#it’s so nice to be back here it’s been Years | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nereidprinc3ss · 2 days ago

Text

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked.

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart.

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static.

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months.

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good.

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way.

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not.

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present.

This is the right thing.

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses.

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair.

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared.

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making.

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth.

He’s warm. He keeps you safe.

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes.

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32.

The ringing silence is killing you.

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts.

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying.

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be.

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him.

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint.

You feel your throat closing as he stands.

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me.

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone.

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand.

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes.

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily.

“So you’ve told me.”

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink.

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days.

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things.

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend.

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks.

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no.

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin.

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple.

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t.

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone.

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?”

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it.

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence.

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing.

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing.

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh.

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow.

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn.

More buzzing silence.

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton.

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist.

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back.

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered.

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey.

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?”

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face.

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon.

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree.

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be.

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?”

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers.

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can.

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains.

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably.

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming.

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep.

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice.

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat.

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed.

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine.

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble.

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence.

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear.

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity.

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much.

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen.

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right.

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased.

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in.

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun.

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die.

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood.

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that.

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper.

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you.

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well.

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch.

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room.

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him.

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp.

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief.

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too.

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state.

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt.

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you.

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines.

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth.

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries.

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection.

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?��

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter.

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand.

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad.

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag.

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet.

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall.

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!”

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders.

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again.

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper.

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway.

He simply lets you go.

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent.

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says.

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best.

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into.

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival.

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in.

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you.

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant.

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed.

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity.

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release.

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin.

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds.

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment.

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want.

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue.

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth.

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully.

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him.

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you.

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want.

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done.

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry.

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait.

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again.

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it.

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end.

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck.

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer.

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision.

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name.

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would.

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best.

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you.

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life.

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck.

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay.

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids.

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom.

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you.

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room.

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet.

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles.

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face.

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction.

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression.

That only pisses you off worse.

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox.

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are.

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke.

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it.

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied.

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross.

Spencer comes out a few minutes later.

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him.

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff.

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart?

Pointed?

Surely not.

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across.

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him.

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth.

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you.

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works.

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again.

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar.

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could.

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded.

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know.

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment.

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters.

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls.

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery.

Now, he’s asleep.

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek.

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love.

God does not answer.

August 19th

Something is off.

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield.

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV.

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window.

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong.

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck.

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you.

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize.

That is a sobering thought.

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ.

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest.

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this.

He loves me.

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong.

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails.

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much.

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic.

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined.

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell.

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner.

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course.

Spencer.

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart.

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal.

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole.

For a few minutes, it works.

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working.

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below.

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers.

You tap lightly at his door.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect.

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens.

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer.

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink.

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth.

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him.

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled.

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on.

“What triggered it?” He asks.

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine.

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for.

“Yeah,” is all you say.

A pause.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist.

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting.

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV.

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me.

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things.

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin.

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation.

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention.

“I’ll call room service,” he decides.

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle.

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking.

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you.

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink.

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all.

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while.

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you.

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums.

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step.

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair.

“What��s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you.

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go.

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home.

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards.

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment.

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to.

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter.

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that.

Fuck.

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him.

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood.

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them.

Which means you need to backtrack.

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same.

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face.

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between.

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks.

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat.

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way.

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way.

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted.

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach.

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears.

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is.

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years.

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again.

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave.

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself.

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision.

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders.

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable.

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out.

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs.

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything.

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you.

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next.

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit.

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now.

You blow across the silent black ether.

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight.

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process.

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor.

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you.

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin.

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you.

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins.

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself.

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen.

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water.

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen.

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while.

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold.

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat.

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck.��Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying.

You watch it wash over him.

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic.

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air.

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left.

But he’s going to.

This is it.

The unforgivable thing.

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room.

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them.

“What did you say?”

His tone bites.

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not.

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath.

“When?”

You try to inhale and choke on it.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it.

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh.

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs.

You only shake your head.

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave.

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull.

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember.

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters.

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows.

No solution.

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come.

So he gets up.

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch.

But it gets him to turn around.

He looks exhausted.

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly.

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good?

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles.

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to.

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat.

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time.

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so.

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem.

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking.

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance.

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can.

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes.

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches.

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent.

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning.

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist.

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it.

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him.

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything.

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it.

All this, with one please.

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again.

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin.

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile.

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers.

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore.

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it.

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss.

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh.

Your mind is screaming, deafening static.

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here.

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down.

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance.

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands.

Because he knows. He knew the whole time.

He’s not sticking around.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer.

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve.

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs.

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more.

Humiliated. Like usual.

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment.

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be.

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet.

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts.

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing.

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you.

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper.

No response. Back and forth.

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it.

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation.

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist.

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach.

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life.

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would.

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter.

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him.

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this.

You shudder a cry.

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing.

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap.

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter.

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up.

“What about you?” Penelope asks.

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat.

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals.

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug.

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long.

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected.

She’s… looking at your feet.

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem.

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you.

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late.

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair.

Before you can, she speaks.

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside.

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny?

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process.

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you.

Heat blooms in your cheeks.

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go.

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on.

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully.

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good.

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama.

It’s sort of a relief.

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends.

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins.

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch.

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers.

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia.

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale.

A moment that is just too long.

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way.

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back.

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own.

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room.

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips.

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago.

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you.

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan.

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you.

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen.

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh.

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you.

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you.

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw.

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling.

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile.

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours.

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe.

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive.

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater.

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book.

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended.

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath.

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile.

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive.

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums.

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails.

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another.

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins.

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer.

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder.

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat.

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans.

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose.

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe.

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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sunny-knight · 3 days ago

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TIMELINES MUST PASS

Time Will Pass @forgettable-au fan animation :3

Decided to practice some animation with this wonderful song/animation meme/trend???

Inspiration credit:

@mannawanna on Youtube!

@Sherrickmadds on Instagram!

heheheheheHEHEEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAAHAHAAAAHAHAAHAHA I LOVE THESE GUYS SO MUCH AND THIS AUDIO JUST FELT TOO PERFECT FOR EM!!! ON WE GO TO THE ANALYSIS

The direct actions:

Sans smiles at Wingdings, who does not return it

Sans is bothered and upset by this, before closing his eyes and accepting it.

They go back to staring up at the ceiling, except Sans looks sadder now.

Wingdings continues to sing, content with this.

GASTERING TIME

Cut to the present day-post papyrus day,

Gaster is belting out happily while Sans is horrified at what his…brother??? has turned into.

Before they both come to a (reluctant on Sans’ half) acceptance at the situation.

What they’re supposed to translate to:

Sans encourages Wingdings to come out of his comfort zone. Instead of staying in the lab 247 and shutting out the rest of the world while still wanting to make it a better place with his inventions- why not grab some food at Grillbys?? (I just thought of how funny it is that Sans can’t get Papyrus to enjoy Grillbys either, for different reasons but still. CMON GUYS- GO GET SOME GREASY FOOD WITH YOUR BROTHER)

But he shuts this idea down constantly, no matter how subtle or direct Sans is, he can’t seem to stop his brother from going down an incredibly self destructive route. When he closes his eyes and looks back up at the ceiling…I wouldn’t call that “giving up on Wingdings” but definitely trying less hard. He cant force him to do anything so why try

(ofc Alphys comes in- BUT THIS IS A 24 SECOND ANIMATION, WE DONT HAVE TIME FOR THAT- CHOP CHOP!) (also just as an aside i love that when Sans realizes he cant force Wingdings outside he just brings the outside to him 😭😭)

But Wingdings is fully content with this “giving up”. He gets his way!!!

Thats when we see an interaction between these two, YEARS later. Sans is, needless to say, pretty horrified at whats happened to him (we’re ignoring lack of memories in this situation btw) but Gaster is thrilled and tells Sans that basically “I wont be here for long, i just wanted to say that despite my actions I promise I loved you” which Sans feels many emotions at- but “grief” bundles those all up in a nice trauma bow.

Gaster then goes on to say basically “this has been fun, but this is probably the last time we will ever interact because I have business to attend to, and you have Papyrus’ to attend to!!!” Sans reluctantly accepts this. Again. Gaster always staying within his comfort zone and Sans just going along with it because he cant force his stubborn as hell brother to do anything.

Basically long story short, Sans is not happy in either of these situations. Both times Wingdings puts his work above his brother.

#forgettable au #brothers (sobs in a violent fit of rage)#wingdings #papyrus #sans #undertale #animation #practiced a lot of rigging as well #lesson learned that procreate is an awful app for that #ITS FUN THOUGH #anyone who likes rigging pretty please give me an app #My new lifes mission is to murder wingdings #and we dont even know if my interpretation is canon #but judging by where we’re headed #my new lifes mission is to murder wing dings

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burrowkit · 2 hours ago

Text

Alright, I guess I need to make an actual attempt on this writing prompt... so here I go.

The phone hovers by his ear as the health insurance rep speaks those words.

He has put his name on the list... how old was he again? 337 or something in... June?

Time has lost meaning for him. And, despite choosing different names to fit his personality, he hadn't bothered to change his identification numbers. To be perfectly honest, he thought that the terms and conditions on the contract were a joke. A farce.

Evidently, they were very real. As real as the small print at the bottom of the terms of conditions.

"Dear, what is it?" His husband inquires, moving closer, pressing close to his back. He hasn't... Sandy hadn't gotten around to telling his husband, Terri, that he signed up for the experiment all those centuries ago.

Back before all the news came out about what it did to ones soul.

Back before the millionaires decided to abuse the system. For themselves.

Sure, the few experimental people were paid handsomely for it, and those who invested wisely, like Sandy, could afford this comfortable home. A nice, 3 bedroom home. 3 floors, if you include the basement in the count.

"I... I never thought they'd call," Sandy's voice is quiet. Near silent.

"Mr. Thame?" The rep repeats his name on the phone a few times, before Sandy finally recollects himself.

Yes, it's been all over the news that the population in our country. Our country alone, has exploded. Exploded so much, that all other countries had outright banned the immortal experiments.

And sure, Sandy had tried to end it a few times. Not that he's proud of it, but there are some awful things one does when you don't age, but the world does.

Not that anything could stick.

No illness. No injury. Nothing could kill them.

Nothing, but the government's secret labs. The ones where they kept all the gory details about what was done.

"I uh... how long do I have?" Sandy manages to choke out, visibly having troubles getting words out.

Terri moves to stand on the other side of the table from Sandy, "doctor?" he mouths, but Sandy shakes his head no.

This'll be a conversation that... that probably needs to happen with the kids out of the house.

They could...

No. There's no more parks. No more libraries. There's no place for the children to play except in this home. Nothing else is free.

And Terri will have to invest and save a lot more. Especially without Sandy's income. But he does have access to all their accounts.

Their children are Terri's, a small bit of relief that means they won't have to face eternity as an experiment.

There's always been a question on if the immortals could reproduce. A question that Sandy himself never wanted to find out.

It's terrifying to realize that your child may pass before your death.

It's even worse to realize they might just exist forever. Cursing your memory.

"You have until Monday at noon," the rep informs Sandy. He hears the soft click, informing the line ending.

Sandy sinks into the nearby chair.

"Darling, you need to tell me what happened," Terri pleads, sitting down in the chair across, hands brushing his, pulling them into his own hands.

A small comfort.

"I..." He begins, clearly unsure how to say the words. "I'm 337 years old. I think," he admits, forcing himself to look into Terri's eyes.

Terri laughs, that awkward laugh that says 'I think you're joking but this is a bad joke. I'm hoping you aren't joking, but I'm trying to break the tense because I'm scared'.

That kind of laugh.

Sandy looks down at their hands, pulling one away long enough to lightly tap Terri's hands, clutching them to his own hands. "I have until Monday at noon," he reports solemnly.

Already, Sandy is running through the equations. Tonight's Thursday. They have Friday to fill out all the legal documents while the children are at school. Which leaves Saturday and Sunday to spend time as a family.

One last time.

"You're shitting me!" Terri exclaims, pulling his hands away. "I thought I told you, I didn't support the experiments? Why would you do them?"

Sandy runs his hands through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts.

He doesn't get a chance.

"That's where you got your money then, huh? As a fucking guinea pig!?!"

Sandy looks down at the table, hanging his head. Guilt evident in his expression, even without seeing his eyes. "I'm sorry, I thought... I thought I had eternity," he forces his head up, to meet Terri's furious expression head on. "I thought it would work out. That after you passed away, I could be our childrens' guardian angel. For all eternity. We have the money."

"It's not about the money!" Terri slams his hands onto the table, causing two small figures to run in.

"What's wrong?" "What's going on?"

"It's okay," Sandy forces a smile. "Your dad and I were just having a discussion about hockey."

Terri takes a moment to recompose himself. To force himself to smile. "Why don't you both go back up and play? Take a plate of food and watch a movie?"

"Yay!" The kids, who Sandy swears were twins despite being born two years apart, cheer, happily taking dinner to the tv room. They're very rarely allowed to watch tv.

It usually costs too much.

Terri turns murderous eyes back to Sandy. "You should have told me ages ago," he practically hisses, voice carrying extra venom.

"I know, I'm sorry. I never thought... I never thought they'd call for my death."

Terri sighs, rubbing his face with his hand. "On Tuesday, I will be angry with you," he decides.

"It doesn't work like that," Sandy smiles softly.

Terri nods. "I'm aware, love. But if I'm angry with you now, I'll waste the last few days without you by my side. I can only hope you had a plan on how to tell me. This just... we'll figure things out. But, I still love you, Sandy," Terri smiles.

Sandy smiles with a bit of relief. "I love you too, Terri. You are truly, the only person I've ever loved with all my heart."

"But not your soul?" Terri tentatively, lightly teases.

Sandy's smile fades away and he shakes his head. "You made me wish I had a soul to give."

"We're sorry." The health insurance rep on the phone spoke on the other end with an indifferent tone "Due to our countries laws of Overpopulation, you have been selected for the Downsizing Program. It is now your legal obligation to die."

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers #writing prompts #writing prompt answered

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temiizpalace · 3 days ago

Text

❥┊OPERATION: ANNIVERSARY

SUMMARY: you two decided to celebrate your anniversary every month. it was his turn to give you a gift, and he had nothing prepared for you! out of panic, he searches for backup. operation: anniversary!

CHARACTERS: first years

╰ ˙∘ …

GENRE: fluffy fluff with a side of fluff and fluff on top

WARNINGS: none

NOTES: pairings were randomly selected by wheel for more interesting interactions + lots of "ily's". please enjoy!

reader is g/n, reader is not specified to be you

❤┊ACE TRAPPOLA

ace huffs, staring at the chocolate that’s been resting in the fridge for what felt like ages.

fiddling with the nicely wrapped ribbon, he stares at the calendar blankly, dreading the upcoming days. “oi, ace. this entire week you’ve been spacing out in the middle of cleanup! housewarden will have our heads if the kitchen ain’t spotless.” deuce grits his teeth, brushing the dust from the floors into a dustpan.

“shaddup, deuce. can’t ya see im busy?” ace huffs in response, brushing his companion off with a frown. peering over his shoulder, deuce narrows his eyes and looks to ace, brows furrowed. “did you even get them anything back?” he asks, setting down his cleaning supplies off to the right. ace remains silent, wiping an imaginary sweat off his brow.

“not cool, ace.” he scoffs, causing ace to jerk his head back with a defensive expression. “im working on it! just you wait, my gift will be so good it’ll knock all competition outta the water!” he declares, storming out of the room with the chocolates in hand.

laying still on the couch, ace groans as he racks his brain for ideas, feeling lost and hopeless. “urrghh, why..” he mopes, putting a pillow over his face with a solemn sigh. love was such a struggle.. gifts were never this hard, so why was he overthinking it so damn much? somedays he wish he could just suck up these stupid feelings and toss them out to never see the light of day.

“woaahh, did somebody die in here?” cater exclaims, looking at ace’s lifeless body. he takes note of the chocolate resting in the first years hand, his mind putting the pieces together with a cheeky grin. “were those from [MC]..?” he asks, leaning against the armrest.

looking from behind the cushion, ace looks to cater’s face, then to the chocolate. with a slight blush, he covers the exposed parts of his face with his hand and grumbles. “so what if they were?”

“your monthly anniversary is soon, yknow. got anything planned?” the same damn question. ace frowns at his upperclassman and sits up. for once he doesn’t say anything, only earning a raised brow from the boy across from him. pulling out his phone, cater opens up magicam and plops himself next to ace.

“heree~☆! check out what’s trending for some fresh inspo!” cater grins, scrolling through the reels and reels of videos in the #anniversary tag. all the videos were nothing short of extravagant, insanely thoughtful acts of love to their partner. ace’s brows knitted together, side-eyeing cater.

“and how am i supposed to pull any of that off?” he scoffs, crossing his arms and leaning back. cater tuts, wagging his finger. “silly ace.. the trick is to show your love in your own way,” he explains with a wink. “your love is uniquely yours, and the ways you express it are accustomed to you. if [MC] really likes you, then any act of love you give them will be enough.”

sitting there for a moment, ace thought cater’s words over carefully. “uniquely mine..” he whispered, staring at the ground. with a small pat on the back, cater stands upright and waves as he exits. “i’ll be in the rose garden. text if ya need anything, kayy?”

ace has yet to budge from his spot, resting his chin on his hand. “uniquely mine, huh?” he repeats, images of you flashing across his mind. he smiled softly to himself, taking a glance at the chocolate in his hands. with a slight chuckle, he gets up and walks towards sam’s shop. “this love stuff stinks.” he murmurs with a grin.

❥˙∘ ✦

“this is for me?” you ask, holding the item in your hands. it was encased in a small velvet pouch, the material feeling very nice in your palms. you were surprised at how fancy this packaging was considering the one giving it to you was ace of all people. “yeah, yeah, sure. consider this a repayment for last celebration.” ace shrugs, trying to act nonchalant about this exchange.

he tried to mask the beating sound of his heart, desperately praying you were unaware of the way you make his heart race increasingly fast. you open the pouch to find a keychain. there were small charms on it, but the one that stood out to you the most was the ace of hearts charm hanging in the center. he averts your eyes, whistling as if he didn’t plan all this with a light blush on his cheeks.

you stare at it in the light, a smile forming at the corners of your lips. “ace..” you begin, trailing off, unable to find the words appropriate enough for your gratitude. “no need to thank me, i know, i know.” he smiled triumphantly, making you laugh.

“..i’ll cherish this.” walking over to him, you were going to pull him into an embrace, but he beat you to it. “thank you.” he murmurs softly, a contrast to his usual sarcastic tone and remarks. his voice was genuine, laced with raw emotion. patting his back, you smiled at him in response. “love you.” you coo, making his ears red.

“love ya, too.”

♠┊DEUCE SPADE

deuce sits at his desk, crumpling another piece of paper for the nth time before tossing it into the overflowing trash bin.

his side of the room was littered in tossed sheets of paper, looking like a madman who has yet to find a plan. to be fair, that was not far-off. deuce sighs as he lifts the parchment in the air to get a better look, smiling to himself proudly. it was then did he notice the small mistake on one of the letters, causing the poor boy to furrow his brow and crumple the paper. he tossed it, letting it join the rest of the stack.

ace kicks through the sea of discarded letters, frowning as the pile seemed never ending. “aagghh, couldn’t ya at least try to be neater, deuce?” he whines, picking up a letter and uncrumpling it to reveal the messily written handwriting.

“dont!” deuce shot upward, yanking the parchment out of his roommates hand and tearing it to shreds. “GAH—!” ace exclaims, holding his hands up in defense. “whatever, it wasn’t decipherable anyway.” he huffs, scratching the back of his neck. “look, we both know your tryna write to [MC]. just put down anythin, they’ll probably lose their mind over it anyway.”

deuce shakes his head, staring down at his recently written letter. rereading it in his head, he can’t help but feel unsatisfied, like something is missing from it. “but i don’t wanna give them a half-assed letter.. what if they don’t accept me? is this even enough to repay them?” he murmurs, holding it tightly to his chest. he felt he’ll never be able to give you enough, to repay you in a way that’ll truly reflect his love.

ace sighs, patting his friend on the back. “this might come off as a sick joke, but i do know one guy that could help.. just.. don’t freak out about it.” deuce looks up at ace, a look of expectance on his face. “thanks, man.”

..what?

deuce finds himself in front of idia’s room, contemplating as to whether ace was actually pranking him or if this was genuine advice. well, idia is an upperclassman.. surely he still has some advice to give. but then again, the guys a total shut-in. just as he was about to turn and leave, ortho chimes in from around the corner.

“deuce spade? what are you doing here!” he cheerily asks, catching deuce off guard. “ortho?! is your brother here?” he asks nervously, earning a nod from ortho. “yeah, he’s inside his room! we can go in together.” without giving deuce a moment, ortho is already knocking.

“ortho?” the voice from behind calls out. upon entry, idia is hunched over in his seat, one foot on the chair as he types away on his monitor. “deuce spade came to visit you, big bro!” ortho exclaims, causing idia to freeze. “..what..”

deuce waves awkwardly, clutching the letter in his hand tightly. “ace told me you could help me with something..” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “..ya sure your not getting pranked?” idia sighs, narrowing his eyes at the boy across him. “even if he is prankin me, i’ll show him who’s the fool!” deuce grits his teeth, directing his frustration towards the redhead.

“what do you write to someone on their anniversary?” he asks straightforwardly, making idia’s eyes widening. “wh-what? and you th-think id know?! does it look like someone like me would have an anniversary?!” shaking his head, idia rolls back on his chair before hitting the wall. racking his brain for ideas, deuce tries to find ways to convince idia to help him. deuce was stubborn, and he doesn’t appreciate quitters.

“..ace said you of all people should have the most experience! you're a gaming guy, this is completely in your turf! shouldn’t you have years and years of knowledge?” deuce mentions, practically tooting idia's horn. he looks up from his curled position, letting the first years words register. his ego is boosted, confidence running to new heights. idia smirks, brushing off his shoulder. "well, i guess i do know a thing or two about romance.."

"im familiar with all the fan ships in games and manga. call me an expert." deuce lets out a sigh of relief as idia took the bait, rushing over to his desk to immediately ask for help. that was too easy.

❥˙∘ ✦

"[MC]!" deuce calls out, rushing over to you with a shout. you turn around in a hurry, noticing the poor boy out of breath. "deuce!? is everything alright?" you ask, suddenly getting an envelope shoved in your hand. "here!" deuce bows, giving the letter to you with two hands. "..what's this?" taking the sealed letter from his hands, you look to him as if asking to open it.

he nods in response, watching intensely as you unfolded the letter.

'dear [mc],

i dunno how 2 start this but thanks for the chocolate. you somehow made it exactly how i liked it and i thought it was really good. today, i wanna repay you for everything that you do for me cuz you really really deserve it. for our anniversary together.

every little thing about you, i want to celebrate on this day. ill return my feelings to you tenfold and promise you the awesomest day ever. we can do anything you want and maybe take a ride on my blastcycle after school. if you want i can bake you a cake as an even bigger thank you for today too. there's nothin out there that can really show my feelings so i hope this letter is ok

what im tryna say is thank you for everything. let me be the one to do something for you today and show you how much i really really like love you. happy anniversary to us ♡

-- deuce'

the handwriting was shaky, and dare you say this letter was awkward in some places. despite that, you can't help the heat sneaking up on your cheeks, the dopey grin on your face that says it all. deuce fidgets in place, his hands forming knuckles before finally breaking the silence. "th-the letter is pretty stupid anyway! here--let me just take it back!" he quickly exclaims, reaching for the letter before you hastily avoid his grasp. "no way!"

you instead grab the arm that reached for the letter and brought him into an embrace instead. he stands there, dumbfounded for a moment. "its perfect, deuce." you smile as he returns your hug, squeezing you tightly.

no words needed to be exchanged at that moment. the calm silence filled the air as you both keep your positions for a few moments more.

🐺┊JACK HOWL

mindlessly watering his cactus, jack's thoughts seemed to wander.

your monthly anniversary was just around the corner, yet he had no gift for you. he was disgusted with himself.. he had the whole month to think of something, anything you might like, yet he had nothing. what a sign of weakness, he thought, frowning as he set down the watering can.

during his reps, he barely kept count. all he thought about was what he could get you.. yet the feat seemed impossible. would anything he give even be good enough? the chocolate you gave him was great, amazing even. all his questions led to more questions, then even more questions.

not to mention during class did he look more sour than usual. students nearly paved the way as he passed through the halls, wondering what the hell put this guy in such a foul mood. "jack?" epel calls out, snapping jack out of his week long daze. "is everything alright? you looked seriously more intimidating today an' yesterday." epel shakes his head, trying to guess what this was about.

"..it's nothing." jack sighs, crossing his arms and walking far past epel before the interrogation could even begin. he can't handle this right now. nothing a good run can't fix. thankfully track and field met today, maybe then will he be put back to normal.

however, he still felt lost the entire time. not once has he ever felt this way before, the feeling is foreign. he has received chocolate, but never from someone he truly fell for. the unfamiliar feelings swallowed him whole, drowned him with uncertainty and confusion. he scowls as he ran, accelerating faster and faster after each lap. deuce notices jack acting more off, furrowing his brow during the break.

"jack!" deuce shouts, alerting the beastman. "what's going on with you? for the past month you have that same blank look on your face." he shrugs, watching as jack averted his gaze. "it's nothing." he states, ready to end the conversation before suddenly getting stopped by deuce. "it's not nothing! something is bothering you and keeping aint gonna do anything!" deuce exclaims confidently, practically forcing jack into a corner.

"..it's not any of your business." jack grits, trying to find a way out. "is this about [MC]? yknow, after the chocolates?" deuce mentions, causing jack to practically freeze in his tracks. "i told you it wasn't any of your business." he huffs, turning his back to deuce.

"if you're worried, im sure they'd be happy with anything you get them! even just being around you makes them happy, so don't beat yourself up over it!" reassuring the lost beastman, he pats jack on the shoulders and throws him a thumbs up. oddly enough, jack felt slightly relieved. knowing at least somebody had his back put him at ease, nodding his head at deuce's advice.

"okay, gotcha. thanks." with that quick talk, jack is already back to running. his pace is back to normal and his expression had been reverted to its previous glory. the track team sighs in relief, celebrating deuce for bringing their star back down to earth.

❥˙∘ ✦

"jack, this is so cute!" you squealed, grasping the silver wolf plushie in your hands tightly. he crossed his arms, staring at the space above your head rather than right at you.

“this is what i owe you after last month..” he murmurs, causing you so smile slightly. “mhm, your tail is wagging.” he tries to hide it, grabbing it to prevent it from moving rapidly. jack grumbles something under his breath as his face started to heat up.

“thank you.” pulling jack close, you wrap your arms tightly around him. he flinches, trying to find a reaction. gently, he returns the hug. his ears twitch, tail wagging and brushing against your leg. jack smiles, staring into your eyes.

“this was the least i could do for you. after everything.” he brushes against your cheek with his finger, unable to hide his loving gaze. “i love you, jack.” you coo, squeezing him tightly.

“love you too.” he whispered, kissing the top of your head with a lovestruck grin.

🍎┊EPEL FELMIER

epel scratched his chin, glaring at the mirror with intensity.

“dangnabbit.. stupid, stupid..” cursing himself for forgetting such an important day, epel stewed as he started scratching his scalp, racking his brain for even a faint idea. “nahh.. maybe— no..” he murmurs, shaking his head on occasion.

the chocolate you made him was delicious, he ate it all in one sitting! he was thinking of making you some back, but he’d hate to recycle your ideas as vil said it “wasn’t romantic enough.” salty about that comment, he didn’t dare ask his housewarden for help. but the gift completely slipped his mind, and now he was empty handed. “arrrgggghh… what a load of—”

“epel.” a voice breaks through the boys mindless sputtering, jerking his head towards the sound of the voice. vil stood there with a raised brow, silently demanding epel to stop scratching his chin. “are you trying to get acne?” he sighs, massaging his temple.

epel moved his hand back to his side, mumbling an apology before turning back to the mirror. “are you positive you don’t need my help?” vil frowns, crossing his arms at the helpless first year in front of him. “dang right.. ahem, i mean, im positive.”

vil shook his head. “right.. i have an errand for you to run.” he holds up a list and places it in epel’s hand. it was folded neatly and pristinely, but crumpled in the first years hand. “hah?”

“rush to octavinelle and pick up the items on the list. jade or azul should meet you there.”

unfolding the paper, different types of makeup and skincare products were listed below. “..don’t they run a restaurant?” epel frowns, raising his brow. “don’t underestimate azul’s desire for sponsorship.” vil notes, rushing the boy away.

walking down the halls, epel found himself spiraling back to the original problem. his brow is furrowed, trying harshly to concentrate and find something that was worthy, truly worthy of you. “..nah that won’t do either! what would gran think if i couldn’t impress ‘em?” he grumbles, looking around the lounge.

floyd looks over one of the booths and grins as he saw epel enter the lounge. “guppy!” he exclaims, startling the poor first year. “gah! floyd!”

“what brings ya to the lounge?” he asks, circling epel like a small piece of prey. brushing imaginary dirt off his blazer, epel sighs with a frown. “actually, i was looking for—”

“jade or azul? they’re plannin in the VIP lounge. this about beta fish’s studs? stuffs right here.” he holds up an elegantly patterned paper bag, purple streaks resembling seaweed and shells printed across. “ah, thank you.”

“you good, guppy? your face is a lot more frowny than usual. seriously, kinda cringe.” floyd shrugs, starting to loose interest. “what?” epel scoffs, shaking his head trying to stay polite. “argh, i mean, yes im fine, thank you.” he nods, gripping the bag tightly.

tilting his head, floyd stares unconvinced. “you suck at lyin. tell me! tell me! tell me!” with his interest piqued once again, floyd starts circling epel once more, giggling and grinning foolishly. “hey! i told ya it’s nothin! leave me alone!” epel tried swatting the eel away, but his efforts result in vain.

“tell me! tell me! tell me or ill squeeze the answer outta ya.” with a sudden shift in tone, from playful to murderous, he throws the first year a deadly glare. epel freezes, biting back his insults.

“fine! it’s [MC]..” he mumbles, looking to the side with embarrassment. “i dont know what to gift them.” he sighs, picking at his chin again. expecting floyd to leave disinterested after getting his answer, epel is taken aback as he heard said eel blow a raspberry instead. “pssshh, that’s easy.”

“..huh?”

“lemme guess, you wanna do somethin over the top or whatever?” he asks, clocking epel. “wh— so what if i did, hah?” epel retorts, looking to floyd with a glare.

“well the answers right under ya nose, silly! tadaaan, cooking!” floyd reveals, smiling with a dopey grin. “cooking?”

“geez do i gotta spell everythin out for ya? just cook em something and they’ll be all over ya. easy as that.” floyd states matter of factly, now looking at epel with disinterest. “this is gettin boring. later.”

and just like that, the large twin disappeared into the kitchen.

epel scratches the back of his neck, beginning to loose himself in thought. he wasn’t familiar with any types of fancy cooking, mostly things like one pot stews at home..

however, his last dish during the culinary crucible was a major success, he’s definitely got this in the bag so long as he puts his mind to it.

and besides, he’s always wanted to take you back to harveston for a second time. a nice home cooked meal? doesn’t that scream married couple?

❥˙∘ ✦

as you entered the dorm, you were hit by the smell of familiar spices and seasonings, thrown in with a hint of crisp fresh apples. smells like harveston, you thought, smiling fondly to yourself.

epel pops out from behind the corner, dressed in a nice apron while holding up a pot of stew. the top was still bubbling, steam clouded his face but not enough to hide his blooming smile. “you’re finally back! take a seat, i made stew!” he leads you to the table. it was decorated, albeit clumsily, but much nicer than how you left it.

“what’s gotten into you?” you laugh, taking a seat across from him. epel sets the pot onto the table, scooping a generous amount into your bowl. the carrots have been chopped in the shape of hearts and apples. “hah? don’t tell me you forgot!” he pouts, acting as if he wasn’t distressed for the last month.

“monthly anniversary? helloo?” he cracks some pepper on the top of your stew before sliding it in front of you. “hmm, so you did remember.” you smiled, seeing as he looked to you with mock offense. “ya think i’d forget or somethin?!” he exclaims, now wondering if he came off wrong this entire time.

“relax, relax, just teasing. this smells great, epel.” you grin, grabbing your spoon, eager to chow down on the goodness before you. “thanks! it’s a recipe meemaw taught me back home. she said i was basically a master at it.” he huffs triumphantly, puffing his chest up with pride.

you take a bite of the piping hot dish. flavors exploded on your tongue, the familiar and warm feeling exactly what you needed after such a long day. “feels like home.” you murmured with a smile, looking at him with a soft look in your eyes.

epel couldn’t help but blush, taking your free hand and squeezing it tightly. “happy anniversary.”

⚡┊SEBEK ZIGVOLT

sebek grumbled angrily as he kicked at the dirt beneath his feet.

he had been tasked with the duty of shoveling the horse dung into a pile. normally, he’d take such tasks with pride! being the one assigned by riddle to take care of such a strenuous and laborious task? why this must be complimenting his strength and stamina. (literally nobody else wants to do the job) ((nobody is more eager than him to do it)).

however, something was off about today.

“sebek, is everything alright? i’ve noticed you’ve been.. quieter than usual.” riddle asks, glancing at the pouting first year. his brow was furrowed and his glare was harsher than usual. anyone with a right mind would back away from such an intimidating figure. sebek shakes his head. “yes, im perfectly fine!”

the reason for sebek’s dismay wasn’t because of poop scooping duty. no, he had not the faintest idea on what to get you for your once-a-month anniversary. it felt like anything he could do has been done already. chocolate? check. cooking? ..ehh. restaurant date? check. he picked every standard date there was possible, but he was afraid nothing was enough to WOW you.

he grimaced as he imagined you growing bored and moving on, leaving him for another. he couldn’t even handle the thought, shaking his head aggressively before slapping his cheeks to snap out of it. silver and riddle jump slightly, unaware of the poor boys internal torment.

“sebek. you’re gonna scare the horses.” silver sighs, brushing the stallions mane. “agreed. not to mention, this behavior doesn’t exactly scream ‘perfectly fine’ to me..” riddle frowns, trying to grab the shovel from sebek’s hand. “might i suggest taking a break to clear your head?”

sebek frowns at the thought, the mere idea of being useless. “i can assure you, everything is alright! your concern is not needed.” he huffs, yanking the shovel back into his hands. continuing to scoop with agitation, riddle felt himself growing more irritated.

if there was anything anyone knew about sebek, if you were a superior he respects, he’ll follow your words to the letter. “sebek. by my order as a housewarden, i demand you to take a walk!” riddle shouts, forcing sebek to freeze. “b-but—”

“did i happen to stutter? housewarden’s orders!”

though they didn’t share a dorm, sebek wouldn’t dare disrespect his upperclassman. reluctantly handing the shovel to riddle, he’s shooed away to take a stroll in the nearby thicket. grumbling words to himself, he leans against a nearby tree and looks up at the sky.

his weakness was showing. he’s gonna be left behind. countless words stirred in his head, brewing and lingering doubts and negative thoughts.. it was beginning to grow overbearing.

gripping the thing closest to him, there was a soft squish before realizing it had stained his hand. “grrk! by the seven..” he grumbled, looking at the mystery plant he had just killed.

“oh dear, that was a hydnellym peckii..” a familiar voice sighed from behind, making sebek jolt. “a-a what?!” he exclaims, turning to see jade leech.

“also known as a devil’s tooth or bleeding tooth mushroom.. fufu it’s quite fascinating.” he chuckles, resting his hand on his chin. “..that is, before you had squished it.”

“bleeding tooth?!” sebek frowns, wiping his hand against the bark. “by no means is it poisonous, just incredibly bitter.” jade notes, picking up the remains of the fungi and placing it into a small plastic baggy.

“never mind that, what brings you to the forest, sebek? are you also out foraging?” the eel asks, smiling in anticipation. “no, i am out here clearing my head!” he exclaims, nodding affirmatively.

jade raises his brow, but chooses not to comment. “i see.. it has been known that you’ve been much quieter lately,” jade notes, thinking aloud. “could it be perhaps something is troubling you? we are always free at the lounge if you require assistance. fufu..”

narrowing his eyes at the vice housewarden, sebek scoffs. “i would rather not get myself involved in your dorms shady deals! my issues are entirely personal!” sebek retorts.

“yes, yes, about [MC]?” jade asked nonchalantly, catching the poor first year off guard. “where in the world did you obtain such information?!” he shouts, hiding the blush on his ears. “fufu, word happens to travel fast is all.”

“argh..” before commenting once more, sebek thinks about it for a second. jade, while shady, has always presented himself as a gentleman. even with his distaste, it is true he may be able to learn a thing or two.

“..you’re correct. if i have permission to ask, what would one gift their partner on a special occasion?” sebek asks, making jade smirk.

“are you willing to pay the price if i were to answer?” he asks, not willing to let a good deal go to waste. “would foraging for your fungi suffice? lilia had trained me to be able to search for plants and resources in the wild on my own.” sebek offers, not wanting to waste time with jade’s banter. pleased with his offer, jade nods.

“my, what a generous offer.”

“natural beauty is all around us. though most flora happen to ward us away, the most dangerous are also the most enchanting,” jade starts, leaning down towards a flower hidden in thorns. he picks it, holding it to the light. “additionally, the language in which nature speaks is endearing in its own right. each plant houses its own meaning, its own definition in a gift.”

“it all belies on how you choose to gift it.” with that, jade slides the flower into a small booklet and gives sebek a nod. “if you are in need of more advice. you may visit me in the lounge. i must take my leave now.”

jade leaves sebek in the forest alone, wading in his own thoughts. gazing down at the grass beneath him, he picks at the small flowers growing down below.

❥˙∘ ✦

“sebek, this is beautiful!” you squeal, holding the extravagant bouquet of flowers in your hand. sebek smiles proudly, blushing from ear to ear. “this flower exclusively grows in briar valley. i can assure you you’ll find nothing of the sort anywhere else.”

the sticks were less like branches and more like thorns, rigid and sharp at the ends. however, blossoming white flowers adorned the bouquet, leaving you breathless as it glowed in the darkness of the nrc halls.

“i love them, thank you sebek.” you smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. he clears his throat, trying his best to not act shy.

“take this as a token of my gratitude, my eternal love. i will forever be in your debts and will cherish time we will and have spent. most of all,”

he brings you close, holding you in a tight hug.

“happy anniversary, my love.”

A/N: this was supposed to be the white day fic,,,,,,,, honestly i was gonna just scrap but i was halfway done with jacks so i tried salvaging it. sorry if it’s off in some parts. anyway hiii.

date published: 05/05/25

202 notes · View notes

dantes-jacket · 1 day ago

Text

Let’s not waste any more time

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #11!! Your ex bf cheated on you and kicked you out. Dante takes you in and a month after staying with him you two have a passionate night. Will everything be okay in the morning? SMUT!! Don’t interact if you’re a minor. Fluff and angst. This is long and I was too lazy to check it over, so if there’s some grammar problems no there isn’t…

You’re heading back to yours and boyfriend’s shared apartment after a long day of work at Devil May Cry. Your boss ended up trashing the place while he was “training”, so long story short goofing off with a new weapon he got and underestimated the damage he’d cause. Today just ended up as a clean up day and reorganizing. You were the one mostly organizing everything while Dante cleaned.

Today though you dressed up really nice because it was your one year anniversary with your boyfriend Jeffery. You two were going to go on a fancy date once you got off of work so you decided to get yourself in the mood earlier. As soon as you got to work Dante let out a long whistle, “Damn babe, you look great. What’s with the fancy clothes though? Wait is there meeting I don’t know about?”

You shake your head, “No there’s no meeting today. But thank you, I’m dressed up today because it’s my one year anniversary with Jeffery.”

“I see,” Dante just nods. He wonders why you’re still with that dick. He’s done nothing but mock you and hurt you your entire relationship but you’re still staying with him. Just break up with him already so he can ask you out and treat you right. “I hope he knows he’s a lucky guy to have a showstopper like you as a girlfriend.” He then spins around and goes into a back room.

The compliments he gave you fills you with butterflies. You showed your boyfriend your outfit before he left and he didn’t even acknowledge it or compliment you. But Dante never hesitates to compliment you or speak his mind. He always notices when you have something new or you changed your style. He’s always on top of it. You know it’s wrong to harbor feelings for someone else while you’re in a relationship but you just can’t help it. Dante is every you want in a relationship.

Although he’s never been one to pursue relationships so that’s why you gave up trying to get his attention. That’s when a friend set you up with Jeffery and now you’re here. You always wonder what it would be like if you never stopped and Dante was interested in relationships. Would you two have gotten together or would he have already been in a relationship? You don’t know but you can’t focus on the little details.

The thoughts running through your head are bitter while you walk back home. Is your boyfriend even going to appreciate tonight? You give him the benefit of the doubt and try to get your thoughts off of your incredible hot, smart, caring, strong, silly, and loving boss. You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk to your apartment. You unlock the door and go to call out for your boyfriend but you hear a weird noise coming from the bedroom.

You go to put your stuff down on the table near the door but you see some bags filled with something. Ignoring those for now you head to your bedroom. The door is cracked and the closer you get to it, you can hear it. Moans. Ones that belong to your boyfriend and another girl. You push the door open and see it now. Your boyfriend doing the neighbor.

“Jeffery?”

The man in question doesn’t even bother to look at you or stop what he’s doing. “Your stuff is by the door, get out. I found a better girl worth my time.” You see your neighbor smile slyly at you and moan extra loud next thrust just to spite you. You know it’s fake because this man is bad in bed. Bad probably isn’t even the right word but you’re so shocked you can’t even try to think of a better insult.

You back out of the room and go right back to the front door and grab your things. As quickly as you can you get outside and stand in front of your apartment building, or well now your old apartment building. You step out of the doors to be greeted by a downpour. Great your first night homeless you’re going to get drenched! The cards of fate are truly against you today.

But you can’t stay here. This whole thing just pisses you off. The longer you’re here for, the more you want to go back upstairs and yell at him. Tell him he didn’t mean anything and say you have a much better man than him in your life. Before you realize you walked all the way back to where than better man is. You look up and see the bright sign lighting up most of the ground and emphasizing the rain. You shuffle your bags to one hand to knock on the door.

You hear a low groan before heavy footsteps coming this way. Before the door opens you can hear Dante saying “We aren’t open come back tomorrow-“ before opening the door to see you standing there. You two just stand there for a moment breathing heavily while staring at one another. “Hey- shit you’re crying and drenched. What the hell happened!?”

Crying? You didn’t even realize. You know they are sad tears they are frustrated ones. You open your mouth to respond but immediately close it. How can you ask him to help you? That seems unfair. He has so much on his plate and you’d take his home and free time away from him. Never mind you’ll just leave.

“Sorry just never mind.” You spin on your heel and try to walk down the steps but stopped by an arm on your hand dragging you inside.

“No you don’t. You’re going to get out of the rain and come inside. Then you’re going to tell me what the hell happened within the last two hours since I’ve seen you.”

Dante shuts the door behind you and rushes off to the bathroom to get you a towel. While he grabs a towel he tries to process what is going on. You were just excited to go on your anniversary date but now you’re here with bags in hand and soaked while crying? Oh man if he ever sees that clown of a man you call a boyfriend he’ll be six feet underground buried to next to all the demons. Snapping out of his thoughts he rushes back to you.

He sees you shivering and standing like you don’t know this place. He walks over and hands you the towel and then pulls off your jacket and throws it on the floor.

“Okay give me a brief summary before I have you go and shower to warm up.”

“He was sleeping with someone else,” you murmur so quietly and if he didn’t have enhanced hearing he definitely wouldn’t have caught what you said.

Dante sees red he clenches his jaw, “He what?” He says in a low threatening tone, “I’m going to kill him.” He side steps you and puts a hand on the door handle but you gently place yours on top of his.

“Don’t he’s not worth your time.”

“I don’t care-“

“Plus I want you here…” you admit quietly.

He suddenly pulls back his hand like the door handle had just shocked him. “I’m right here and not going anywhere. Go ahead and showering and I’ll put your things in my room.”

“Dante I can’t take your room, I can just go stay in a hotel-“

“No absolutely not. You’re staying here until you find a place. Now go shower before you get sick.”

You relent to his demand and head off to the bathroom. You do grab one bag and just hope it has your toiletries and at least an outfit to sleep in. You start the shower and strip out of your wet clothes. You look at yourself in the mirror and see your tear stained face with your makeup smudged. You look like a mess and you showed Dante that. You’re never going to be able to live this down. How are you going to show yourself to him now after this?

Luckily you chose right with your bag and was able to take a nice and refreshing shower. You scrub your skin hard to get the memory of that assholes touch off. You want him to be purged from your memory. Maybe you ask Dante if he knows a demon that can take that memory from you. Knowing him though he’d freak at your question and lecture you on why you should not seek a demon out.

He’s already acting different since you got here. He probably just feels bad and doesn’t have any other reason behind it. Or maybe he does? You’ve never seen him so mad even when demon knock on his front door and ruin his place. His eyes glowed with an anger you’ve never seen before. Maybe he did actually have other intentions. Wait… could he like you back???

A knock at the door disrupts your overthinking. “Hey you okay in there?”

“Oh um yeah! I’m almost done.” You stutter out and turn off the shower. You quickly dry yourself off and throw on some pajamas. Your pajamas are short shorts and a tiny tank top. Oh god, how are you suppose to walk around like this in front of him in his own house!?!

You open the door and give him a sleepy smile. He smiles back but eyes widen once he gets a glimpse of what you are wearing. He tries to get his mind off of it because he feels his dick twitch and harden. He clears his throat, “Uh I changed the sheets on my bed so it’s all good for you.”

“Oh thank you! You didn’t have to, I already feel bad for intruding.” You comment while avoiding eye contact with him.

Dante gently places his hand on your cheek and makes you look back at him, “You’re not intruding. I want to help.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s get you to bed okay?” You just nod and follow him. He points out where he left your stuff and says feel free to take your time in the morning. He bids you a goodnight and heads back downstairs.

You lay down in his bed and instantly hit with warmth and his scent. You know he changed the sheets but they still smell so much like him. The spot you’re laying on is pretty warm which means he was probably laying in bed when you got here. Your heart pangs feeling bad you not only disrupted his peaceful night but that you made him give up his bed. You know he told you not to worry but it still weighs on your conscious. You decide that you’ve done enough thinking and close your eyes. It’s not long after until you fall asleep.

•

You and Dante fell into a nice routine over this past month while you stay at his place. The work has gone smoother than it ever has. You basically hold down the fort while Dante is out on missions. Or when he’s here your communication has gotten a lot clearer. You wouldn’t change this for the world.

You two have also gotten a lot closer this past month. You two will go out to the diner or make home cooked meals together. You’ll also watch movies, play board games or his dancing game or just sit on the couch and gossip all about some of the people that come to the shop.

Tonight you’re here by yourself. Dante won’t get home till later and you don’t know what to do. On nights like these it seems like the day drags on and on. It really rubs it in your face that he isn’t here. You sit on the couch debating what to do.

The door then opens and the smell of pizza hits your nose. Ah he finished his mission early. You turn to see the man smiling and eager to see you. He calls your name, “You won’t believe it! The person I just helped gave me the payment, pizzas and some expensive wine! We are royalty tonight.”

You laugh at his excitement. You grab the pizzas and wine from him, “You can’t have this after you shower. You’re covered in blood.”

“But-“

“No shower no pizza.”

“You’re cruel!” He clutches his hand over his heart. He puts on a dramatic little show and when he sees you’re not budging he relents. “Fine. If my beautiful maiden wants me to shower before I eat, I will do just so!” He then dashes to the bathroom.

You go and set everything down on the table in front of the couch then go to grab napkins, plates and glasses. By the time you’re bringing all this stuff out Dante is out of the bathroom. Someone was obviously eager.

You make plates of pizza for you both while Dante pours some wine for the two of you. You two eat in silence but it’s a nice silence. This is nice. Dante is different than anyone else you’ve eaten with. Dinner can be enjoyed in silence without having to talk to one another. The presence of each other is enough.

Dante finishes his slices first and before he goes to grab more he points out, “Did you know you’ve been here for one month now?”

Taking the time to think about it, you have. This time has flown by and it’s been great. “I didn’t really think about till now.”

“Then let’s call this a celebration yeah?”

You grin at him, “I like the sound of that.” You hold up your wine glass and he reaches for his. “Cheers!” You say in unison while clinking your glasses together. The first sip of wine is strong. The client gave Dante the good stuff.

The night goes on and more pizza is eaten and the wine is all gone. You can feel yourself being tipsy. You’ve never had that strong of a wine before and you’re really feeling it. You look at Dante who is focused on something else in the room. You get up and declare, “I’m going to clean up.”

You get up and try to move around Dante’s legs but end up falling. He is quick to catch you but clumsily. Which leads you to the position you two are in now. You’re in his lap with your hands on his chest while his hands are tightly holding onto your waist. Your heads are barely apart that your foreheads are almost touching. You two both just deeply look into each other’s eyes without saying anything.

“Dante,” you whisper deciding to break the tension.

You see him swallow but never takes his eyes off of you, “Yeah?”

“I-“

“Can I kiss you?” He cuts you off with a harbored breath.

“Please.”

He surges up and connects your lips. The kiss is hot and lustful. His tongue sneaks his way into your mouth and aggressively fights against yours. You barely have a chance to connect yours with his to move in sync. He’s going rough and not letting go of control.

He pulls you closer to him that’s when your core comes into contact with his length. You feel it already hardened and bulging in his pants. The newly added friction makes your panties get even more wet than they already are. You can’t help but crave more and grind down onto him.

You moan at the new friction which causes him to groan and pull back from the kiss. You two are panting heavily while enjoying the friction you’re both getting. You’re so close, it’s embarrassing but you can’t help it. You’ve finally get the chance to be with the beautiful man you’ve wanted for years. You can’t help but be excited.

Your speed picks up and Dante senses that you’re close. “Are you close baby?”

You lean your forehead against his and whine, “So close. So so so so close, uhhh Dante-“

“Shhhh, I got you.” He starts to thrust up to add the more friction you’re craving. From the extra movement from Dante you’re sent over the edge. You throw your head back and scream out his name followed by a long moan.

Dante can’t tear his gaze off of you. You’re so breathtaking like this. How you look when you hit your high only makes his dick harder. He feels like he’s about to bust in his pants but he can’t. He can’t ruin this at all. He can’t mess up his chance to be with you. He has to make sure he doesn’t cum before you two get to the main event.

After you finish you fall onto Dante and he’s quick to wrap his arms around you. He presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “Such a good girl for me.”

You whimper at his comment and push yourself back to look at him, “But you didn’t come…”

Dante’s trademark smirk finally makes an appearance, “You’re severely mistaken if you think we are done.”

“What-“ you’re then carried up to his bedroom where he slams the door shut with a kick. You flinch at the sound and wonder how the hell the door didn’t break with the contact. Dante gently lays you down gently onto his bed. Sensing your worries about the door he leans down and whispers, “It’s fine, not like it’s going to do much anyways. The neighbors are going to hear you anyway.”

Your face burns bright red to his implication. Dante goes back to lean over you and laughs at your reaction. He thinks it’s adorable how easily you flush at his comments. You do the same thing when he compliments you. He’s grown to love it so much.

He leans down to kiss you again but this one is much softer and slow compared to the one you two first shared. Your lips move together and have no rush behind it. You both are savoring this kiss.

Dante breaks the kiss first again but he doesn’t stop. He continues down your chin to your neck. He spends some time sucking, licking and kissing your neck. You start to feel the heat down there again. You jerk your hips to try and get some friction again but feel his big hands slam your hips back down. He pulls back from your neck a bit, “There’s no rush baby. Let’s enjoy this.”

You groan in frustration, “Dante please-“

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

“Where?”

“Danteeeeeeee,” you cry out.

“What? You gotta be more specific because as I see it, I’m touching you right now.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Baby I just said I’m touching you.”

You cry out in frustration, “Dante I want you to touch my pussy.”

“See, was that so hard?”

You go reply to his snippy remark but are cut off when his finger slip past the seam of your shorts and into your panties. He runs his finger up and down your slit feeling your wetness and your cum from earlier. He groans at the feeling, “This all for me?”

“Yes only for you,” you whine while trying to grind onto his fingers.

Seeing your neediness and since you responded oh so well to his question he decides to reward you and insert two fingers into your wet hole.

You moan loudly at the intrusion. His fingers are so long and thick. They get places you can’t even reach with your own. He sets a steady pace and moves his fingers around a bit. Until you moan even louder and arch your back. Perfect, he found it.

Dante found that spot that makes you see stars. He quickens his pace and pressure to bring you closer to the edge. He knows you’re close again because you are starting to clench his fingers tighter.

All you can get out besides breaths is his name and more. Dante has mercy and doesn’t tease you again and adds another finger and starts to rub your clit with his thumb. He starts to follow the path again he was following earlier with his kisses. He kisses down your neck to your chest until he gets stopped by that tank top that has been taunting him for the past month.

He pulls down your tank top to continue his path. Before he pays attention to your breasts he mumbles, “You little minx for always wearing these tiny tank tops and shorts around me.” He latches onto your nipple and starts sucking while alternating between rolling the perk bud around in his mouth.

He brings his other hand up to massage the breast his mouth isn’t attached to. This sends your body into over drive. You clutch at his hair tightly and scream. You pull at his hair to keep him as close as you can and silently beg him not to stop.

With the extra stimulation he can tell you’re close to your climax. He rubs your clit harder and faster which helps send you over the edge. Your back is arching off the bed again while you let moan after moan out. It’s music to his ears and he wishes it could be on repeat in his head forever.

He lightens his speeds and touch when he feels you start to come down from your high. He pops off from your nipple and looks at your blissed out face. You have tears rolling down your face while you’re trying hard to catch your breath. He then pulls his fingers out of you and then watches you groan at the loss feeling.

Dante watches you blink slowly, “You back with me sweetheart?” He then puts his fingers in his mouth and licks your essence off of them. You moan while watching him do that and it’s only turning you on once more.

Between breaths all you say is “more.”

Being the gentlemen he is, he does as he’s told. He pushes himself off the bed and you whine, “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere baby,” he laughs out. “I gotta get undressed before I undress you.”

There’s that adorable blush he loves. But he can’t tell if that’s from his comment or how you feel looking at his body. He stands before you completely naked with his muscles and dick being flaunted. He knows he’s long and thick, so it’s going to hurt a bit but he’s determined to make this amazing for you.

He then leans over the bed and quickly undresses you after he gets your permission to do so. Once your clothes joined his on the floor he’s back to hovering over you. He lines himself up with your hole and looks back at you, “It’s probably going to hurt, just tell me if it gets to be too much.”

“Promise.” You lightly smile at him.

He begins to push in slowly to let you get use to his size. He pushes in a bit and lets you adjust and continues that until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. Once he gets closers to fully being inside you he hears you wince and pain on your face.

“Shit baby I thought I told you to tell me to stop if it hurts.”

“No please don’t, just push the rest of the way in. I’ll adjust I promise. Don’t stop.”

Dante bites his lip and pushes in the rest of the way fast to connect you both fully. You scream and scrape down his back with your nails. He groans at the feeling of your wet and warm walls around him but also the burn from your nails. It’s taking everything inside of him not to pound you into this mattress.

He waits until you give him the go ahead to continue. He feels your nails ease up in his bad and your body loosen a bit. Dante looks down he sees you shake your head.

He pulls out a little bit and pushes back in immediately. Once you get use to the pace he pulls out more and more until the only thing left in is his tip. When he sees that you are comfortable and pleasured face he increases his pace and strength.

He’s pounding into you hard and fast. He feels you trying to grind up into him to match his speed and that only makes him go even more feral. Dante places both hands on your hips and pounds into your hole even faster than you could have thought.

You’re “singing” again. Your moans, groans, screams and screeches are the only thing living in his mind right now. Each time he hits your g spot and you scream out his name he only wants to go harder and faster.

“That’s it, sing for my baby girl. Let everyone know who is fucking this pussy so good.”

“DANTE!” You scream out as he abuses your hole.

“I’m going to ruin this pussy so no other man can think he can even come close to me.” He grabs your face with one of his hands. His eyes a steely focused but are blown wide by bliss, “This pussy is mine.”

His possessiveness makes your stomach fill with butterflies. You did your nails deeper into his back, “All yours, only yours. Always has been.” You say between bated breaths.

“Damn right baby.”

“Dante…. so close, please.” You keep repeating please.

Dante buries his head into your neck and continues his pace, “I know I’m close too.”

After a couple more thrusts you feel the tether almost snapping. You cry out his name again and he pulls himself out of your neck. Your eyes are closed as you wait for bliss.

“Open your eyes.” Dante demands.

You open your eyes and blink the tears away and look at him. His bright blue eyes are barely there due to his pupils being blown wide. “Look at me when you come.”

Those words send you over the edge and you watch him while you coat his dick in come. He groans at the feeling and almost burst right there. He holds himself back so he doesn’t ruin your high.

“Baby I’m close, where-“

“Inside!”

His eyes widen, “Are you sure?”

“Yes please, fuck please just cum inside!”

“Well who am I to deny a request from my girl.” He does one final thrust and empties himself into you. He falls on top of you and catches his breath. He feels your hold loosens on his and he looks up at you.

Your breath is evening out but you feel asleep. He laughs at the thought. He really did push you, he got three amazing blissed moments out of you. He gently pulls out and goes to grab a towel to clean you up. Dante wipes you down and himself then throws the towel on the floor.

He hops into bed and pulls you into his arms. With this post nut clarity he wonders how this is going to change the dynamic between you two. He wonders what you’re going to think and say in the morning. He tries not to place himself with those thoughts and just enjoy the feeling of you in his arms because this might be the only chance he gets.

•

You wake up to the sun shining brightly in your face. Did you forget to close the blinds before you went to bed? You curse your forgetfulness and go to get out of bed to close them so you can go back to sleep. You’re then stopped when you feel a strong grip around your waist. You slowly turn around and see Dante behind you. Naked.

The memories pop up from the night before. You and Dante eating pizza and drinking wine on the couch then next he got three orgasms from you and came inside of you. Holy shit. What did you do!?

You try to wiggle out of his grip but he’s quick to pull you into him, “Stop just go back to sleep.” He mumbles into your shoulder.

You can’t take the thought of it anymore. You probably ruined all of this. You can help but let the sob stuck in your throat come up. You feel Dante instantly shift and hover above you once again.

“What’s wrong?” He frantically asks.

You press your hands to your face and sob, “I’m so sorry. I ruined all of this. I’ve liked you for so long and now I took advantage of you. I forced myself into your house and now I took advantage of you. I’m so sorry. I hate myself of all of this. I’m so stupid.”

Dante is quick to pry your hands off of your face. You lock your gaze with him and see him looking pissed. Great now you mad him mad. You want to hide again and not see that face again.

“Don’t you dare say you’re stupid. That is one of the last things I’d ever use to describe you. You didn’t do shit. You didn’t ruin anything. I knew what I was doing last night and getting into. I also knew I wasn’t going to leave you on the damn street because I want you with me always. I don’t regret anything and never will. I have liked you for the longest time and now that I have you I’m not letting you go so easily.”

“You… you like me?”

“Yes, I have since you started working here.”

“Dante… I’ve liked you since I started working here. I tried to flirt and get your attention but it never seemed to work that’s why I started dating my ex.”

His eyes widen, “What? You did?” You nod and he hangs his head, “Fuck, so I could have had you earlier.”

You know he’s saying that to himself and not to you. You let him work out his thoughts and what he wants to say next.

“I am so sorry.” He picks his head back up but now he looks determined, “I promise from here and now you have my full undivided attention. I really love you and I don’t want to waste any more time.”

You beam up at him, “I love you too.”

He flops back down on you and cuddles you like you’re a teddy bear. “Now that’s settled, back to sleep we go.”

#dante x reader #dante sparda x reader

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thewertsearch · 8 hours ago

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JOHN: now that you mention it, i'm pretty beat. JOHN: also… starving!!! JADE: woof! JADE: whoops

"i cant really control the woofs :/"

JOHN: [...] one of the last things rose saw before she died was me dying… JOHN: i wonder if she knows i'm ok? JADE: im pretty sure she knows a ton of things now JADE: considering she is a fully realized seer of light

Not that we've been told what that actually means.

Rose herself believes that Seers of Light are cognizant of 'the big picture', but can't see fine details. It sounds like a 'fuzzy' sort of clairvoyance - an ability which supplies her with some basic facts about a subject, but not the nuances.

Her God Tier self presumably has the same ability, but with greater scope. I'm imagining it as the ability to read a Sparknotes summary of any subject in existence, including the current status of her loved ones.

Our newly-minted goddess of Light probably knows the essentials of John and Jade's situation - that they're alive, unharmed, and travelling to the new session - but can't actually scry on their conversation.

JADE: if you go i dont think i can bring you back JADE: i cant bring anyone or anything to here from there!

Thought so. While it would be cool to unite all these long-distance-friends for good, keeping them apart will make for some nice drama. Besides, their reunion will be even sweeter after a three-year wait.

JADE: if theres a way i havent figured it out yet JADE: i am still kind of new to this omnipotence thing after all :\

Yeah, and there's one particular facet of First Guardianhood that's going to hit you like a train.

Intelligent first Guardians are near-omniscient.

Now, Jade doesn't appear to have unlocked this trait yet - but she's a smart cookie, and no one said it had to happen instantly. If I'm any judge, she's got a big storm coming.

JOHN: what is with all these rules! [...] JADE: maybe to somewhat limit the power and reach of omnipotent beings?

Hilarious sentence. No notes.

JOHN: if there are limits to your powers, you can't exactly be OMNIpotent, can you? JOHN: more like… JOHN: semipotent.

...and you'd better believe I'm stealing that one.

JOHN: so, the dog ears… JOHN: is that a permanent thing now, or what? JADE: i think so JOHN: i like them. JADE: i do too! JOHN: you are like a furry now, but not really the weird kind that people on the internet like to have sex with in their imagination.

How the fuck do you know about those? You're like, the poster child of sheltered upbringings!

...it was Dave, wasn't it.

JOHN: hey, can i at least send a message through? JOHN: like a note or something?

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 6 #s199 #4338 #memes

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wardingshout · 1 day ago

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hey guys have you ever heard about the game Star Stealing Prince? <- that's a rly cool link

sweet dreams and not so sweet dreams

#OK I'M RUBBING MY HANDS TOGETHER BC IT NEEDS TO BE DONE #and I promise I'll finish new art soon and I promise I'm working on Zelda stuff but also;;... I need to pitch ssp real quick #since Jean posted smth so cool !!! I'm not missing the opportunity !!!!!#and I Will be back with this game in the future I'm sorry but I am in fact unbearable ! esp about this !#ok first! quick facts! free indie rpg! 10ish hours long! turn based combat and lots of fun exploration!#there's a definitive edition but it only covers the intro to the game so go for the og and check the new version out later if u like it ;3c #the burden of presenting a game so important to you is quite heavy nothing I ever say will be enough #but !! it's about this rly pretty wonderful little snowy kingdom where everything is nice and chill!#all the town npcs are named characters with their own personalities and I love them lots!#one night the prince starts having weird dreams that make him realize maybe his late? parents weren't as nice as they seemed #and they may have imprisoned someone in a tower outside town #he decides to go rescue her but things don't go as expected and when he returns home everything is. pretty different!#all the characters and the writing is super charming! there are so many little references and hints to find!#it makes for fun replays but it's also just good for building up the atmosphere on it's own ;v;#exploring areas and interacting with stuff is super mega rewarded with both cute little scenes and interesting things about the world!#FUCK IT I PUT THE LINK IN THE POST Ronove explains it the best of course !#I think !! if you're here for Zelda you will enjoy the atmosphere a lot !!#and if you're here for Megaten you will enjoy the gameplay a lot! it's tough turn based combat with ailments and buffs being very important #and if you're here for KH!! then the characters will do it! they're cute and they're sad and they're besties ever...#the game is visually so beautiful !!! it has 2 different endings that are both really interesting!#the snowmen talk and tell you heartwarning little things. the scarecrows talk and are unsettling! I like them :)#idk I just !! love this game a lot it's very important and I've been thinking about it regularly for like 10 years #if anyone thinks anything at all about it seems interesting it is so worth giving a shot! it's free and short so no big commitment either!#and if anyone Does check it out it's Necessary to drop the hint that talking to ppl right before leaving town is Very recommended wink wink #you get rly useful items but Especially. a couple of the kids give you reusable debuff items that are lifesavers #the game can be pretty tough but it's so worth it and there's a full guide on the game's itch.io page if it's ever needed!#AAAAH IDK I LOVE STAR STEALING PRINCE and it's my duty to at least makre sure more ppl know it exists <3<3<33 #even just knowing of it... that's important to me too !#running in circles running in circles running in circles !!!!!!!!!!#ANYWAY IF ANY CRAZY PERSON MADE IT THIS FAR. last reblog is more important holy shIT IS It important

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writingjourney · 15 hours ago

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⛧ BERLIN RITUAL RECAP ⛧

first of thank you all for being so kind yesterday. i tried to add everything i could think of, but my brain was fairly fried and i was so incredibly immersed in the moment that i did not pay attention to every single detail. but here goes ✨

Our seats ended up being super amazing, I had a sort of steep sideways angle to the stage from Phantom’s side and except for some people around me standing to block some of the views at times it was super nice to see the whole stage and screens, we were exactly on eye level whenever they went onto the left side platform which made it all super nice and interactive

Generally, Papa was really chatty when he did speak and also was trying to engage a lot with Berlin personally, like he made many references to how the band was here before (not he himself, it is his first time of course!! which was a very fun and sort of fourth wall breaking moment) and that he enjoys Berlin and we’ve always been so good to the band

His voice to ME was veeeeery different from Copia’s especially during his first little speech, it sounded a bit higher, less cackly and more peppy, sort of. He sounded very distinct to me but I can’t really explain what exactly it sounded like, he did not make overly crass jokes like Copia but he did curse like him and he WAS hooooorny in his movements

His voice sounds incredible live, Peacefield went so incredibly hard but the crowd really popped during Lachryma, Satanized also really hit the crowd around me, as did Rats and of course the encore songs and year zero

They played Pinnacle and CMLS and seeing the propped up Papa on his little column in the back from my side by the stage was a hilarious angle of it

Priest-bias on the screen during Satanized!!

He said we are in times with a lot of turmoil and the world is not as nice as it should be, and he then said things are kind of scheiße-esque which will now forever wander into my vocabulary😭

hearing TFIAFL in East Berlin hits different, him singing about the Stasi guard while a big remaining chunk of the Berlin Wall is right across the venue did really get me

In general TFIAFL got me good, the energy was incredible and everyone in my area was belting it, I was half-crying but it was such a good, affirming feeling

Somehow I hadn’t heard that they have a lit-up Ghost logo in the background of one song, I can’t remember which one it was though but it was super cool (Luise tells me it was Squammer!)

During Ritual Papa was on our side for a bit and the hip movements were SENSUAL, I’m telling you, he also did the microphone penis bit here I’m sure

Where I sat, we got allllll the Phantom action, like SO MUCH. He was SO interactive and charming and he at some point played the guitar underneath his leg that was propped up for a pretty long time, absolutely slayed and engaged with us so much, blew kisses, had us react to specific song parts

Before Cirice he did the thing where he had each side of the crowd go loud and then quiet again, it was super entertaining and the people around me were fucking with him by whistling when he tried to get us to be quiet and he made some playfully angry gestures

I didn’t see much of the other ghouls on my side tbh but Cirrus definitely slayed once again with the solo and also I saw a lot of the ghouls interacting with each other really sweetly, getting each other hyped up

He let us sing a good chunk of DATHOML which ended up working out WAY better than I thought, usually this type of thing with Germans is very risky lol, I loved the song live, he sounded so good

The Umbra run was back for sure and it was greatly amusing

KTGG speech: He talked about how he always comes to Berlin in spring time and it makes him want to hug someone, he said he wants to hug all of us but that would just take too much time because look there are so many of us, he CAN offer us a kiss though

Also the background during KTGG with the goat/anus imagery made me cackle, but in general the backgrounds were SO nice

At some point Dew grabbed Papa’s butt and they were half-hugging while Papa praised him for playing so amazing with his broken foot

Encore bit: In a very funny mocking German accent he did the thing where he says, oh you think we’re so predictable, you think we’ll play another song!! well, we’re not like other bands, we played all our greatest hits already, we’ll play you a song that is 10 minutes long, a kind of jazz rap number, Krautrock (very apt reference for the German crowd), and he also brought the lowkey aggressive NEIN NEIN NEIN back

He said it was a school night, actually pronounced Mittwoch perfectly in German and then was mighty confused that Berlin has a holiday tomorrow, so it was in fact NOT a school night, so he asked if the crowd was fucking with him when they answered no

He also said something else in German (I think) instead of one last one up the poopchute but I did not acoustically hear it, in general sometimes when he talked I just could not make out the words

As I said in my post, after the ritual was over, I thought I’d take the chance to see if the kind security people would maybe hand me some mummy dust and I honestly kinda just forgot that papa was still doing his rounds on stage and happened to run exactly up to that barrier as he came onto the platform one or two meters away, a handful of others were standing there with me as well and he blew us kisses as he does and waved and he stayed a LONG time while we interacted back with hearts and I blew him a kiss back. He was SMILING SO MUCH. It still makes me want to cry how genuinely happy he seemed. (I did get mummy dust, luise also collected one for me <33)

Some infos about the Pop-Up store and merch etc. for those who might be wondering:

It was not close to the venue, idk if that’s the case for other cities but it was quite the annoying mid-berlin-traffic drive, so maybe plan in some extra time and check where it is if you’re not familiar with the city

Suuuuuuper kind staff, like genuinely they were so lovely and chatty (but the venue staff as well, sooooo nice which tbh in Germany is something to point out but that is my general experience in Berlin, they are lovely there)

I got the Berlin exclusive shirt but they actually ALSO had a Berlin exclusive shirt at the venue merch stall that was different (in the style of the regular tour shirts), so I actually have two versions now and both are very nice

There was this big sort of poster wall of Papa with a carpet where I think you could have taken pictures

Prices are similar to the merch at the venue I would say, only the shirt was 60€ (the shirts are 50€ at the venue) and they had a lot of bits and bots that were kinda pricy, I did not get the exclusive necklace because I don’t wear silver but it looked cool! I got a cute pin instead

They also had three different Ghost cups at the venue (which the kind staff allowed us to buy without drinks after the ritual was over) so get your drinks friends lol

#the band ghost #berlin ritual #skeletour spoilers #skeletour #skeletour berlin

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featseungmin · 2 days ago

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breathe || ksm

kim seungmin x reader

A little league game is the perfect opportunity to introduce your boyfriend to your family. Word Count: 3,212 Genre: fluff Notes: hints of tall!reader, American!reader, reader gets hit by a baseball Thank you to @eerieedits for the beautiful banner once again, and to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta-ing 💙💙

“Breathe.” You bump your shoulder into Seungmin’s lightly, your voice soft as you try to make him more comfortable.

He’s been low-key freaking out since you invited him to the game. And you get it. Really, you do. A last-minute little league game isn’t the most conventional place to meet your girlfriend’s family. Most people do dinner. A casual outing. Maybe a nice cookout.

Not a last-minute invite to a 12-year-old’s home opener when you just happen to be in the area on a mini-vacation.

Seungmin laughs and squeezes your hand, making a show of taking a deep breath. “I’m not nervous,” he declares, and you’d believe him if you didn’t know him so well.

“Sure.” You lean into him, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You have no reason to be. They’re gonna love you.”

It’s April, and it’s freezing, and you didn’t really pack the clothes to sit for two hours on metal bleachers. But you moved to Korea before your cousin started playing baseball, and you haven’t yet been able to watch him play. And Seungmin, bless him, had been so eager to agree when you’d told him about the game.

You stand in the gravel parking lot, waiting for your aunt and uncle to come find you. You can tell Seungmin’s nervous just based on how he’s standing. He’s got your hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie in an attempt to be casual, but the way he’s bouncing up and down on his toes is a dead giveaway. It’s cute. He’s cute.

When your aunt finally does find you, she greets Seungmin like he’s already family, hugging him right alongside you. You barely even have time to get his name out; she just pulls him right in. He practically squeaks in surprise, but otherwise, he doesn’t say anything, just returns the hug warmly.

It’s sweet, how doe-eyed he is as your aunt leads you to where they’re sitting. “This isn’t what I was expecting,” he whispers, leaning in close.

And truthfully, you don’t blame him. The field is small compared to the youth fields in Seoul, with only three sets of bleachers and a small, rickety concession stand. You aren’t even sure there’s a locker room, just the batting cages where the players for the upcoming game are congregated.

Your cousin sees you first, and even though you haven’t seen him in years, he’s the same kid you remember. Same dirty blond hair, lanky frame, crooked, doofy smile. He’s just taller. He launches himself at you, and you have to quickly separate yourself from Seungmin to avoid getting you both knocked over.

“You’re here!” Braydon buries his face into your stomach, his deep blue hat pushing back off his head and falling into the dirt.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After a second, he pulls away and eyes Seungmin, who stands just off to the side. “Who’s the dude?” he asks flatly.

You can’t help but laugh. He’s so serious as he’s staring Seungmin down, even though he’s more than two feet shorter. It’s not even threatening–you don’t think he’s trying to be–more like he’s trying to size up this new person, get a read on him. But he’s 12 and doesn’t know much about people, so it comes out more like he’s giving your partner the stink eye.

Seungmin snorts, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Pretty big words for someone so short.”

“This is my partner, Seungmin.” You introduce him hurriedly, hooking your arm around his bicep. You aren’t really sure what else to say. You’ve never gotten to the point where you’ve wanted to introduce a partner to your family, let alone any from after you’d moved away. “He likes baseball, too.”

Your uncle offers a hand first. “Boomer.” He says it almost gruffly, as if the name isn’t entirely an inside joke.

Seungmin looks at you, confused, and you whisper a soft, “Don’t ask.” before he leans forward and shakes your uncle’s hand. He shakes your aunt’s hand, too, when she introduces herself, even though she’s already hugged him.

Braydon picks up his hat, eyes still narrowed at Seungmin. “What position?” He asks it like it’s an interrogation. And really, you suppose it is. For a 12-year-old, this might be the most important question your boyfriend could ever answer.

“Pitcher. You?”

“First base.”

“Nice. That’s a tough position.”

Your cousin nods. You get the sense that a test has been passed.

A man in his mid-30s shouts, and suddenly, all the boys milling about around you spring into action, jogging into the dugout. After a few moments, they all end up out on the field with their gloves and a bucketful of baseballs. Your uncle gestures toward the metal bleachers on this side of the fence.

“Mom and dad coming?” you ask as you slide onto the cold bench. You hope it sounds casual, though based on the way Seungmin squeezes your leg when he sits, you aren’t sure you’re successful.

Your aunt shakes her head. “Your dad had to work.”

You aren’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Thankfully, you don’t have much time to consider it. The PA system crackles to life, a familiar guitar melody floating out over the field. You laugh just as Seungmin’s head whips to look at you, confusion evident on his face. You have no idea why his song is playing, but you have a feeling your cousin is behind it.

“They all add two songs to the team playlist,” your aunt supplies helpfully from behind you. She continues, voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s been obsessed with the idea of a famous person in the family since you told us.”

“Kid’s got good taste,” Seungmin says, but there’s a slight pink to his cheeks and a shy smile on his lips.

It’s not even the bottom of the first by the time Seungmin starts to fidget. He’s never been able to sit still–his members make fun of him for it all the time–but this is the quickest you’ve seen him start to get antsy. At first, he drums on his knees along with the beat of the walk-up songs. He shifts his weight. First, forward, with his forearms on his knees. Then, back, holding onto the back of the metal bleachers to help him keep his balance. The old, weathered seats creak and groan every time he moves. He taps his toes against the footrest at particularly tense parts, moves his whole body to track the ball when it’s hit.

You slide closer, a little weary of blocking the view for your aunt and uncle behind you, but you curl in on yourself slightly and press closer into Seungmin’s side. He shifts slightly to accommodate you, the warmth of him more than enough to keep the chill of the wind at bay. You rest your arm across his thigh, hand brushing the inside of his knee, and almost immediately, he stops fidgeting, choosing instead to play with your fingers.

You know that, deep down, he’s nervous, even though your aunt and uncle have been unbelievably normal about meeting him, more than you’d expected, all things considered. But at the same time, he’s sort of always like this, a constant stream of energy bubbling just below the surface, begging to be released in some way. You’ve long grown used to the pacing, the tapping, the stretching.

It’s sweet, how quickly he’s pacified by simply having your hand in his. Like a puppy with a favorite toy, he’s content to sit there, tracing your fingers, pressing his palm against yours, comparing the size of your hand to his own. After years of being together, he’s mapped your hands probably thousands of times. You wouldn’t be surprised if he knew the planes of both of yours better than he knew his own. Even now, his focus is rapt on the pitcher, but his fingers trace your knuckles like a worry stone.

He’s still through the top of the fifth inning, even though the game is mostly uneventful. Your cousin’s team isn’t great–more Bad News Bears than the Cubs, if you’re being honest. But they manage to keep the other team to two runs.

“He’s pretty good,” Seungmin says after your cousin snags a ball out of the air. He cheers when Braydon rears back and rockets the ball toward home in an attempt to get the runner out. The catcher fumbles it, and the other team scores, but beside you, your partner beams. “Wicked throw!”

“He did some extra practice in the off-season,” your uncle explains. “He asked Santa for pitching lessons.”

You laugh. “They seem like they paid off.”

The inning switches over without much fanfare. It’s slow going, watching your cousin’s team stumble their way to success. The first batter–halfway through the lineup–walks without swinging once. The second one up manages to single, and he’s barely able to make it to first before the ball. Before the next batter makes it to the plate, the other team’s coach calls a time out and swaps their pitcher with their second baseman.

The incoming pitcher warms up, and beside you, Seungmin starts to get restless again. He curls an arm around your own and pats your hand in time with the beat of the song playing over the loudspeaker. It’s some 80s song that you’re only vaguely familiar with. He lets out a soft ‘oof’ as the other pitcher launches a fastball right over the plate as he warms up. The smack of the ball against the leather of the catcher’s mitt echoes over the music.

“Kid’s good.”

You hum in agreement. “He looks like a mini-you.”

“Oh?”

“Look at him. He’s like 80 percent leg.”

The laugh that bubbles out of him is melodic, if not a little crazed. The kid on the mound isn’t very tall, but he’s lithe and leggy and more or less what you’d imagine a pre-teen Seungmin would have looked like.

“Braydon hates hitting off Cade,” your aunt says. “His dad teaches the pitching camp he went to.”

You turn to respond, leaning against Seungmin’s shoulder so that you can look at her properly. “He’s really good. Is his dad-”

The sharp ding! of ball meeting bat barely registers. You hear someone–a man, maybe the first base coach?–yell “Heads!” and beside you, Seungmin barely gets out a panicked “oh!” before the ball is over the fence. You feel it before you see it, a sharp thump against the bend of your knee. It stings, even through your jeans, the way leather on skin at a high velocity tends to do.

You laugh.

Your aunt and uncle do, too.

Because it’s ridiculous. You travel all the way around the world, come to one baseball game, and of course, you get hit by the first foul that flies over the fence. Ridiculous.

Beside you, Seungmin looks at you like you got hit in the face instead of the fatty part of your leg. “You should pay more attention to the game,” he scolds, as if this wasn’t the first time in five innings that you looked away from the field. But his eyes are soft, and he reaches across you to gently prod at your knee. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine. Barely even hurts.”

“Do you want me to go see if they have ice?”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s not that bad.”

“That was a heavy pitch.” His voice is low, soft. You know he’s worried. Even though his first instinct is always to scold, and to pick, and to grouse, he’s a worrier.

“Would it make you feel better to go get me ice?”

“I just don’t want it to swell. I can’t drive the rental car.”

“Okay, puppy.” You squeeze his hand. “Some ice would be great.”

Your uncle points off to the left, toward home plate. “They have it at the concession stand. It’s just a Ziploc baggie, but-”

“Ice is ice.” Seungmin kisses your temple quickly before sliding off the bleachers. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s not even 10 steps away when your aunt yanks you backwards so that you’re leaning against her legs. “He seems sweet.” She whispers it like it’s gossip, like you’re in high school and talking about a boy.

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.” You grin.

It’s an understatement. Of course it is. But before you can elaborate, the crack of a bat draws your attention. It’s a solid bunt, and you cheer for the kid whose name you don’t know as he runs hard to first. The ball bounces into the alley between the center and right fielder and rolls its way toward the fence, leaving the other team to scramble backwards to retrieve it and get it in. Kid–whose name you can’t pick out from the cheering–jams his foot into the bag and rounds toward second just as the kid that had been on second hits home. The point ignites something in the dugout; you can see your cousin’s team jumping and screaming through the chainlink.

Things calm down. The next batter comes up. There’s a kid on second and another on third.

“So he’s good? We like him?” Your aunt questions, her hands back on your shoulders. “You’ve never let us meet anyone.”

“Yeah.” It’s soft, but you can’t really bring yourself to say it any louder.

It’s been nearly two years, but even still, your relationship with Seungmin is still just that. Soft. Tender. Strong at the edges and goey in the middle like some of the best desserts. You could wax poetic, say how he makes you better, how you like to think that you’ve grown separately stronger by working together.

That he’s somehow simultaneously made you realize why all of your–admittedly few–past relationships didn’t work out and ruined the entire male population for you forever.

That it doesn’t matter where you go, whether it’s on vacation or following him across the world from tour stop to tour stop–as long as he’s there, you can find a home anywhere.

You could tell her all of that. And maybe, someday, you will. Instead, though, you just nod. “He’s good. I think I’ll keep him. For a little while, at least.”

“He likes you,” Boomer says, eyes still on the field. His face is shadowed by the baseball cap he’s wearing, dark blue to match Braydon’s own, pulled low.

“Yeah?”

You don’t really need to hear him say it. You know Seungmin likes you. You know he loves you. But it’s nice to hear someone else recognize it. It’s nice to hear that it’s obvious, even to someone who doesn’t know your dynamic and doesn’t know him.

He nods, clears his throat, groans when the kid at bat swings on an above-the-shoulder pitch. “Hopefully you guys can find time to come around more.”

“We miss you.” Your aunt squeezes your shoulders before getting distracted by the pitcher walking the hitter. “Good try, Harrison! Way to watch the ball!” she yells.

And when her hands don’t immediately come back to rest on your shoulders, you lean forward.

It’s good timing, because Seungmin climbs back up into the bleachers. They clank and jump under his weight as he clambors over the two rows of seats. He settles on your other side now, the side you got hit on, and gently presses the bag of ice he’s retrieved against your knee. You take it from him, fingers curling around his own.

“Your cousin was very worried about you,” he says, just as Braydon walks up to the plate.

“Yeah?” you question, your grip on his hand tightening.

Bases are loaded.

You don’t envy your cousin right now.

“He came running out of the dugout asking if you were the one that got hit.” Seungmin winces as Braydon whiffs on a high pitch. “I told him we’d have to amputate your leg.”

“You didn’t.”

He hums. “He said you’re lucky you didn’t get hit in the head. It would’ve knocked out what little brain you have left.”

“Did he really?”

Honestly, you’d believe it. Your aunt and uncle raised him to be a sarcastic little shit in their image. Unfortunately, you don’t know if he really said it, or if Seungmin’s just being a menace.

Braydon swings on another high ball, and behind you, your uncle shouts. “Come on, B! Head on the ball.”

“We were chatting, too, while he was warming up,” Seungmin continues. “He’s nervous about the bases being loaded.”

You watch as the pitcher tosses one into the dirt at Braydon’s feet. Your aunt cheers behind you.

“Yeah? What’d you tell him?”

The pitcher prepares. You watch Braydon toe the dirt, adjust his grip on the bat, take a deep breath. The pitch comes hard and fast, a real heater right down the center. You squeeze Seungmin’s hand just as the bat cracks.

The ball travels in slow motion, a perfect arc through the air. The infielders don’t even try, it’s over their heads and behind them in an instant. The centerfielder starts to run in an attempt to back up his partner in right field. They run hard, tracking the ball back, back, back…

They hit the fence. The ball bounces into the grass on the other side.

You and Seungmin spring to your feet. The bag of ice plops to the pavement below. The roar that erupts, from the stands and from the dugout, is deafening. Seungmin’s arms wrap around you as you cheer together, jumping up and down in sync on the rickety bleachers.

Braydon takes his time jogging around the bases. As he passes where you’re sitting, along the first base line, he sticks his index finger up in the air, twirling it in a circle like the cocky little shit that he is. A massive grin has taken over the entirety of his face.

By the time Braydon makes it back to home plate, his entire team has poured out of the dugout. He stomps the plate and immediately is engulfed in a sea of helmet pats and team hugs. They’re all still screaming.

“Shit,” your uncle says once the cheering has died down. “Now I owe him $100.”

The game continues. Outs come quickly, and the inning ends without much more excitement.

When the inter-inning music starts up, you’re met with another one of Braydon’s song choices. The staccato synth of “Chk Chk Boom” rings out across the field as the other team tosses around the ball. You and Seungmin laugh, and you shoot finger guns at him on-beat.

“What the fuck did you tell him in the dugout?” you ask, leaning close.

You have no idea where the bag of ice has gotten to, but Seungmin’s hand still rests against your knee, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the lump that’s slowly forming there.

He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “I just told him to breathe.”

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harmless-variety-of-garden-snake · 20 hours ago

Note

thank you for reminding me that your tommy is bobby’s son au exists (looooooove it so much) (apollabarnes) (please for the love of god when can i send an ask from a sideblog it’s been 84 years)

I NEED TO GET BACK TO IT. I finally got Tommy to the 118, here's a taste of his first day:

While he's scrubbing down windows, Deluca approaches him.

“Tuscany,” is all he says.

“Campania,” Tommy replies, and Deluca grins, sticking out hand. “Tommy.”

“Sal,” he says as they shake hands. “Wasn’t too sure with a name like Kinard, but it's hard to hide that schnozz.”

Tommy’s eyes cross as he looks at his nose, and Sal cackles when Tommy smiles and shrugs. “How long you been at the 118?”

“Couple years, I transferred from Philly, thought I'd see the Kings get their asses beat up close.” He leans against the frame holding the windows, his arms crossed over his chest. He's handsome, that's for goddamn sure, and charming enough that Tommy has to fight back a blush. “You a local?”

“Sort of,” he says, spraying the window cleaner carefully so it doesn't blow back in their faces. “Grew up in Bakersfield—”

“My condolences.”

“Exactly. But I spend a lot of time in Minnesota with my dad and stepmom, and I was in the Army. Just got out. So I've actually got more Wild loyalty, which is lucky for me.” He grins when Sal laughs, and he's about to ask what other sports he's into when he hears Gerrard call Sal’s name.

“Stop flirting with the probie, Deluca, and get your ass back on that stick check!” Gerrard barks.

Tommy freezes, even though Sal just rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ prick,” Sal mutters, pushing off from the wall. “Nice talking to you.”

“You, too,” Tommy says, even though it feels like there's ice in his lungs.

He tries to keep his head down, and it helps that the alarm starts ringing. Tommy's eventually one of the only people in the station along with Chimney, who seems to be determined to balance an orange on his nose.

“Can you do this?” Chimney asks, wobbling past.

“Never tried,” Tommy replies, smiling and catching the orange when it's tossed his way. It turns out he has an even harder time, but his attempts make Chimney cackle. “Why do they call you that anyway?”

Chimney grins. “Oh, it's a—”

They're cut off by the return of the engine and Gerrard yelling at one of the firefighters.

“He always like that?” Tommy asks softly.

“Nah. Sometimes he's an asshole. You caught him on a good day,” Chimney replies, squeezing his shoulder. “Go make yourself scarce for a bit.”

It's like that all shift. Gerrard finds something or someone to have a problem with, but it's never Tommy because Hen, Chimney, and Sal are running interference. He doesn't get to go on any calls, but he doesn't have to face any wrath or humiliation.

In the morning, Tommy trudges out to his truck, having gotten very little sleep after Gerrard refused to take the house offline all night and the alarm kept going off.

“I know it might not feel like it, but you did good,” Hen says from somewhere off his left elbow. She looks exhausted for a good reason, having put out a house fire and delivered a baby in the last six hours. “It's not easy being new.”

“Transfer, right?” he recalls, and she nods. “Yeah, Sal was, too. High turnover rate here, it seems.”

“Yep,” she says, sighing. “God, I want to crawl in bed with my girl and just sleep until tomorrow.”

Tommy almost asks how and why she could feel okay saying something like that, but Gerrard isn't around to hear it and they're not in the military. She's saying it because she thinks Tommy's okay to say it around. So she either knows or he hasn't given her any reason to think he's like Gerrard.

“She okay with the schedule?” he asks, because he doesn't know how to get her to reveal which option it is. “My dad's on a twenty-four-forty-eight rotation, my stepmom says it's tough.”

“No kids,” she says, shrugging. “And she's got her own stuff going on. Your dad's a firefighter?”

Tommy grins. “I'm a fifth generation firefighter, if you can believe it. I didn't grow up with it, because I didn't know my dad until I was eighteen, but it just kinda felt right.”

“Assigned firefighter at birth?” she teases, and he tries to pin down the reference but can't. “Never mind. That's great, though, that you have that. I had the opposite: Dad took off when I was a kid.”

“That's tough,” he says, and she shrugs. “He didn't know about me. I thought my dad was someone else, then my mom died—it's a long story.”

“We swapping stories?” Chimney asks, having apparently silently jogged up on them. “What kind?”

“Tommy's a legacy firefighter, and he had a Maury thing with his dad,” Hen fills in.

“Ah, correction,” Tommy says, raising a finger. “Thomas Senior knew I wasn't his. Like I said: long story.”

They give him their numbers and get his in return, and Tommy gets into his truck and drives back to his shitty rental, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with the music.

#bucktommy #my wip #i need to have a tag for these snippets #tommy kinard #chimney han #hen wilson #sal deluca

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aziraphales-library · 1 day ago

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Hello mods! The world kinda absolutely sucks right now so I was wondering if you could recommend some fluffy fics? Maybe the ineffable husbands reuniting and making up, them in an established relationship, them getting together, or anything else. I really don't care what the plot is, I just want them to be happy for one. Thanks in advance! <3

We have an abundance of fics on our #fluff tag, there is never a need to wait to access the fluff! Here are even more to add...

Between Stations by in_a_pickle (T)

Dr. Aziraphale Fell (PhD) is great with books, hopeless with people, and wildly unsuited to his new role as a passenger assistant at a bustling London railway station. When he's tasked with guiding a strikingly handsome passenger to his train connection, what should be a routine assignment turns into a saga of unexpected mishaps and quiet revelations. Between Aziraphale's bumbling attempts at help, confusing signage, and a growing infatuation that threatens to derail him entirely, this brief encounter might just change everything—for both of them.

To Catch a Ghost by anatomicgirl (T)

To Catch a Ghost: The show where two (not) supernatural entities are on a quest to prove (or disprove) the existence of the paranormal. Without letting their unspoken feelings for each other get in the way. Enter: a mad (?) old lady, an unassuming (haunted?) country cottage, and a nice-and-accurate book of prophecies that definitely can’t know their secrets (right??). Will they catch a ghost? Or (even more unlikely) talk? Enjoy the show! Or else.

Somewhere In the Middle With You by Mizmak (M)

Can fast-living, carefree Anthony Crowley learn to settle down after losing the bulk of his fortune? Will the bookshop in a South Downs village, which his Aunt Agnes turns over to him, force him to behave—or will he find her only employee, Aziraphale Fell, too much of a distraction? Then there’s Aziraphale—he loves his quiet, sensible life—which is about to be upended by a very attractive man he has nothing in common with. At least, not yet…

Dustlight by hinetti (T)

Aziraphale Fell and Anthony Crowley are authors of popular blogs and books about cleaning one's living space. Their approaches are the polar opposites, which, for years has resulted in them butting heads. Now they are both invited to partake in a World Book Fair in London and do a signing with their fans. They swore not to argue. They argue. All hell breaks loose when it turns out that people love to watch them argue live. Now they have to do a television series about their philosophy in their living environments. Except both of their flats are the very antithesis of their cleaning philosophy. What will they do to save their reputation? Whatever happens, they're not getting out of it if they don't cooperate. A comedy of errors with an ineffable love story!

But, soft! by On1OccasionFork (M)

With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out; And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. -Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene ii Crowley's life is going well. He's got his shop, his friends, and a new flat with a balcony perfect for a few plants. That's when things start to get complicated.

An Angel For Christmas by PhoenixRose314 (T)

When bumbling but well-meaning angel Aziraphale is reassigned to the Angel For Christmas programme, he is humiliated, but knows it's his last chance to prove himself as an angel before he loses his wings forever. He only has a few days in which to grant a child's Christmas wish, reconnect a broken family and earn back his angelic status. No problem, right? Well, it might not have been... if it hadn't been for the child's ill-mannered, grouchy, workaholic, Christmas-hating dad. As Aziraphale races against the clock to try and restore his Christmas spirit and bring him closer to his son, he also finds himself struggling with some new and unexpected feelings of his own...

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #human au #fluff #mod d

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abellmunsonmovie · 3 days ago

Text

Van Palmer Headcanons :)

has niche movie opinions but always has something to back it up, that makes it seem right

Her and Nat used to be really close, when Van moved to Wiskayok she didn’t know anyone but Nat was really nice to her and they bonded over their bad home lives - adding on to that in 6th grade Nat pierced Vans ears for her

Van and Tai became really close in middle school, and they always loved eachother and probably had crushes on eachother longer than they realized, but it really hit for Van when Tai took her to the fair and they had a sleep over and they watched Desert Hearts in 9th grade and half the time she was watching the movie, half the time she was watching Tai - who was very into the movie, and that’s when Van knew

Undiagnosed adhd

Her and tai have secret matching tattoos on their hips

She’s a foodie, more so because in the wilderness they didn’t get to eat hardly and when they did…well-

Had/has a crush on Jodie Foster and loves Hannibal

Adding onto that, she’s a big horror movie buff

Used to wanna be a movie director, and even did a short film, but she felt like it wouldn’t take off as well as she wanted so she opened the store instead (she would’ve been a great movie director)

Constant state of nostalgia

Ibuprofen queen (me too)

drinks a addictive amount of coffee, like it doesn’t even wake her up really anymore she’s so used to drinking coffee

will playfully smack your ass or squeeze your boobs (if ur okay with that ofc)

after her and tai broke up, she cut her hair super short like REALLY SHORT, think like a pixie or lauren Ambrose in can’t hardly wait

tried art school but hated all the people so only went for half a year

is a major theater kid and did a play in art school

LOVES KARAOKE, she didn’t have that mic for no reason

when drunk, is the giggliest person ever and she’s so touchy and clingy

her love language is touch, words of affirmation and acts of service, she’s chronically touch starved and always has a hand on your thigh or waist. and she loves getting help around the store or even as simple as you fixing a light bulb or doing the dishes

her favorite season is fall

NSFW UNDER HERE!!!

MUNCHHHHHH!!!!! she loves eating out her girl after a long day at the store

major switch, and I feel like when she’s a dom - she’s a soft dom. but when shes sub she is a WHIMPERING MESS

AGHHHH she’d be so needy but it’s so attractive

lovessssss giving and receiving love bites

I don’t think she’s into like slapping and stuff because I just think she’d feel immediately guilty

always makes sure she’s making you comfortable and asks before she does anything new

thank you anon for this request!

if you wanna be part of my taglist comment: 💋

#yellowjackets #van palmer #van palmer x reader #van palmer headcanons #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets headcanons #taivan #tai x van

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sticktothestars · 17 hours ago

Text

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 , " 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 '𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 . " ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

a/n: *walks in, twiddling my thumbs* so i watched thunderbolts. we're just gonna say that i totally didn't fall in love with bob. AVENGERS FOUND FAMILY FANFICS ARE SO BACK GUYS. FHDSFFJ I'LL MAKE A SEPARATE POST ABOUT WHAT I THOUGHT ABOUT THE MOVIE, BUT YEAAH. I LOWKEY AM SUPER EXCITED & I CAN'T WAIT FOR YALL TO READ THIS 'CUZ I'VE BEEN HAVING THIS IDEA STUCK IN MY HEAD & IT WON'T GO AWAY. ANYWAY, IMMA STOP YAPPING NOW. ENJOOOYY!!1 (ALSO. you have the powers/fighting style of deadpool!)

paring: robert/bob reynolds x male!reader

word count: 1k+

warnings: slight spoilers for thunderbolts* if you haven't seen it. takes place post movie. slight cursing. contains a shit ton of angst & hard topics like anxiety attacks, child abuse, gore, & character death are mentioned throughout this oneshot. yeah i lowkey kind of spiraled while writing this lmfaooo.

════════════════════════════════════════════

──★

IF you told the [Y/N] from 3 months ago that you'd be working with the new avengers, you would've laughed HARD in your own face. Seriously. It would've lasted for like 7 minutes before you'd probably go tell you to fuck off or something. But now that you was here - saving people instead of being the one to end people for money - it felt trippy thing to even consider. Especially with the things you've done in your past. Despite your initial hesitation on even teaming up with this unstable group of people, you couldn't help but feel a LOT more happier than how you was before.

Maybe it was just the fact that saving people felt good or that you finally had a purpose in life - but no. It was something completely different. You was finally around people who understood what it felt like to not feel like they didn't deserve anything good or be stuck in an endless loop that just hurted you even more. It felt like a HUGE breathe of fresh air. Or maybe it was because you were around him like 99.99% of the time now after everything.

You met Bob in... troubling circumstances, to say the least. Bucky - a good friend of yours - contacted you while you were in New York in retirement from your mercenary past. You were honestly struggling a little. Working as an unsuspecting barista for some cozy coffee shop was nice & all, but it felt.. meaningless. So with one last second thought, you put your suit on & rode your motorcycle to a new mission. Which ended well overall, but with a lot of memories you wanted to lock away unfortunately.

But since then, the two of you have grown closer - especially since you were living together amongst the others in the Avenger's base. Bob obviously couldn't go on the missions due to not being able to control his powers all that well. You try to help him out the best you can when you're there.

...But sometimes that helping could go sideways.

──★

[Y/N]'s flicked open as he noticed the surroundings around him. Where was he? Just a moment ago he was sparring with Bob in the training room & then..

" Oh fuck.. " you muttered with a sigh as you realized what's happening. Your gaze fixes on a teen version of you - freshly scarred, WAY more defensive - yet afraid. Like there was something out for him. You knew what this was. You knew it all too well.

Back before you became a mercenary, you were a cage fighter in Orlando - trafficked at 7 & escaped at 16. 9 years of horror. Yeah that fucked you up pretty bad. Of course it would. But you had friends. It what kept you sane.

But they took that away too along with your dignity.

One night - when you were 16 - a new match was starting. They didn't tell you who the opponent would be. They never did. To them, it was just another body to throw away for entertainment. Having survived for so long & having so much blood on your hands, you'd think that you'd get used to it by now. But it only just got worse from there.

You stood there, watching yourself as your younger self enter the cage - a look of uneasiness on your younger self's face, tuning out the crowd of people as they cheered for blood. But you? You just wanted to know who else? Who else's blood would you have on your hands? As your opponent stumbles out into the cage with a shove from one of the guards just outside the cage, you saw your heart drop. Just by the horror on your own face.

Your opponent was your best friend, Liam. The Liam who stuck by your side through the last 9 years you've been here. The Liam who managed to make you laugh when things got that dark. The Liam who was your anchor. The Liam who you absolute adored like an older brother. You couldn't do it. You refused to. You couldn't do it if you tried.

" ... No.. No I'm not hurting him. You can't make me kill him. " You refused, backing away & banging on the cage's exit. Liam just watched you. He watched you try to figure out something. Anything to stop this match from happening. Liam knew this would happen soon. He was prepared for this. Hell, maybe he even prepared this moment from the start. You know that now. You wish you knew it sooner.

" [Y/N]. " Liam says gently, his voice calm - causing the younger you's attention to snap towards him, eyes tearing up as you tried to say something. Anything. But only a mournful silence filled between the two of you as the crowd cheered for the two of you to fight. You shook your head, keeping your head down.

" [Y/N], you have to. " Liam says gently, putting a hand on your shoulder as he approached. You just shook your head. " No- No- I-i-i can't- " You stammered out, clenching your fists so tight you felt as though you were bleeding slightly through your bandages.

" They'll kill you if you don't, kid. " Liam states. " I don't fucking care. " You say back, holding yourself close as you look back up at the 20 year old you've grown to be so attached to.

Liam sighs. " Well start caring. You're surviving. Even if it means killing me too. " The brunette says sternly.

" No! I'm not losing you! And I'm not listening to them anymore just to survive! " You call out so everyone can hear. The crowd boos, insults rolling out into the arena like a hurricane. The ringleader scoffs, motioning the guards to ready & aim at you.

Liam clocks this & horror enters his face, shielding you as bullets & sparks fly - the crowd falling silent. The bullets stop. Everything stops as a body slumps onto the ground. But it wasn't yours. It was Liam's. You stare at the hole covered body for what feels like a lifetime. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think straight.

Only when a guard grabs you is when you react is when you scream, absolute anguish & horror in your voice as it breaks as you're dragged out of the arena - new plans settled for you that changed your dna & life forever. The present you doesn't look away from Liam's corpse. You felt yourself spiraling within your regrets over the What If's.

What if you had let Liam kill you that day? You didn't deserve to live. Especially with the blood on your hands. The things you did without mercy. But Liam? He was kind. He was good. He deserved way better. He was so good & no one else ever got to see that goodness in him.

You scratched at the collar of your shirt, trying to force yourself to breathe but you couldn't. Everything felt so meaningless. You were meaningless. You were the problem because you couldn't keep your mouth shut.

Fuck. Everything felt so heavy. You collapsed to your knees, squeezing your eyes shut but Liam's lifeless body kept coming in again & again like a broken melody.

๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

" 'M sorry- M' so sorry- I-i should've known this would happen- I'm so fucking sorry- " A panicked & oh so familiar voice called out, snapping you out of your vision to feel Bob holding you in his arms tight as you sobbed. You hold onto his warmth, clenching his shirt. The two of you stay there for a while. Which seemed like forever. But neither one of you complained.

You sniffle slightly, letting your head nuzzle into the crook of the other's neck. And Bob just held you tighter. He couldn't let you go through this again. He couldn't bear seeing you hurt because of him.

You were probably one of the coolest people on the team, but seeing you fall apart like this felt gut wrenching. He mutters out more apologies, his chin resting on your head.

He's made everything worse again.

And to you of all people.

The man he absolutely adores.

──★

lowkey locked tf in on this one idk. hope yall enjoyed tho lowkey !! lemme know if yall want a part two or smthin cuz i'm down. SEND ME MORE REQUESTS PUHLEASEE.

anyways, that's it for now !! BUH BYEEE ^^

── DAMIEN ★

#bob reynolds x male reader #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x male reader #robert reynolds x reader #sentry x male reader #sentry x reader #thunderbolts #marvel #new avengers #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts spoilers

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glubglubgurgle · 3 days ago

Text

bruised apples (CHAPTER 11-12)

date night with caleb :3

pairings: caleb/unnamed afab mc

tags: fluff and love, FLUFFY, fluffy date, jealousy, kissies, and THEN SEX SEX SEX. caleb eats!!!! raw btw, loss of virginity! caleb is BIG

word count: 5.6k

a/n: GUYS ITS MY FIRST TIME DOING A FULL ON SMUT SCENE LIKE THIS LIKE P INTO V SMUT pls be nice to me TT and pls enjoy mwah

CHAPTERS 1-9 -- CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11-12 BELOW!!!!

Chapter 11

The following morning, he blinked awake slowly. His internal clock woke him up around six in the morning when he was in Skyhaven. He didn’t feel anyone beside him, and he was afraid he was going to find everything was just a dream. He was afraid to reach out next to him, in case he would find emptiness.

Instead he covered his eyes and hoped he would go back to sleep into whatever dream he was living in the day before. He couldn’t dare check if it was reality, because even he believed everything that happened the day before was a dream. He didn’t know what else it could have been. The love of his life reciprocating his feelings and removing the wall between them was a fantasy to him. He didn’t think he was deserving of that fantasy.

And with that thought, he shut his eyes and counted airplanes in his head until he could go back to sleep. Wishing he would end up in the dream where she was in his arms.

But every touch, whisper, breath from the day before rang clearly in his head. Caleb was sure it was real. So real that he reached out to his side.

Empty.

He opened his eyes and found no trace of her.

Sitting up immediately, he looked around the room for any trace of her. Yet, he was unable to focus on anything. For a split moment, he felt his world come crashing down. He wondered if anything was real. He cursed wondering why he woke up from such a dream. He was devastated at the idea that none of his dreams actually came true the day before.

And then the bathroom door opened.

“Caleb? How are you awake already?” She yawned, stretching.

Caleb was on his feet and took large strides to reach her as fast as possible. Immediately pulling her up into his arms, burying his face into her neck.

There was hesitation in her reciprocation of the hug. She wrapped her arms around him eventually, obviously confused. “What happened, silly?” She asked, letting out an awkward laugh.

“Yesterday felt like a dream…when you weren’t beside me, I thought…” Caleb held back tears, talking into her neck, muffled.

A more genuine chuckle came out of her. “Why do you think I’m awake so early? I had to check if it was all in my head too.” Caleb felt a soft kiss press against his temple. “I went to the bathroom to splash myself with water to check if I was really awake.”

He lifted her off the ground a bit to walk them back to bed. He removed himself from her neck to pick her up onto the bed, softly. And then climbed in with her. “Let’s just stay like this for longer. We can do whatever you want today, I just want to lay here with you for a few more hours.” He mumbled, nuzzling into her neck again.

In his moment of weakness, he wanted to confess every feeling he had towards her. Express every emotion he felt about her. He wanted her to know how important she was to him.

“I love you, Caleb.” She whispers into his hair.

His head snapped back so quick, he was sure he’d have whiplash. “What?”

She looked away from his eyes, turning red. “You heard me.” She muttered covering her face. Caleb took her hands away from her face, and gently held her head to make eye contact with her. His eyes held back tears, “Say it again, please?”

Her eyes welled up seeing his own teary eyes. Her hand landed atop of his, curling her fingers around his. “I know I gave you different signals these past few months, maybe even years. I was just so scared of things changing between us because I could never imagine losing you.” Her bottom lip quivered. “But I want you to know. I have loved you for so long, I’m sorr-”

He cut her off with a kiss, closing his eyes and letting the tears spill. He takes the hand holding his and guides it to hold the back of his head before his own arm wrapped around her waist to pull her closer to him. Their tears mixed with each other, turning the kiss salty. His other hand tilted her chin towards him for a deeper, more passionate kiss before pulling away. “I feel like I’ve waited lifetimes to hear you say that.” He wiped her tears away. Her hands mimicked his, wiping his own tears. “I can’t believe I can finally say it out loud.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I love you.” He said. A weight lifted off his shoulders and his heart. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He repeated, kissing her on the lips in between each time. He looked at her longingly, wanting to remember this scene forever. The confession rang in the air, making him finally believe that he was truly awake. He relaxed his head on his pillow still looking at her, his hands still holding onto her.

A bubble of laughter erupted out of him. Joyful laughter. And it suddenly felt like whatever laughs he let out before weren’t from the heart.

She followed him with a giggle of her own. Pure, joyful laughter exchanged between the two, and then more kisses were exchanged. Caleb was elated, and he held her even tighter against him before falling back asleep for a few more peaceful hours.

The two of them walked around Skyhaven hand-in-hand. Even when they were away from the academy, they passed by many familiar faces. All of whom stole curious glances from the pair.

She huffed after the third person looked at them. “How many people like you?” Letting go of his hand and crossing her arms. “I always knew you were a playboy.” She sped up her pace away from him.

Caleb smirked, satisfied with her jealousy. When he caught up to her, he put his arm around her shoulders. Leaning down to her ear, he said, “How about the next time someone stops and stares…we give them a quick show?” He meant it as a joke, yet he saw determination in her eyes when he leaned back.

And sure enough, the next group of his classmates that he recognized passed by with questioning eyes. She made work of grabbing him by his jean jacket collar to pull him down for a kiss. The sudden move made him have to steady himself with the tree behind her. Before he kissed back, she instantly pulled away.

“I hope they text everyone that you’re really not avai–” She huffed before getting cut off by Caleb.

He felt empty without a proper kiss and decided to take it from her himself. His hand on her cheek, creeping to the back of her head to grab a soft fistful of hair. A proper, deep, wanting kiss that left her breathless. And when he pulled away, he acted like he didn’t do anything. He took her hand to keep walking. “I’m sure the school’s social media is already flooded with information about us, sweetheart. Focus on me, now.” He chuckled, beaming with a smile as he held onto her hand through the streets.

They were going on the date that they won the previous night. A semi-fancy restaurant, but luckily for them, it wasn’t a suit and tie deal. “Even if we didn’t win, I would consider a burger as a fancy date with you.” She smiled up at him, tightening a grip on his hand.

He brought her hand up to his lips and gave a soft kiss to her knuckles. “As long as we’re together.” He nodded. “We should have a fancy date every now and then, though. For a special girl like you.”

She cringed and let go of his hand, “No wonder you’re so popular with the girls…you’re CHEESY!” She pointed at him laughing, a mock disgust plastered on her face. “I’m going to have to rethink our relationship.” She walked away from him.

He took no time to reach her and wrap his arms around her shoulders in a back hug. Nuzzling his face onto her cheek, “You’re stuck with me, Pipsqueak.”

It would have taken them less than twenty minutes to reach the restaurant if it wasn’t for them playing around the whole way there. The dinner was enjoyable, mainly because Caleb was able to spend time with her. The food on the other hand, he thought he could make it better with half the price he would have spent if it wasn’t for the voucher.

“I’m glad we’re not paying, you could make this way better.” She said, her mouth still chewing.

The two of them being on the same page made Caleb’s heart flutter. He smiled and reached over to pinch her cheek. “You’re so cute.”

After a few more bites, she cleared her throat and set down her utensils. “Alright, since we’re here on a proper date. Interview time.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and pretended to hold a mic. “When did you know you had feelings for me?”

Caleb coughed a bit, surprised by her boldness. He pretended to flatten his hair and adjusted his collar before leaning into the faux microphone. “Since you held my hand when we were in elementary school.”

Her face turned red. She was about to move the fake mic back to her before Caleb grabbed her wrist.

“Can I ask a question too?” He questioned, earning a hesitant nod from her. “Did a certain someone forget about the promise we made when we were in middle school?” He knew it was an empty promise she made when she wanted the last piece of halloween candy, but he kept it in his heart regardless.

She thought for a second before the red reached her ears. “Caleb! No way you’re holding that against me.” She dropped her hand.

Caleb mocked her, “I swear I’ll never have a crush on any boys!” A high pitched childish voice that barely resembled her as a kid. He grabbed his heart like he’d been shot. “How could you, Pip?”

She leaned forward to slap his arm, “You’re insufferable.” She rolled her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. Settling back down on her seat, she looked at him longingly.

“What?” Caleb asked, taking a sip of water.

“I love that you remember the small things. I know my memory isn’t that amazing, but I’m happy that I get to be with someone who will remember every little thing there is to. “ A heartfelt confession.

“Of course, baby.” The pet name rolling off of his tongue like it was natural. “Even if someone tries to wipe my brain, the memories of you are permanently etched in there. No one could ever take that or you away from me.”

They decided to skip dessert from the restaurant and opted for a bakery trip afterwards instead. There were only a few still open past 6pm, but luckily for the two, there was one nearby the restaurant.

Caleb’s never been there, he rarely visited cafes and bakeries unless Gideon dragged him to one after a huge test, being the big sweet tooth in the friendship.

She instantly ran to the glass case the moment they walked in, looking at all the pastries and breads available.

Caleb took a look at the drinks menu. Although she was indecisive with her treats, she always ordered the same drink along with it. It was the opposite for Caleb. Once he figured it out, he took his card out to give to her, knowing she was going to take longer choosing, before heading to the restroom.

The moment he came out, he saw a guy hovering over the table she chose. Her face was annoyed, looking down at her balled up fists on the table. “You must be Caleb’s plaything, I saw that photo of you on his phone. I’ll admit, you’re even hotter in person.” His irritating voice was like nails on a chalkboard for Caleb. He took quick strides to reach him. When he tried reaching out to touch her shoulder, Caleb instantly grabbed his wrist and pulled it back.

“That’s my girlfriend, I’d prefer it if you kept your distance.” Caleb sternly said, dropping his hand before wedging himself between the two of them. “And judging by your uniform, I’m sure management wouldn’t like to hear about you harassing the customers.” Caleb stood far more inches taller than the other guy, his eyes turning a darker violet. “Get lost, Andrew.”

The guy seemed to have wanted to put up a fight, but Caleb stepped closer to him like a dog showing who’s the bigger boss. Afterwards, he backed down. “Whatever.”

Caleb didn’t realize that his whole body was tense and his fists were balled up, ready to fight, until he felt warm fingers wrap around him. He turned to look behind him, expecting worried eyes. Instead, she was flushed and her eyes exhibited a desperate need instead.

She pulled him down by his collar, making him stumble. “Be a doll and go ask them to make the drinks to-go instead.” She said to him, her eyes having trouble choosing from looking at his eyes or his lips.

The tone of her voice and the sudden change of nature made Caleb’s pants tighten. He couldn’t even respond except for a nod, before standing back up to do exactly what she said. While at the counter, he glanced back at her. Her legs crossed, focused on what she was doing on her phone before looking back at him, full of desire. She rested her chin on her hand, staring right into him.

It turned out, she called a cab. He threw a questioning look at her as he held the door open for her.

She shrugged, “I can’t wait to get back to your place, I guess.” The words were lined with her indecent intentions.

The ride back to the academy was heated and stuffy. Her hand lingered on his thigh, too close to the tent growing, and Caleb didn’t know how to react with her being so bold. The anger that was present from seeing Andrew earlier, disappeared.

She wasn’t making any eye contact with him, staring out the window, sipping on her drink. But her fingers tapped deviously around his leg.

The thirty minute walk was cut down to a ten minute drive, and the moment they got out, she was practically dragging him back to the dorms. All of a sudden becoming an expert at navigating the grounds.

When they got into the dorm, she grabbed the bag of pastries from him and set it on the counter along with their drinks. She grabbed hold of his wrist again and dragged him to bed. He knew that if she were stronger, she would have thrown him down. Instead she opted for pushing him down to sit on the bed, before straddling him and grabbing hold of his face. “You’re so hot when you’re protective.” She closed the distance with a hungry kiss, her hands making work of taking off his jacket before her own. Their lips were still attached as she tried to peel off the layers in between them.

Caleb could've sworn that his erection was going to explode through his jean’s zipper. The way she was handling him made him melt into her, and grow harder than he ever thought he could. He was worried he wasn’t going to last so he gently pushed her away, resting their foreheads together. He didn’t know how he looked, or what his face showed, but all he knew was that he was in pure shock still.

“Look at you. You’re like a sinner who’s confessing.” She said, breathless.

He took her hand and put it to his lips, pressing a kiss on her fingers. “Then can you carry a little of this sin, too?”

Chapter 12

Caleb knew he wasn’t going to last more than one second inside of her, but he didn’t want to make her first time disappointing. He just prayed that his stamina from working out almost every day, along with the drills of the academy would get him through the multiple orgasms he expected to have. He knew that just seeing her naked for the first time would make him explode.

“Baby, if you don’t want me to pass out on you, I need you to let me take the lead, please.” He practically begged, kissing down her neck as she straddled his lap. He detached from her to look at her with his pleading eyes, the pressure in jeans becoming unbearable.

She gave him a smirk, showing no signs of doing what he asked. She gave him another string of kisses. Kissing from his lips, down to the collar of his shirt. And then she pulled away, a look of confidence fueled by want, plastered on her face. She pulled her shirt over her head, and then unclipped her bra slowly. Exposing herself to him, for the first time. Her face reddened and goosebumps kissed her skin. Her hands rested right above his growing bulge.

He swore he was in heaven. He held them just the day before, but seeing her so open to him made him light headed. He was almost magnetized to them as he instantly took one in his mouth with a moan, while his hand took hold of the other. Swirling his tongue around her hardening nipple, his hips twitched against her resting hands. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He praised her, heavy breathing against her chest. His free hand reached around her to grip her bottom, pushing her closer to him.

Moans spilled from her mouth, making Caleb feel even hotter. She grabbed a tuft of his hair to pull him away from her chest. “You’re going to let me be naked alone?” She asked, her voice dripping with honey and need. Her fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

Caleb’s lips were wet with his own saliva, his mouth stayed agape from being love drunk. He shook his head, arms raising into the air to let her peel off his shirt.

“Oh my god, Caleb.” She threw the shirt beside him, and moved herself to sit her heat right atop of his. Earning a deep groan from Caleb. Her hands traced his muscles. “I knew you were always muscular, but seeing you like this now…” She moved her fingers down his pecs, over his nipples, and traced every line of his abs. They stopped right above the hem of jeans, making Caleb whimper from the lack of attention to his cock. She pushed him further back, grinding herself down on the tent of his jeans after noticing how desperate he got, squirming underneath her. “This is just for me, right?” She asked, leaning toward him. Lifting herself away from his lap.

He propped himself up with his elbows, his hips bucking upwards when she removed herself from his lap, missing the damp pressure. He nodded pathetically. “Just you, baby. Please.” He moved his face to attempt to close the distance, but she pulled away completely. Standing up from the bed. She knelt down in front of him, unbuttoning his jeans. Swiftly bringing it down to his ankles whilst still keeping his briefs on.

Caleb groaned loudly as he felt his cock be freed from his tight jeans.

She nestled in between his legs, resting her cheek on his right thigh, looking at the bulge inside his briefs. Her right-hand fingers played with the waistband, while her left hand moved up his thigh, to his bulge.

He sighed, bucking his hand up into her palm. “Baby…”

“You sound so hot, Caleb.” She said, looking up at him while palming him through his briefs.

“You’re trying to kill me, Pipsqueak.” He spoke through gritted teeth, trying really hard to not come undone in her hands.

Her hand slipped inside his underwear, her eyes widening. “You act like this isn’t going to kill me…”

He knew he was big. It just completely slipped his mind that this could be an issue. He just never really fathomed that this day would come for him. He wanted to worry about her and the logistics of it all but when he looked at her, her eyes were filled with curiosity.

She let go of him to pull his briefs down, marveling at his length. It practically jumped out at her when the waistband went past his hips. She stilled at the sight, and Caleb found his window.

He sat up and moved to trade positions with her. He managed to lift her up by her shoulders, spinning them around so she’d fall onto the bed. And he got on his knees in front of her. “Where’d your confidence go? Scared?” He smirked at her.

She covered part of her face with her hands, “You made small dick jokes all the time, I didn’t think you’d be…” She muttered, embarrassed. “Will it even fit?” She looked at him, biting her finger.

“If you let me in,” he chuckled, pulling her bottoms down. He looked for her confirmation, rubbing her thighs up and down, feeling every shiver and twitch of hers. “You will, won’t you?” He was going crazy. He looked at her, fully nude, in awe. His dick twitching, mouth watering.

She nodded quickly, “Please.”

“Be a good girl and open up.” He moved his hands between her legs, attempting to move them apart.

“Don’t stare so hard, oh my god.” She groaned, throwing her head back to avoid eye contact.

“I can’t help myself, pretty” He brought his face closer to her heat before pleading with her, “Look at me.” She shook her head so he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, putting her legs over his shoulders.

She looked at him with shock, and once eye contact was made, he dove into her with his tongue. Simultaneously teasing a fingerinto her.

Her eyebrows knitted together, and her eyes threatened to squeeze shut from pleasure. His name left her lips in between moans. She grabbed the hand that was gripping her thighs and guided it up to her breast.

His thumb grazed over her nipple while his fingers kneaded at her. He pulled away from her slightly, “Fuck, you taste so good…and you’re so wet for me.” Then he went back in, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Loud slurping noises made her cringe slightly, but was then easily overcome with maons of extreme bliss. He slipped in another finger, easily getting swallowed by her. He knew he was leaking between his own legs.

She threw her head back with a loud moan, her back arching up from the bed. One hand slammed the mattress while the other grabbed onto his head of hair, pushing him closer into her. “Oh my god, Caleb. H-how…how are yo–” She tried asking, but couldn’t form a sentence.

He let go of her boob to hold onto her hip, pushing her as far as he could onto his face and keeping her in place. The grip she had on him stung a bit, but he loved how much she wanted him. Caleb slipped in another finger, scissoring them in and out, attempting to stretch her out to take him. Even though he didn’t know if he could last long enough to even make it past an inch inside of her.

She started to tense around his fingers, her breathing turned faster, and her thighs started to squeeze his head in. “I’m gonna…Caleb, I–”

“Come for me, I want it all. Please?” Caleb begged, his lips moving on hers. He started curling his fingers inside of her, trying to angle it deeper and stretch her more.

She grabbed a pillow and screamed into it as she came all over his face, her hips twitching and her legs shaking around him. He rode out her orgasm by continuing to lick her clean, and he removed his fingers from her. Using the slick she left on him to relieve some of his own pressure. He gripped himself by the base, attempting to keep himself steady.

Dropping the pillow from her face, she grabbed the hand on her hip and looked at him, “Please…inside me now, I need you. Please.” She begged, her lip quivering and her hips still twitching.

He stood up to adjust her on the bed, making sure she had a pillow underneath her head, softly caressing her all around as he did so. He felt lightheaded seeing her naked on his bed with eyes drowning in desire for him. He didn’t know if it was possible for him to get harder, but at that moment, he really believed it was at its maximum. Caleb knew he had to be safe first, though. And in all the build up for this moment, he forgot to grab condoms.

Cursing under his breath, he rummaged through the nightstand next to the bed. Which was once Gideon’s but since they traded beds, he would have to move things around later. Caleb doesn’t have condoms. Not only did he never date or do anything of that sort with anyone at the academy, he didn’t think he would have been losing his virginity so soon.

“Caleb…” She whined, turning her body towards him, grabbing his arm. “You made me wait this long, and now you’re making me wait even more.”

He finally found the string of foil wrappers and pulled it out, like a man presenting the fish he just caught. “Sorry baby, I just wanted to…uh.” Feeling a bit awkward, he set it down to rip out one.

She propped herself up, tilting her head like a confused puppy. “Why do you have so many…?” A small pout growing on her lips.

The jealousy plastered on her face made Caleb’s dick jump. He knelt down onto the bed to take her face in for a kiss.

She pushed his chest away, pouting even harder.

He was a mere inch from her face and he answered, smirking. “This isn’t my nightstand…you think I’d let anyone else have me?”

It was her turn to pull him in, instantly opening herself up for him to explore. Her hands roaming around his thighs before holding his dick in her hands. Gentle yet firm.

He instantly pulled away to grab her wrist from moving any further. “As much as I want you to touch me, I just…” He looked away, turning redder. “I don’t think I’ll last long if I look down to see you holding me like this.” The pressure of her fingers wrapping around his length already made it harder for him to keep his composure. When he pulled her hand away, her fingertips reached to tease him even more, making him hiss.

He climbed into bed, fully ontop of her. He had his knees on either side of her legs as he tried to open the foil packet. Caleb’s hands were shaking from nervousness and excitement, he didn’t know how to contain it.

She watched him for a bit, breathing heavily. And then she sat up, bringing her hand to his. “Is it okay…if you don’t wear one…?” She brought her knees up to her chest, looking at him with big doe eyes. “I-I’m on birth control…to regulate my cycle.” She explained, getting shy. “And I…” Her eyes drifted downwards to his leaking length. Her hand followed her gaze to poke at the slit that was beaded with pre-cum. “I really want to feel all of you, as is.”

Any morals Caleb had went out the window. He knew that birth control wasn’t 100% guaranteed, and he knew he could never pull out on time because he was sure it was going to happen in a millisecond. Before he asked for another confirmation, she chimed in.

“Please, Caleb?” Her fingers wrapped around his tip, her eyes pleading with him, dripping with desperation.

Caleb snapped once again and he fell forwards. He caught himself with his elbow, resting it beside her head as he slammed her back down to the bed. The kiss wasn’t as passionate and loving as he wanted it to be, he thought it was more driven by hunger and need.

Her legs opened up, letting him in between them. Her fingers still wrapped around his tip, pulling him closer to her most intimate parts. She dragged his tip up and down her slick folds, moaning into his mouth.

When he pulled away for air, he took her legs to rest on his shoulders. Caleb then replaced her hand with his to steady himself at her entrance. “I’m going to go slow, Pipsqueak…I think it might hurt…do you trust me?” He asked, looking at her through his lashes.

Flushed and panting, she nodded.

Caleb’s head felt light as he pushed himself inside of her, slowly. The heat and the pressure on his tip was almost enough to make him explode. He pressed soft kisses to her legs and caressed her thighs as his thick head entered her. The pleasure was blinding. She winced at the stretch, but her hands grabbed one of his thighs to pull him closer.

He inched in slowly, thrusting each inch back and forth to loosen her further. “Breathe for me, baby.”

She attempted to take deep breaths, but every movement he made caused her to moan. “You’re so big, Caleb. I-” Her head threw back onto the pillow while her hand gripped at the sheets.

“I know, baby.” He smirked, his hand moving to her clit to make her relax with pleasure. He rubbed small circles around her nub, causing her legs to shake a bit around him.

Her back arched up, another moan ripping through the air. “Are you all the way in…yet?” She looked at him, her eyebrows knitted together. Sweat dripped down her forehead, her teeth catching her lips.

The question made him laugh, accidentally thrusting a little into her. Making the both of them moan. He reached down to grab her neck, craning her upwards so she could look at where they were connected. “You wanna watch? I’m almost there.” He breathlessly said, trying to keep himself from bucking his hips further into her without warning.

His hand still on her neck, she rested herself further into it whilst also holding herself up with her forearms. Her fingers gripping the sheets. Her eyebrows were knitted together, her eyes drowning with desire. She inched herself closer to him when she got impatient and it made Caleb groan. “I can take it…I want all of you now.” She nodded, reassuring him.

He could feel her slowly give way, opening herself up more and more to him. The way she looked at him made him twitch inside of her. Her face was contorted with pleasure and the eye contact she held with him made Caleb melt. As he fully sheathed himself inside of her, he leaned in for another kiss. His full length entering her made her gasp and Caleb swallowed every breath she took. He dropped her legs from his shoulders for her to rest them on his hips, her feet locking behind him.

“Fuck…you’re so good for me. You feel so good, pretty.” He mumbled against her lips. He didn’t dare move at that moment, knowing he couldn’t take it. “God…I love you so much.” He said to her, sweating against her forehead. His hand caressed her cheek, his hips twitching against hers.

She nodded quickly, biting her lip. “I love…you too…Caleb.” She said, panting. “Please, I need more. Won’t you give me more, baby?” She begged, fluttering her eyelashes and giving him a quick kiss.

His hand came back down to rub circles on her clit again, hoping she’d be able to come first. And he pulled himself out, leaving only the tip inside of her, before thrusting in roughly. She loudly moaned with him, and at that moment, Caleb didn’t know or care how thin the dorm walls were.

Her head was thrown back and her back was arched upwards. Her chest neared his face, and Caleb took her nipple into his mouth. Her hand gripped the back of his head while the other scratched his shoulders.

He didn’t know where he found it in himself, but he managed to last three more thrusts into her before he spilled inside of her, continuing to rub at her clit until he felt her tighten around him. “Yeah, baby, come for me, please. Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He moaned as he rode out his own high. She spasmed underneath him, her legs shaking violently around him.

After a few minutes of panting and soft kisses being planted all around her by Caleb, he said to her, “I don’t how I’ll ever last any longer, Pip. You feel too good…”

She chuckled, his dick still inside her twitching from her moving. “We can both last a short while…” She took his face to look at her and she gave him a kiss on his nose. “As long as it’s with you, until the end.”

Caleb was madly in love with her. He was floating on cloud nine, his worries of being apart from her heightened, but he was in too much bliss to care at that moment. What he once thought was impossible became a dream come true. The fact that the wall crumbled between them and they were as close as they could be, both emotionally and physically made his heart swell. And…

“Caleb…are you hard again?”

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