such close contact with others, keeping others at an arms length. But when it comes to you, it’s different. He finds warmth in your touch, when you run your fingers through his hair and rub his back. It’s as if his hands have a mind of their own, wandering all over your body as though possessed. He can’t help but let his lips brush against yours, pulling you in closer for a deeper embrace. ׂ╰┈➤ Despite everything, he’s still the same guy. After a night spent cuddling you wake up with an unfamiliar chill in the air, you impulsively reach out for Gitae for warmth — only to find the space beside you is empty..?

What is he even afraid of? is it getting too attached to you? Being to vulnerable around someone? Getting too attached to you? Or having you as his weakness? He disappears for a day or two, but when he returns, you can see the internal struggle written over his face as he eagerly clings to you. The familiar blend of cigarettes, alcohol and men’s cologne, a bittersweet reminder of what it felt like to have his arms around you again. Rightfully, you were angry, distraught and confused, but the relief took over as you cuddle him for what felt like hours.

Having been subjected to a live of crime, money and harsh realities, he’s learned to put walls up around him to learn how to survive in a world of deception and bloodshed. He yearns to let you in, to show you the world he’s confined himself in, yet, the walls only grow thicker and higher than before despite his hardest efforts.

[soulofapatrick]

“You’re stubborn." "You're infuriating" - Bodhi Durran x female reader

Summary: Bodhi helps you train with a dagger

Words: 1.8K

Warnings: none!

Notes: I'm stuck between Fourth Wing and ACOTAR currently

Y/N's POV

The training hall hums with the faint resonance of distant machinery, the kind of low thrumming that seems to seep into your bones. The air is thick with the metallic tang of old weaponry, undercut by the earthy scent of worn leather grips and the faint, bitter smell of sweat. It’s dim, the lighting casting long shadows across the scuffed floor and the walls lined with racks of blades, staffs, and other tools of survival.

The training dummy in front of me, carved from some unyielding alien wood, stands unbothered by my repeated failures. Its surface is marred with nicks and scratches from past trainees—small victories against an otherwise immovable opponent. My dagger wobbles in my grip, the hilt slightly slick from my last attempt. I square my stance, focusing on the way my muscles coil and the weight of the blade in my hand. But the tension in my arms isn’t just from the training; it’s from Bodhi Durran, who is sprawled lazily against the wall, watching me with a look that practically radiates smug amusement.

“You’re terrible at this,” Bodhi calls out, his voice cutting through the space like a knife but with none of the sharpness. It’s light, teasing, the kind of tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

My grip tightens on the dagger, frustration simmering beneath my skin. “Maybe if you stopped distracting me—”

“What, like this?”

I feel him before I see him, the quiet rustle of his movement and the shift in the air alerting me to his approach. My pulse quickens, and I force myself to stay focused on the dummy in front of me, pretending that his nearness doesn’t make the world narrow to just the two of us. But then he’s there, so close that his heat seeps through my clothes, his front nearly flush against my back.

“Your stance is off,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, intimate. His breath grazes the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, sending a shiver that I can’t suppress down my spine. My heart stumbles over itself as his hands come to rest lightly on my waist, steadying me.

“Bodhi,” I say, my voice catching somewhere between protest and something much softer.

“Relax,” he whispers, and there’s something in the way he says it, in the way his thumbs brush against my hips, that makes my knees feel unsteady. “You’re too tense. If you hold the dagger like that, you’ll lose control before you even throw it.”

His hands shift slightly, guiding me. His touch is firm yet gentle, and I can’t help but notice how perfectly his fingers fit against the curve of my waist. I can feel every breath he takes, the steady rise and fall of his chest brushing against my back. It’s maddening, the way his presence surrounds me, consumes me, like he’s carved out a space in my world that only he can fill.

“You’re insufferable,” I manage to say, though the words lack any real bite. My voice comes out softer than I intend, betraying the unsteady rhythm of my heart.

His chuckle is warm and low, a sound that wraps around me like a second skin. “Maybe,” he says, his lips so close to my ear that I can feel the faintest ghost of a smile against my temple. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away.”

I don’t answer because he’s right. I can’t bring myself to pull away, not when his hands guide mine to adjust my grip on the dagger, his fingers brushing over mine in a way that feels far more intimate than it should. The weight of the blade feels different now, steadier somehow, but I’m not sure if it’s the adjustment or the fact that he’s still holding my hands, his warmth seeping into my skin.

“There,” he says softly, his voice a gentle murmur that makes my breath hitch. “Now try.”

But trying is impossible when all I can think about is him. The world feels smaller now, reduced to the steady thrum of his presence and the way he lingers so close, like he’s afraid to let go. For a moment, I wonder if he feels it too—the unspoken pull between us, as if the universe itself is holding its breath, waiting.

“Bodhi…” I start, unsure what I even want to say, but he steps back just enough to make me miss his warmth.

“Go on,” he says, his voice soft and knowing, his eyes locking on mine. “I believe in you.”

I swallow hard, turning back to the dummy. And for the first time, I feel steady—not because of the dagger in my hand, but because of him.

I draw in a shaky breath, willing my hands to stop trembling as I focus on the dummy. The dagger feels steadier now, his guidance still lingering in the way my fingers grip the hilt, but it’s impossible to block him out entirely. The warmth of his touch, the quiet confidence in his voice—it’s all still there, clinging to me like a second skin.

I raise the dagger, adjusting my stance just as he showed me. My pulse thunders in my ears, but it has nothing to do with the throw. With a deliberate motion, I let the blade fly. It spins through the air, gleaming in the dim light before embedding itself in the dummy’s shoulder with a satisfying thud.

A grin tugs at my lips, pride swelling in my chest despite the fact that the throw isn’t perfect. It’s progress.

“Not bad,” Bodhi says, his voice warm and rich with approval. He steps closer again, his presence a magnetic pull I can’t resist. “You just needed a little help.”

I turn to face him, the grin still on my face, though I try to suppress it. “I could’ve done it without you.”

His brow arches, his smirk as infuriating as ever. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.” My words are firm, but the playful edge in his expression makes my resolve falter. The space between us feels charged, alive with an energy I can’t quite name.

Bodhi takes another step closer, and this time there’s no mistaking the intention in his eyes. They soften, the teasing glint giving way to something deeper, something that makes my breath catch. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. His touch is featherlight, but it sends a shiver racing down my spine.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, his voice low and steady. “And maybe a little reckless.”

I tilt my chin up, refusing to back down. “And you’re infuriating.”

He grins, but it’s softer now, more genuine. “Maybe so.”

The air between us shifts, the weight of the moment settling over us like a heavy, intoxicating blanket. His hand lingers by my cheek, his thumb brushing against my skin in a way that makes my heart ache. For a moment, I think he might pull away, but then he leans in, slow and deliberate, giving me every chance to stop him.

I don’t.

When his lips meet mine, it’s like the world tilts on its axis. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as though we’re both testing the waters, but it doesn’t stay that way. Heat blooms between us, a quiet intensity building as I press closer, my hands finding their way to his chest. His grip tightens on my waist, anchoring me to him, and it feels like everything else—training, dummies, the world itself—falls away.

When we finally pull back, we’re both breathless, the silence between us filled with unspoken words and promises. He rests his forehead against mine, his lips curved into a smile I can feel against my skin.

“You’re still terrible with a dagger,” he murmurs, his voice thick with affection.

I laugh, the sound light and easy, despite the way my heart is still racing. “And you’re still insufferable.”

“Good,” he says softly, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “We’re even, then.”

For once, I don’t argue. Instead, I pull him back in, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that feels like the start of something I don’t want to let go of.

The kiss deepens, slow and lingering, as though neither of us wants to rush what feels like a fragile moment. My hands move instinctively, threading through his hair, tugging him closer until there’s no space left between us. His breath mingles with mine, hot and heavy, and the world around us fades into a blur. There’s nothing but the feel of him, his warmth, the press of his body against mine.

I’m losing myself in him, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t mind.

Bodhi’s hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers curling gently, coaxing me even closer, if that’s even possible. The gentle pressure of his lips against mine shifts, his kiss turning from tender to something more hungry, more desperate, as if he’s been holding back for too long. My pulse quickens, and I feel a tightness coil in my chest, a mix of excitement and something else—something unfamiliar but thrilling.

His lips travel from mine to my jaw, brushing over the sensitive skin just below my ear. A soft shiver rolls through me at the touch, my breath catching in my throat.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispers, his voice rough, laden with desire, and it sends a thrill down my spine.

I tilt my head slightly, giving him more access, wanting more. His lips find the curve of my neck, pressing soft, hungry kisses to the skin there, and I gasp, my hands now gripping his shoulders to steady myself.

“You’re not so terrible with a dagger, after all,” he murmurs against my skin, his words warm and teasing, but there’s an edge to them, a promise of something more.

I laugh softly, breathless, pulling him back up to face me. His eyes are darker now, filled with an intensity that makes my stomach flip, and I can’t help the way I reach for him again, my lips meeting his with a renewed urgency. This kiss is different. It’s no longer tentative or sweet, but raw, filled with a need we both can’t ignore.

His hands find my waist, lifting me just slightly, urging me to wrap my legs around his hips. And I do, without thinking, my body responding to him like it’s always known how. He pulls me against him, his chest pressed firmly against mine, and I can feel the heat radiating between us, crackling with tension and desire.

I gasp as he shifts, his hands sliding lower, the touch of his fingers against the small of my back sending waves of heat through me. The kiss falters for just a moment, and when our eyes meet, the intensity is almost suffocating. There’s no going back now. Not for either of us.

But neither of us pulls away.

Instead, Bodhi’s lips find mine again, this time with a passion that’s undeniable, making it impossible to think about anything other than him. My hands slide from his shoulders to his back, feeling the muscles there flex beneath his clothes, pulling him even closer.

And in that moment, it’s just us.

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

[falling-star-cygnus]

thinking about Charles’ earring

there’s NO WAY he got away with just the one right? like, considering his time period and his dad and his just- overall circumstance?

SUMMARY: Official boyfriends Edwin and Charles relax on their couch, a thing scarcely big enough for one of them but just right for a snug cuddle, after a long case. It’s nice, it’s them, but as the pale boy’s hand wanders down to the shell of his boyfriend’s ear and further still to the lobe, he finds something peculiar. Something he hadn’t noticed before..

ao3 fic: here please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoy!!!

•-•-•

This was nice.

Charles thought it was, at least, the feel of Edwin’s hand in his curls and the steady thrum under his cheek- born from his boyfriend’s [boyfriend’s!] smooth voice. So, unbelievably nice. And just for him.

Who would’ve thought it, Charles Rowland on the receiving end of gentle affection instead of the giving. Not Charles, that’s for sure.

Their position was comfy, as far as comfort for ghosts go, and he found himself hoping he’d never have to move. His head was pillowed against Edwin’s chest, his arms lazily strewn on either side of his waist- the Edwardian’s legs bracketing both sides of his hips.

One of them was bent upwards, the one not against the back of couch, to prevent a tumble down onto their floorboards.

Which was slightly mortifying and slightly sweet, when one considered that that very thing had happened last week. All embarrassment he feels at remembering such a mishap fades away under the gentle scratch of Edwin’s nails upon his scalp, though.

Like a breeze over light dust.

Charles sighs contentedly, relishing in the feel of his boyfriend’s [and that title will always make him giddy] ungloved hands and burrowing closer to it.

Edwin pauses, and then repeats the motion, “I take it you like that, then?”

“Mhm. Don’t stop, yeah? Please? Unless you’re getting tired of cuddling.”

He can practically hear the Edwardian’s fond eye roll.

“Do be serious, Charles.”

He can’t help the smile that overtakes his face, boyish and so so pleased, “My bad, then.”

Like all good things, however, it must come to an end. Edwin’s hand meanders down his head, thoughtless and nice, to the curve of his ear- still reading from the book held above them.

It traces over the shell next, and maps out the old cartilage hole that had never quite closed up, right down to the clunky clasp of his gold star earring.

He tugs at it, playfully- teasingly- and.. and…

Charles flinches.

He doesn’t mean to. Logically- as logically as he can be really- he knows that Edwin would never hurt him, knows it deep in his now nonexistent bones. He’d never.. never do what- well.

He just wouldn’t. So there was no reason for his chest to be clenching up so suddenly. For him to be so scared.

Edwin’s hand backs off, just as his voice does when he registers the muffled mip of discomfort his boyfriend makes.

“Charles?” he ventures, worry coloring his tone.

“I’m alright,” Charles is quick to throw out, quick to assure, “You just caught me a bit off guard, yeah? No worries.”

That slender, pale hand cautiously comes back down- slowly, as if attempting not to spook a wild animal- and gently traces its knuckle down the apple of his cheek. Feather light.

"I'm terribly sorry," he murmurs, brushing so so tenderly over that same ear, "I hadn't thought- ...oh."

And there it is.

It was a small thing to notice, near impossible really unless you were that close or that touchy [although Edwin typically was neither] but Charles' earring sat just slightly too right- just slightly too close to the edge of the lobe for what was typically recommended.

"May I?"

Charles really rather he didn't. This was usually the part where he would pull away, after all, when he would skitter off to wherever would worry people the least and wait them out.

But this was Edwin. And he'd made a promise to start talking about these things. Sharing. So-

He nods.

These things were easier with his nose buried in soft- er, probably soft- fabric anyway.

Edwin's fingers apply just the barest hint of pressure to his lobe, to the split that ran down its center. Almost reverent. Far too gentle for what Charles deserves.

His dad- obviously his dad, it was always his dad- hadn't been pleased when he'd shown up with only the one pale silver stud, which he'd got through.. admittedly less than safe means, looking back on it. How he wished that was the reason he'd been angry about. Worry.

Sometimes the salt of the sweat on his palms still lingered on Charles' lip- from where hands much crueler than Edwin's had held him down and ripped it clean out.

Clean in- well a subjective sense, anyhow. Those meaty digits had held the clasp closed when tearing it out, either on purpose or uncaringly, so.. it was safe to say the stud hadn't remained silver looking for very long when it was left in a puddle of his own blood.

He hadn't let that stop him from getting one, though, clearly. Went out the next day, sore and determined, and got himself the one he wore now. A star on a hoop and a chain to match.

Gold went much better with red anyway, he'd learned.

"Fascinating," Edwin says, almost playing with the disconnected pieces in morbid curiosity.

Still, though, Charles nestles closer. Like he could make himself a new home in Edwin's ribcage and soak up all this affection like a greedy sponge. He lets his boyfriend examine him, lets himself think he could deserve this reverence one day- in it's terrifying entirety.

"You think so?"

"Oh, Charles.."

With the book long abandoned, the Edwardian has a hand free to tip his lover's head up. And his eyes.. they boast of nothing but adoration.

"That was never in question."

[isalisewrites]

TERRIBLE, BUT GREAT - CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

SUMMARY:

“Harry Potter.”

The cold burrowed into his flesh, the scent of cloying death and molding earth clogged his senses.

“The Boy Who Lived.”

A strange sense of loss and disappointment rose within him. That brilliant, yet cruel boy could’ve been so much more if he’d not stepped down this bloodied path.

Terrible, but great. He pitied this creature.

“Come to die.”

Harry Potter faced the flash of green light with the bravery of a Gryffindor and the broken heart of a Hufflepuff.

—

When Death gives Harry a third option, one that can save everyone he ever cared about, he takes it unflinchingly. Even when that means doing the impossible: falling in love with the enemy, Tom Riddle.

—

FIFTY-THREE EXCERPT:

White rushed out, surrounding Tom; the edges were distorted, sharp and tinged with a hint of black. Dumbledore stood beside Harry, who looked exactly as the boy who Tom had met on the train. An odd, wrinkled creature lay near their feet.

A voice cried with joy, “My baby!” and a woman with flaming red hair threw her arms around the memory of Harry.

“Harry, my boy, listen to me, the longer you stay here, the more people will die,”said Dumbledore. “You must go back to fulfill the prophecy.”

“Fuck the prophecy,” snapped the woman, glaring at Dumbledore as she hugged Harry even tighter.

He has her eyes. It’s her… his mother, but that’s impossible. She died—

The memory rippled with distortion, pieces of it breaking and cracking, the edges growing darker with ink. A headache bloomed within the center of Tom’s forehead. The images flipped from crystal clear to out of focus, voices becoming muffled. A number of adults he didn’t know—though, two of the men bore resemblances to Alphard and Quintus—gathered around Harry; they greeted him with love and adoration.

And then… a terrible voice spoke, raspy and low; it crawled up Tom’s spine and set his soul on edge. He knew this voice—he’d heard it when the dementors had almost taken Harry’s soul. He hadn’t known what the voice had said, but it was unmistakable. This voice… who was it?

‘If you go with them, you can’t save him.’

A tall being materialized behind Harry; the creature on the ground wailed. Tom’s soul screamed in agony, twisting, crying, wanting nothing more than to flee from this being’s presence. Tom dropped to his knees and clapped his hands over his ears. Its voice reverberated through the memory, but its words warbled in Tom’s ears. The being loomed over Harry, its unnatural smile never moving, stalking Harry as if he were prey.

“What do I have to do?”

“You must fix this abysmal timeline.”

What is this being? Who has the power to send someone back in time like this?

“If you can do that, well… Master, then the timeline will shift. These souls here will be reborn into a world with no Dark Lord.”

“I’ll do it,” said Harry.

He didn’t even hesitate. He just… accepted it.

The macabre smile of this hideous entity widened to an unnatural stretch. “You please me, Master.” 

What?

The memory vanished, as did the overbearing pressure of that being. Tom slowly got to his feet. They were in a graveyard now, the sky dark as a fog settled over. Harry, back as a child—god, he’s still so young—was locked behind a massive gravestone. The memory was wispy, some of the edges missing. There was a splash and Tom turned around to see a man groveling at a cauldron, whimpering in pain as the stump of his wrist bled out.

The cauldron bubbled.

A bare, sallow monster with red serpentine eyes rose; the sight chilled Tom’s blood.

“Robe me.”

The memory flickered to a moment of a duel, red and green spells clashing in a brilliant blast; it created a familiar golden dome above Harry and the serpentine man. Brother wands—wait, Harry said we had brother wands. That means… The child and the monster battled—no, Voldemort was torturing Harry with a familiar white wand; a grown man versus a child was no fair fight. The whirl of memories came in a blur, streaks of light in the mind’s eye. The scene was there a second, before it melded into a forest—a new memory.

That wand… It’s mine, isn’t it? That monster was holding my wand. 

That monster… 

It really is me.

“No—let me see all of it,” said Tom sharply, his heart broken in half. Disgust and horror threatened to choke his lungs. Bile coiled in his throat. “It’s worse, isn’t it? Harry, don’t hide it from me—don’t protect me from this. Show me.”

Show me this putrid side of myself.

He believed him. He believed Harry. And, oh, how did it hurt.

The Forbidden Forest hung over them like a shade of dementor.

“Harry Potter.”

It was cold, dark, and suffocating. The memory of Harry stepped forward, blood and dirt staining his muggle trousers. Tom’s protests died in his throat. A crowd of wizards in skeletal masks, cackling madly, were gathered around their lord.

His wand isn’t out. Why isn’t his wand drawn?

“The Boy Who Lived.”

Draw your wand. Fight him.

The memory of Harry let out a low breath. He locked gazes with those red eyes. The tension that had roiled around him relaxed as a powerful resignation came over his stance.

“Come to die.”

Harry, draw your fucking wand.

Pity glowed emerald in those eyes.

NO!

Green flared out around them. The connection between them broke and the solidness of their surrounding rushed back into his senses, overwhelming him immediately. Tom staggered away from Harry, legs weak and shaky. Harry reached for him, gripping him by the underarm with concern in his bright eyes—those eyes—and all for him. 

“Tom!”

[emma23]

One jail sentence at a time:

Poe dameron x reader

————————————————————————

The Resistance base was alive with its usual hum of activity—pilots running drills, mechanics working on X-wings, and droids zipping by with messages and supplies. In the middle of it all was Poe Dameron, leaning casually against his beloved Black One, his dark curls tousled by the breeze as he talked with Finn.

From across the hangar, Y/N watched them, arms crossed, debating whether or not to approach. Her track record with Poe was... complicated. Every conversation between them seemed to veer into a snark-off, with him coming out the charming victor each time. She, on the other hand, just managed to embarrass herself—repeatedly.

“Alright, Y/N,” she muttered under her breath, “it’s just Poe. He’s human. He can bleed... probably.”

She stepped forward, mustering her confidence. Finn noticed her first and flashed her a bright smile.

“Hey, Y/N!” he called, “we were just talking about you.”

“Oh, great,” she deadpanned, “nothing terrifying about that at all.”

Finn chuckled, but Poe’s smirk was unmistakable as he turned to face her. “Y/N, there you are. Finally ready to admit I’m the better pilot?”

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms tighter. “If by ‘better’ you mean ‘reckless,’ then sure.”

He grinned wider. “Reckless gets the job done.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. Damn it, he was impossible to hate.

“So, what’s new with you?” Poe asked, and for a moment, there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his gaze. Y/N could sense this was one of those rare moments where they weren't just sparring.

“Not much,” she shrugged, leaning against the wall near him. “Got myself into a bit of trouble the other day. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “Trouble? Now I’m interested.”

Y/N sighed dramatically, “Well, I’ll tell you this much: jail is no fun.”

Poe blinked, his smirk replaced with an expression of surprise. “Wait, you’ve been in jail?”

She grinned at him mischievously. “Once... in a game.”

Poe laughed—actually laughed—and Y/N felt a small surge of victory. His laughter was contagious, and soon Finn was chuckling too.

“You had me for a second there,” Poe said, shaking his head. “Almost believed it.”

“Almost?” she teased. “You totally bought it.”

Finn, sensing the moment between them, cleared his throat. “I’ll just... go check on Rey.” He waved, walking off, leaving Y/N and Poe standing in the emptying hangar.

The silence between them stretched out, but it wasn’t awkward. For once, Y/N didn’t feel like she had to constantly prove herself around him.

“So, what’s it really like?” Poe asked, leaning a little closer, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “This... ‘jail’ you speak of.”

“Terrifying,” she said, playing along. “The guards are relentless, the food’s terrible, and don’t even get me started on the droids.”

Poe’s lips twitched. “Sounds like a real nightmare.”

“Oh, it was,” she replied, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “But don’t worry, I’m a survivor.”

His gaze shifted, landing on her lips for just a second too long. “Yeah, you are.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. Damn it, why did he have to be so smooth? She looked away, trying to focus on literally anything else.

Poe took a step closer, his voice lowering. “You know, you’re kind of a mystery, Y/N.”

She raised an eyebrow, forcing herself to meet his gaze again. “A mystery? How so?”

“Well, one minute you’re giving me grief,” he said, his tone playful but with an edge, “and the next... you’re in ‘jail.’ You’ve got layers.”

Y/N huffed, rolling her eyes. “I’m not that complicated.”

He grinned. “No? I don’t know... I’m still figuring you out.”

She felt the tension between them shift, something unspoken passing in the air. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “You’re not exactly easy to read either, Dameron.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s confusing about me?”

Y/N swallowed. This was it. The moment where she should make an excuse, laugh it off, and leave before she said something dumb. But instead, she found herself stepping closer, her heart racing.

“Everything,” she said softly. “You’re... complicated too.”

For a split second, Poe’s charming bravado dropped. He looked at her, really looked at her, and something softened in his expression. “Maybe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe you just haven’t been paying close enough attention.”

Y/N blinked, her breath catching. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Poe’s lips were on hers, gentle at first but quickly deepening as she responded.

Her mind spun. She was kissing Poe Dameron. Poe Dameron. And, holy stars, he was good at this.

They broke apart for a moment, both slightly breathless.

“So...” she whispered, trying to sound casual, “was that part of the jail interrogation process?”

Poe chuckled, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Nah, that was just for fun.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “I’ve had worse punishments.”

He grinned. “And I can think of worse places to be stuck with you.”

They both laughed, the tension melting into something more comfortable. But before either of them could say more, Poe added with a teasing smirk, “Besides... you do smell like vanilla. And I love vanilla.”

Y/N burst out laughing, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. She kissed him again, softer this time, her laughter mingling with his.

“And you,” she whispered against his lips, “are ridiculous.”

He grinned, pulling her close. “Yeah, but you like it.”

[ollypopwrites]

I wish you would write a fic where Emmrich or Rook is in a timeloop and the one who isn't in the loop belives the other every time they tell them about it.

oh my god and they WOULD believe each other.

This is like… very rough and i haven’t finished my coffee so forgive me but I wrote a little bit.

It’s the fifth time Rook has looked at him in near abject horror, and he can’t help but smile fondly despite her reaction. What an impossible thing, and she takes Emmrich’s word for it wholeheartedly every time.

He thinks he may have it figured out this time. Five repetitions of the same day, the first had been a confused panic inducing day when he cornered Rook and told her as calmly as he could that —

“There seems to be some sort of anomaly happening, as I seem to be reliving the same day as yesterday.”

The second to third days had been spent tirelessly finding a solution. Difficult, since any progress of creating anything to help would be reset. But Rook was by his side, after the first initial shock and without fail she would stay up until the final hour in which Emmrich would promptly fall asleep, only to wake up as he had every day previous.

The fourth he had figured it out, but was unable to get to Arlathan forest (where he was now certain this particular wrinkle started) and finish the ritual. This fifth day, as he sat in front of Rook, who reached out to grab him.

“We’ll figure this out, Emmrich, I promise.”

Everytime it was the same. Maybe not word for word, but she gave her unyielding support. Her solemn promise to save him.

“Thank you, Rook.”

He knew what needed to be done, he already knew where they needed to go. Yet, he spent the day at Rook’s side. Just one more day.

By quarter to midnight, when his eyes started drooping, his body started to shut down so that by the stroke of the first hour he was thrust back, he watched Rook start to panic.

“It didn’t work! We didn’t figure it out,” she hissed. “Emmrich, come find me tomorrow— or today - whatever- we will get this. I know we will.”

Emmrich is feeling bold after having wasted a precious day of looping through time just to spend one more stretch of hours with her undivided attention. To watch her worry and fuss over ‘saving him’ from a terrible fate. It hadn’t been quite as dramatic as he originally thought, no, indeed, he found himself enjoying it.

Emmrich grabbed her hand, kissing it, and smiling, “my dear, we already did.”

Rook was just a little off-kilter, and she frowned. “Then why didn’t you —“

“Selfishness,” he admitted gently.

His time is running out, even as he moves to pull her in he’s growing tired. Unable to fight off the magical pull that requires him to fall asleep and wake up in the same day. Emmrich tilts her face up to his, a gentle touch underneath her chin and a whispered plea for forgiveness before he kisses her, as he has wanted to for weeks.

It lacks any of the propriety or the prerequisite lead up. It is, at its core, a selfish indulgence. Just before the clock strikes twelve and wipes the slate clean. Their first kiss that she won’t remember come morning, and he will probably remember forever.

She kisses him back, and only stops to speak with their lips still touching, “how many times have we done this?”

“Just this once.”

“You should… we should do it again. Tomorrow… or today, I guess.”

Just as he starts to feel the elation he falls asleep.

Emmrich wakes abruptly, as if from a dream. Downstairs, Manfred knocks a book off of a shelf as he has for the past five days at the same time, the same sound, the same hiss of shock. He dresses, he goes through the routine of the morning before calmly walking next door to Rook’s door.

She comes to answer his knock with bleary eyes, and in rumpled sleep clothes.

“What is it, Emmrich?” She frowns.

“Rook, I need to get to Arlathan forest. And I need you to come with me. It is a matter of urgency.” His tone doesn’t convey it, and he’s smiling too easily.

Rook nods, ready to help. Always ready. “Lemme…” she yawns, “sorry, let me get dressed. We’ll go right away. You okay?”

“Perfectly content. Just a small metaphysical anomaly. Quite enlightening, really.”

prompt post: “I wish you would write a fic where…”

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

An analysis post for the gallifrey crackships from this poll

(it's going under a cut because this got long)

Torvin: okay, so this is probably the easiest one (at least for me) to go on a rant about. so the basis of this is that narvin is so incredibly tied to his job, his whole life is the cia and gallifrey, so obviously he doesn't have the time (or interest) for a relationship outside of that. but that doesn't mean he can't have any kind of relationship, and however it first happens isn't relevant, but somehow he ends up in a relationship with his subordinate. and for a while it's good, it doesn't interfere with his job, but still gives him some semblance of a connection with another living being. then torvald regenerates and is acting a bit weird, but it was a traumatic regeneration, so narvin lets it slide as long as it doesn't affect his job and their relationship continues mostly as normal. but then he learns that he did have reason to worry, that the man he knew had been gone for months and he had put his trust in a stranger. and from andred's perspective, he's just died, taken a man's identity, and learned that said man was fucking his boss. all he wanted to do was fix some corruption in his society and he ended up losing everything, and it probably wasn't even a conscious choice, at least not at first, a regeneration that traumatic is going to scramble some things, so by the time he realizes that he is andred and not torvald it's too late, he's left behind the life he had, he left behind his wife, all he can do now is play the part. and through this he comes to realize that narvin may have actually cared for torvald, and well if he's torvald now at least it's some sort of connection in a now hostile world

Eris/Hallan: so on paper, this is absolutely the most crackship one of them all, these two haven't even met and hallan is presumably still frozen, but i can find a way to make this work. during the time war eris ends up with so much responsibility on his shoulders, he started out as just an agent, and is now practically running the resistance. this has got to be an incredibly stressful position in an incredibly stressful time, that isn't to say, however, that he isn't good at what he does, he is, but it really get's tiring having everyone look to him as a leader in a time where it's near impossible to actually know what's going on. and for hallan, let's assume someone manages to dig up whatever stasis pod he's in and maybe they shove it in a tardis and it makes its way to the resistance base, the details aren't terribly important, this is just me getting them in the same room. so now eris has to deal with this soldier who's last memory is all the way back in the civil war on top of everything else, he could very well pass on the responsibility of catching hallan up on everything that's happened, but it's something different and something potentially interesting, it's not a break, but it's close enough to one as you can get in the war. at first eris assumes this is going to be a hassle, but then it isn't, sure hallan is a bit scared and very confused at first, but once that passes it's actually not that bad, there's a lot of explaining to be done about the state of the universe and gallifrey and everything that happened between the civil war and the time war, and it means that eris gets a little less time to himself in all the chaos, but it doesn't take him long to realize that he actually enjoys talking to hallan. for the first time in a while, eris has someone to talk to who just sees him as another person, he's not the one with all the answers about what to do next, he's not expected to know the next move of the time lords or the daleks, he doesn't need to answer for where the next shipment of food or supplies or weapons is going to come from, he just has someone to have a somewhat normal conversation with. and for hallan everything is different, he went from one war into another with no idea what happened in between. the few people here who knew him before the war treat him oddly, because really how are you supposed to react to a victim of a plague in a long over war coming back, and those who didn't know him largely ignore him because there's a war on and they don't have time to bother with him, so eris taking the time to explain to him what's going on and what happened really stand out to him, and they end up becoming each other's one escape from the horrors that they're going through

Leela/Veklin: both leela and velkin are warriors, soldiers forced to fight in a war greater than either had probably thought possible. leela is trapped here, with no one who really sees her as the person she is, to the time lords there she's just an asset, and it's not exactly like veklin is much of a different situation, sure she has the advantage of being a time lord, so the others are more likely to see her as a person, but she's a soldier there to take orders, she's ollistra's guard dog, she isn't really her own person. they don't particularly like each other, but they are much more similar than either would be willing to admit out loud, so when the one needs to get out some energy it's only logical that they go to the other. this arrangement between them of course remains entirely secret, both would find it an embarrassment if this information were to ever get out, but still, it's kind of nice, for a short bit of time neither has to think about the war or their place within the war room, they just get to exist with no expectations, with no titles (and it doesn't really matter that both are thinking about someone else the whole time)

Brax/Narvin: I am sorry to report that I don't really see much for this one, like i'll be honest i have read and enjoyed brax/narvin fics, but idk this one is the most crackshippy to me, i don't really have a justification for it (@lerios i know you have some feelings about these guys, so feel free to add something if you want)

[ithinkabouttzu]

I’ll be dreaming of you | Eugene Roe

a/n: Hi @ncr-psyop!! I was your gift maker for @hbowardaily’s Summer Exchange!! I really hope you enjoy!! I had Cardigan by Taylor Swift on REPEAT, also I’ll Be Seeing You By the one and only Billie Holiday!! Both songs reminded me so much of Eugene idrk why but i just love those songs and him so much so yeah!! Enjoy!

synopsis: On late nights when your mind runs wild, or when thunder cracks from outside your room keeping you awake, you can rely on your husband, Gene to keep you safe and sound.

genre: fluff; hurt to comfort :)

warnings: nightmares, mentions of war, insomnia, kissing.

Word count: 2.1k

pairing: Eugene Roe x gn reader

You looked around. The snow surrounding your foxhole looked fresh. Small drops of snow fell silently, you could even call it peaceful.

It was quiet, other than the occasional light gunfire in the background, not enough to make you worry. A fresh breeze passed through the air, making you shiver. You looked around, you could see no one, just trees and snow. You stood up from your crouched position, stepping your way out of the small hole in the ground that you had temporarily called home. You made two steps out of the hole, before the bright morning sky filled with quick flashes of white. “WATCH OUT” You heard a distant voice call out to you, but it was already too late. You were being swarmed by bullets everywhere, you tried to get down, but you couldn’t. You felt as if the cold air left you frozen, leaving you stuck standing in the white blankets of snow that laid beneath you. The sound of shells whistled over your head loudly, making you cover your ears. You pleaded in your head, “Make it stop, please make it stop.” And as if some higher power had been listening, the artillery stopped. It became quiet again. Horrifyingly silent all around you. You still felt your feet stuck in the ground, unable to move. You heard a crisp crack in the air, cutting the cold air into two. You looked up to locate the noise. It was a tree, big with cracked and split bark all around it. It had broken off of its stump, and was now heading straight towards you…

BOOM! The thunder cracked suddenly, waking you up out of your short-lived sleep. You pushed out a deep breath as you woke up, one that felt like it had been held in for too long during your sleep. You regained your breath back once again, still fast paced and quick. You looked around your dark room, gaining full awareness of your surroundings. You took a sigh of relief. You weren’t in the cold foxholes of Bastogne anymore, but at home, in bed.

You took a big exhale, at least you got some sleep. Even when that sleep took you back to the most dreadful places that you swore that you’d never see again. It felt like some nights you didn’t sleep at all. You just closed your eyes and laid still, waiting for something to happen, waiting for your body to finally relax itself into sleep. But that was only some nights, not all of them.

A quick bolt of lightning flashed near the window. Illuminating your dark room for a split second. Storms didn’t help your sleep at all. Made it almost impossible. The loud cracks and booms that came from the terrible weather was a sound you knew all too well. The loud noises still echoing in your mind during the night, mostly nights like these when you couldn’t sleep. The rain quieted down, pattering on the roof of your home softly.

Your thoughts had fully woken you up, and you soon realized that something was different about the bed you were sleeping in. You looked to your side, hoping to find the silhouette of your husband, Gene, sleeping softly in the space next to you. You felt the empty area beside you. He wasn’t there. You didn’t panic though, you knew he was home, just not in bed. When he couldn’t rest, he didn’t wait for sleep to take him like you did, instead he would rather light himself some smokes or read a book. Anything to pass the time. The little bit of warmth left from his side made it obvious that he hadn’t been out of bed for too long.

You thought about it, maybe he was out for a smoke? Or maybe getting a nice glass of something to drink? You hoped he hadn’t felt the same dread when it came to storms or sleeping like you did, or that heavy feeling on your chest that came with the lack of sleep, but you had a small feeling in your gut that you and him shared the same dislike for all three.

You pulled the cozy blanket off of you, the cold air hitting your warm skin brought a refreshing feeling to your body. You turned to the side of your bed and stood up slowly, trying to make little noise, even though both you and him were awake in the house.

You tiptoed through the room carefully, remembering the steps you would take if there were lights on. You weren’t able to see much from the darkness. Just the door of your shared bedroom that was open and leading out to the living room. You walked out to the living room, looking around for him. The lights were off, he wasn’t there. You could see a dim light coming from the kitchen, which was most likely coming from the bulb above the stovetop.

You walked past the living room to the kitchen. There he was. Standing, well more like leaning against the kitchen counter, watching the rain from the outside window that was across from him above the sink. He had a cup of what looked to be tea in his hand, he stared blankly. He didn't look angry or sad, he just observed the rain quietly.

“Found you” You said, slightly above a whisper. He quickly turned his head to you. He set down his drink and gave you a look you could only describe as pitiful. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” He said, replying back to you with the same volume. He exhaled in relief when you shook your head ‘no’ to him. “How long have you been sitting up here for?” You asked him, moving closer to where he was standing. He made a concentrated face, like he was estimating an answer for you. He replied to you before taking a sip of his tea. “Maybe, 10 minutes, I think? The storm woke me up.” He smiled at you, “Can you not sleep? A dream?” He asked you in a soft voice.

It was almost pathetic how well he knew you. The storms, the nightmares, he knew your struggle with them, he had seen it first hand. It’s like he had some sort of magic to him, he could figure out what was wrong with you almost immediately and then fix it all with a warm hug. He could make it all stop. Which is exactly what you've needed here lately.

“Come” He said, motioning for you to come beside him to watch the rain as it fell from outside the window. You joined him, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You okay?” You asked him, looking up at him from his shoulder. “I’m fine, Ma chérie, just listening to the rain.” He wrapped his arm around you, bringing you closer to him. You weren’t really sure if he was lying or telling the truth. Even if he really wasn’t okay, he would never tell you that. It was his one problem. He would rather break every one of his bones before he could ever tell you something was wrong with him, although you’ve gotten better at noticing when something wasn’t right, he still felt the need to push any negative emotions he's ever felt, far away from you.

“Are you okay?” He said in a stern but comforting voice, looking at you with that familiar parental-looking face he made when he thought something was wrong with you. “I’m alright, ‘just had a bad dream.” You said before leaning back onto his shoulder. You sighed telling him. You didn’t want to worry him, but he most likely already knew you had one of your night terrors, you weren’t sure how he might have known, but you also knew his husband intuition was too strong for him not to know something was up.

“I’m sorry, lovey.” His voice softened more this time. His arm tightened around you, as he kissed the top of your head. There it was, that calm feeling he gave you. That peace. You didn’t feel the same anxiousness as you did when you had woke up earlier. You took your arms and wrapped them around his body softly, bringing him into a big hug. He welcomed it in, snaking his other arm around you, holding you tight, as if you could fall from his arms at any moment.

“I missed you when I woke up.” You whispered into his ear, now swaying side to side in the hug which was now almost turning into a slow dance. “Well, I'm here now.” He replied softly in his thick cajun accent. “Want to go to bed?” You whispered into his ear again, hoping he wouldn’t reject your offer. He kissed your forehead before replying “Yes, just let me finish my drink first.”

He backed away from the hug and grabbed his cup, putting the warm drink to his mouth. You watched him as he finished his drink, he looked beautiful in the small stovetop light, you felt lucky to have such a remarkable person as your husband, the man who wiped away your tears and fought off all of your fright and terror, the man who made you feel at home no matter where you were, as long as you were with him.

“What?” He said, putting down the drink he had just finished. He had caught you staring, and was now starting to form a small blush on his cheeks by your gaze towards him. “Is there something on my face?” He asked with some sort of seriousness. He made you chuckle. “No, silly. Can I not watch my husband drink his tea?” You asked him with a coy smile on your face. You sneaked your arms around either of his ribcage, you held him there while waiting for a response.

“Yes, of course you can.” He said with less seriousness now, a smile escaping his lips. You looked up at him from your position, still holding onto his sides. “I love you.” You whispered, an exciting feeling bubbled in your chest whenever you told him that, and it always ten-folded when he said it back to you. “I love you more.” He placed his hands onto either side of your face, looking into your eyes deeply.

You were going to protest that you in fact did love him more, but you didn't have time. You felt his lips melt onto yours almost overwhelmingly. It was as if you could feel all of his love for you pour into that one strong, but soft kiss. You felt the nice taste of tea on his lips as you kissed him. As he raised up from the kiss, he didn’t stop there. He traveled his lips to your chin, placing a kiss there, then on your nose, onto your forehead and then back to your lips. The sweet gesture made you melt into his arms almost immediately, turning your heart into complete mush. Now it was your turn to blush.

“Should we go to bed now?” He asked you, still so close to your face. You could still taste his drink he had earlier on your lips. “Yes, finally.” You said sarcastically. He laughed at your response, breaking the closeness between you two.

You made your way to the bedroom first, with him behind you the entire time. The walk back wasn’t as suspenseful as the walk there to find him was. It was quick in an attempt to get in bed as quickly as possible, sleep now starting to come over you slowly, making you yawn on your way back to the room. When you made it back to the room, you climbed yourself back into bed slowly. You sighed in comfort, the cozy bed welcomed you with a familiar warmth. Gene made his way onto the bed and laid under the covers, joining you in the comfortable spot. You laid down with him, and found your way to his chest.

You rested your head there softly, finding solace in the beating of his heart. “Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?” He broke the peaceful silence with the question. You didn’t have to think if you would or wouldn’t. You knew you would, the way you were feeling, you might just let sleep take you right now. “I will.” You said softly into his chest, not daring to raise your head from the comfortable position. It wasn’t long before you finally gave in, and fell asleep. He waited to rest until he knew you were fully asleep. Once he heard your light snores, he kissed the top of your head, before letting sleep take him too. “Sleep tight chérie. I’ll be dreaming of you.”

[plumadot]

it is me I have arrived

woe upon thee

-

“Thank you, thank you! Folks, isn’t it wonderful to be here tonight?” The bard spread his arms wide, a massive grin on his face. Grian noted vaguely that there were scars lining his skin, the most visible one being a slit across his nose. Had this bard been getting into fights? 

“Now, I would be a terrible entertainer if I didn't introduce myself.” He continued. “My name is Scar Thymes, from the forests near Dogwarts. I won't be so bold as to ask you to toss a coin just yet, seeing as I've only sung you one song. So how about another?”

The patrons whooped and cheered and grabbed more beer, and the music kicking back into full force as they launched into the next song. Grian narrowly avoided an elbow to the face as the patrons began to jostle each other and bounce up and down. He bit back a retort, reminding himself of his mission. He did snatch their money purse as retaliation though.

It was easy, he just had to follow their movements, twisting with them and slipping his fingers under their belt. He lifted it ever so slightly, and the pouch fell from its hold around it, straight into his outstretched hand. He caught it nimbly, careful not to jostle it more than necessary so that the coins within wouldn’t rattle. He couldn’t have his target notice that their purse was gone now, could he?

He collected a few more purses as he moved through the crowd, tucking them under his robe as the bard sang song after song and the patrons grew drunker and drunker. It was as he was grabbing his last bag of the night that he happened to have up and see the bard staring directly at him. He was still mid chorus, the crowd singing rambunctiously along with them, but there was a gleam in his eyes that told Grian that he knew exactly what he was doing. 

Grian met his gaze defiantly, pocketing the pouch while not breaking eye contact. He wasn't scared of some random bard in a tavern, and he wasn't going to show any fear. So he caught him stealing, what was he going to do about it? End his song early and call him out? He still hadn’t gotten paid more than a few small coins for his songs. The grin on the bard’s face grew ever so slightly as they locked eyes,  and there was a newly animated air to his movements as he pushed forward into the next verse of his song.

The atmosphere in the tavern seemed to shimmer as the music slowed down slightly, and the bard’s singing became slightly more lyrical. Grian felt the magical compulsion immediately, and he dug his nails into his palm to keep himself from falling under it as the bard seemed to glow radiantly in the dim lantern light of the tavern. His hair, long and pulled back in a ponytail, seemed impossible soft and silky, his cheekbones and jaw were perfectly shaped, his eyes practically glowed green. His song floated over the crowd, his voice smooth and soft and full of emotion. Every eye was on him now, and for good reason. He was beautiful.

Grian’s nails cut his palms, and he shook his head aggressively, shaking off the compulsion to stop and stare, to devote all of his attention to him and him alone. The bard raised an eyebrow at him, a perfectly arched eyebrow that balanced with the rest of his features to make him look closer to a god than anything else. He glared back. The eye contact seemed to make the spell stronger, far stronger than Grian would have thought possible from an ordinary bard, and anxiety clawed at his throat as he began to wonder if he had made an enemy in this tavern. 

Then the spell snapped, the music rushed forward into a fast pace again, and the crowd broke into raucous applause that contrasted with the bard’s singing only moments before. The bard winked at him, as if they had shared some kind of secret between the two of them, then broke their eye contact to cheer alongside the crowd. Grian breathed out a long sigh, then turned away from the bar. He paused at the door to look back at the bard, and he felt his feathers rise as he saw him looking directly at him. He didn’t waste any more time, and with a flash, he slipped outside and into the night. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA FIRST MEETINGS FIRST MEETINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

strangers to enemies gkjfkdgj i love it i love it. a little bit of a charm person spell hmm hmm you don't need that, scar, you're already magical!!!!!!!!!! even the bird knows it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and ahhh grian is just the right amount of rogue/warlock hehehe perfect

this is so cute i love it so much gkfjdkg thank you for this gift!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3

[crmediagal]

#38 for the writing ask! elucien please 🥰

#38. “All I wanted was for you to be happy.” by CRMediaGal

"All I wanted—All I've ever wanted since this shit show began—is your happiness, Elain."

She held her breath, an invisible pang that wasn't her own thumping against the underside of her ribs. She had felt that piercing sting before: his personal torture and disquiet. But it had never been quite this powerful.

She forced her gaze upwards, determined to meet the harsh reality that stared directly back at her. He was a thing of beauty—Achingly, terribly beautiful...—a scarred, redheaded, sharply-structured male whom her convoluted feelings had tried to avoid again and again...but to no avail.

He wants my happiness...without any consideration for his own, her mind reckoned, though her heart bruised at how badly this mating bond was tearing apart Lucien's good senses. Surely, he'd feel differently if he could just recognize how unworthy I am were it not for the bond.

Lucien's jaw tightened, his russet eye searching what he perceived as disenchantment. "Is that so hard to believe?" he eventually asked, the question a mere whisper in the darkened foyer of the Town House at Velaris; but the bluntness in his tone—its direct weight caving in on Elain's chest—thickened the heavy silence between them.

She made to blink away the discomfort coiling at her insides. That agonizing longing in his stare was persistent, unyielding. But she didn't deserve his affections. She never had.

It's the stupid mating bond that's responsible for this want. Yet, something else lingered, awaiting her tender care in order to see it bloom. She was too scared to give it a name, but it was far more intense and certain than anything she had ever felt in her life, human or Fae.

No...

The burdensome act of shoving Lucien away had proven itself an impossible task, so Elain settled for roping her arms around herself, pinned between the wall at her back and a warm, strong body that hungered to be touched.

"No," she confessed moments later, hardly able to maintain her gaze, "it's not. I... I believe you."

A heartbeat and a pause. "Then what?"

I've seen your heart, and I'm unworthy of it! she wanted to scream. Instead, her tongue clamped down. And I won't withstand the pain in ultimately losing you! I can't, I can't...

"What have I done?" he softly pushed. But there was an edge there. An irritation to these inquiries that hadn't been there prior. As if all of the male's gentlemanly restraints and patience up to this moment were finally unraveling like a roll of yarn.

"Nothing." Elain's shoulders dropped. "You've done nothing."

There . The truth, at least. After all, he was blameless in the Cauldron's cruel doing...but her repeated silent treatment and recoiling in his presence, she feared, had left the poor male thinking himself somehow responsible.

Lucien's golden mechanical eye narrowed. "Would you have rather I shoved my way into your life, then? Would that have made a difference?"

Elain frowned. "No—"

"I thought space was what you desired." He gave a flippant wave and sighed, looking away from her at last. Doing so seemed to cause him great agony, though. Slowly, his considerate eyes met hers once more. "That you needed time to deal with your...trauma."

Elain's frown deepened. "I... I've dealt with it. I'm fine."

"Then what?"

When her mouth trembled but continued to not form words, Lucien's Adam's apple bobbed. The silence heightened to a near suffocating pitch.

"All I wanted was for you to be happy, Elain." The words were forced, hushed, as if there were more on the tip of his tongue; more that he would never utter now.

Tears suddenly threatened Elain's vision. "I know...but I... I don't deserve that from you."

He stared at her with fresh confusion. And pain. "I didn't think wanting your happiness was so untoward?"

She jerked. "That's not—"

"You're right." His next words made her throat collapse into the pit of her stomach. "You look at me as if I'm some vile...thing." He made a gesture towards the brutal, unavoidable markings that ran the length of the left-side of his face and his stare wilted. "And I am. You deserve better than the likes of me."

"Lu - Lucien!"

Elain started forward with a quivering hand outstretched, but Lucien denied her reach. In a flash, he whirled on his heel and exited the front door, the quietude of his absence—and heartbreaking parting words—continuing to ring in Elain's ears long after.