#jesus i love fluff

[t1red-twilight]

just like heaven

summary: inspired by every conversation i have ever had. feel free to request this duo because i kind of love them

content/warnings: gn!reader, goth/alt!reader, fluff, corny:/

word count: 0.7k

masterlist s. r. masterlist

on one of the very rare friday nights that you and spencer had free, you both were catching up on your favorite show.

“what did you think if me when you first saw me?” at spencer’s inquiry, you paused. you hadn’t really thought of this; when you looked at spencer now, you felt the exact same way you did when you saw his favorite purple tie several years ago.

-

he was tall and thin, and his tie was purple and had a paisley pattern on it. the pattern clashed with his argyle sweater vest, but his shirt was a cohesive purple that matched the tie. while your shoes made you a few inches taller, he still towered over you slightly.

when you introduced yourself, he stuttered out his name and his academic achievements.

damn, you were really in for it this time. this tall stick bug with jesus hair might very well be the death of you.

-

“hmmm,” you traced shapes onto his arms that were around your middle. “i thought that you looked like the most pretty person i had seen. i still think that, by the way. but also that you looked too young to have three doctorate degrees.”

his cheek moved to rest against the top of your head and he exhaled out a breathy laugh. you shuffled impossibly closer to him. “yeah, i’ve heard that a couple times.”

the two of you settled back into watching the show again. following a pause, you asked him that same think. “well, what did you think of me when you first saw me?”

you swore that you could hear him mulling over what he was going to say in his head. “c’mon. did you think i looked like i was going to be mean and heinous and drink your blood or something?”

“well actually, i was quite alarmed, my love. i was a little scared, to be honest.” while you respected his honesty, this was a funny anecdote to you as you had been told this several times throughout your life.

“you thought that i was scary?”

spencer chuckled at this. you were laying on the couch as he held you. he looked away from the tv as he responded to you. “i didn’t think you were scary, per se, i was just scared of you.” he stiffened at the realization that he might be offending you.

worried that he had offended you, he rambled on. “i was quite sheltered growing up, so seeing someone come to work with platform loafers on and enough jewelry to make a tsa agent scream i was a little unnerved.”

“okay that may be a fair point, but you know i tone down the vampirism for work,” you replied. the tone you had gave spencer the impression that you were not, in fact, offended; he relaxed his stiffened posture. “my loafers aren’t even the most intimidating out of my shoes.”

he laughed at this, and his arms tightened around you, and he urged you to look at him.

“of course that didn’t last long. your dark garb doesn’t at all match your sweet personality.” not knowing how to respond to this, you didn’t respond further than a hum. you moved your hand to rub circles into his belly over his old gray fbi academy shirt.

“you know, it wasn’t just the demonias that were alarming, honey.” at your questioning look, he continued. “you do happen to be the most beautiful person that i have ever seen.”

“i am?” you peeled your eyes away from the tv to look at him quizzically.

very nonchalantly, he answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “of course you are, angel. i wouldn’t be telling you that if it wasn’t the truth.”

“well, i appreciate it, spence.” he looked at you as if you were being sarcastic. “i mean it, i’m flattered,” you smiled as you looked into his eyes.

he smiled back at you. “i mean it. you look like an old cathedral or something. daunting but alluring.”

“that is a huge compliment, even though the way you said it sounded incredibly pretentious.” you laughed lightly, replying without hesitating. “i think you look like a hot version of professor plum from clue.”

this got a full belly laugh from spencer. “i suppose i do wear a lot of purple.”

you both turned back to the television and continued your show.

“...wait, you think i’m pretty?”

[latenightwestern]

someone call homeland security !

[im-jesus]

Remus and Sirius' Christmas Eve after Harry falls asleep waiting for Santa. The kiss didn't come out as strong as I wanted it to, but I still consider it a win.

Harry made the star, and yes, his stuffy is a reindeer, and yes, his slippers are mismatched. The empty frame above Harry is his parents' portrait, but they were visiting someone else for a minute.

this second one's a bit further back so you can see more; I'm shit at photographing this stuff. sorry for the cruddy quality on the farther back images

[lucee-does-art]

mermay AND full moon month?? i am LIVID

(more pictures under the cut 👀)

[jellyfishhutcherson]

[rickswh0r3]

i love you @itsgrimeytime for your request with this song 🤞🤞🤞

taglist : @catt-leya @addicted2twd @starkstiless @blazemm98 @sinsandsweetness @bloodyglennrhee @grimesgobbler @murder-jacket @andrewstinkylinky @eternalrose81 @marlboro-reds-13 @dxrkymxrchy @nadiasgf @taylormarieee @loveforcarl

[stripedstarsblueflags]

i feel so high school (au) pt. 5.B: pierresteban

anyway here are some high school aus for my fav f1 rpf ships and an exploration of who knows how to ball, and who knows aristotle

(pierresteban continued)

and that should've been the end, but it wasn't. because while middle school (gr 6-8) was a lot of cold shouldering and wistful/bitter looks across the hallway high school is where it got mean. esteban was finding it more and more difficult to stay under the radar, especially since everyone was at the age to really be questioning each other's sexuality. so now it's not just the sexist comments it's the homophobic slurs/accusations too, and it wasn't like he had an easy time making friends in the first place but now he literally can't because people associate him with that danger of earning the negative attention too. and every single time he goes to the studio (he has to either walk or take the bus for nearly two hours) he thinks this is the last time, i need to be normal i need to stop being a freak. and then the music turns on and he completely loses himself and loses the pain and the stigma and he just can't bring himself to let it go. it's the only thing that makes him happy.

he could drag pierre down with him. he almost did. he's threatened to multiple times. but as many stories as esteban has about young ballerina pierre, pierre has 1000x worse and he's got pictures. cause yes when esteban was a kid he tried on the girl's costume for a couple recitals and even though that was way back when he was too young for him to really understand and the adults all figured it was a phase and they could let kids be kids, the risk of what the bullies would do to him if they found that out is too great. so pierre gets away with his behavior.

and esteban's trying to keep pushing, keep his head down, not hit back when he gets shoved in the hallways (he's less good at that, but the school knows how bad it'll look on them if they try to punish him for it).

and then something happens in pierre's life, some family tragedy (i am absolutely not basing this off any event in the real person pierre gasly's life because that's too far even for rpf) so in a similar way to when i wrote galex i'm just going to leave it as some sort of traumatic loss. he doesn't talk about it, doesn't let anyone in, he misses two months of school and nobody knows why. when he comes back he's a broken, hollow shell of himself with shadows under his eyes and too-long hair, he bites his nails and he barely talks and he's lost almost thirty pounds. some of his friends from before make halfhearted attempts to reconnect, but they're shallow and living in the fast lane and emotions make them uncomfortable so they give up on him quickly. pierre lets them go. let's say esteban knows something about pierre's family/home life and he has an idea of what happened, he's the only one in the whole school who might and he's starting to feel pity despite his every instinct and he's more than a little scared but he knows that trying to approach pierre is a stupid idea so he waits in limbo.

and then pierre shows up to a night class.

it's an advanced technique class, less than 10 people, and one you have to make an audition tape for to even be considered. if esteban's right and pierre hasn't danced in years, there's no way he should've been able to get in. but there he is. he doesn't seem surprised to see esteban there, and he doesn't approach. esteban is too shocked stupid to say anything the first class, he just watches pierre step onto the floor and dance with absolute awe like he's watching a fallen god come to life. and he's overwhelmed with memories and echoes of the heartbreak he swore he'd left behind and confusion and anger at pierre and anger at himself and he leaves that class early and punches the wall in his room as soon as he gets home because he has no idea what emotions to feel let alone how to contain him. because everything he hadn't even understood as a kid everything he promised was gone is back.

weeks go by and pierre doesn't drop out of the class. he and esteban are still some of the only guys in the studio and definitely the only two from their school. they pretend not to acknowledge it like they're each daring the other to say something and then one night the teacher has them do partners. and because there's an odd number of people in the class esteban tries to sit out but one of the girls is struggling with the routine and because pierre and esteban are both really good at it– and the strongest in the group– the teacher has them demo on each other.

cue the most intense, terrifying, lust-filled, hate-fueld, what the fuck are we doing you're supposed to hate me/i do hate you/why are you looking at me like that why are you treating me like glass why does this feel like we've done it a million times like we've never left each other and after the music ends and they're supposed to step apart they don't, holding the pose and panting and overwhelmed by each other's body heat until the teacher literally has to clear her throat and it gets awkward immediately and they break eye contact and finally jump apart like they've been shocked. but something's happened and there's no fucking way either of them can ignore it now.

WHY DID THIS GET SO LONG HOLY SHIT okay to be continued

[gina103]

Meeting Everyone!

Ember finally meets the rest of the gang! I've got so many ideas that I've been looking forward to writing with them, so I'm so incredibly excited! Read parts 1 and 2 here!

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

Ember was pretty sure she was doing what no borrower had ever done before.

Accept help from a human.

Over the next three weeks, her ankle had healed a good amount. She was now able to climb her ropes without extreme pain, and she could go without her crutch for a longer period of time. Although her ankle would still be sore after climbing or walking, it was a bearable soreness, plus the swelling had gone down a substantial amount. One thing was true though, Ember never would have made this much progress without the help of Jamie.

Ever since he had helped her out of the kitchen sink that night, Ember noticed that he would make sure to leave extra crumbs on the countertops, and since Ember had already been seen by him, she didn’t really feel the need to hide herself from him. She would be inside the kitchen cabinets and Jamie would open it, see her, and ask her how her ankle was like it was a regular Tuesday. To avoid falling into the kitchen sink again, every week, Ember would ask Jamie to help her with her water, and he gladly did so. Basically, doing it for her. Even though she appreciated the act, she hoped that when her ankle was fully healed, he wouldn’t have to do that anymore. Ember liked doing things herself, she would never want to become dependent on anyone. Especially not on a human.

Jamie had been incredibly sweet and caring throughout the healing process, always asking her how her ankle felt, if she felt better, if she needed anything, he would even offer to make her hot food, which Ember never accepted.

Although Ember appreciated his help and his concern for her, she still didn’t know what his motives were completely. She knew from how she was raised that she should never trust a human, and she didn’t, she only spoke to Jamie from a reasonable distance, she hadn’t let him touch her since that night, and she only let him help her when she absolutely needed it. But it was a strange situation. She would’ve been stupid not to accept his help because Ember would still be at the bottom of the sink if she hadn’t, but she would be stupid to trust him as well because he’s a human. No matter how badly she wanted to trust him, to believe that his actions truly had no motive other than to serve her, she knew it wasn’t smart to just jump into his hands and trust him. But the way he always helped her without a second thought, the way he never tried to touch her unless she consented to it, the way he has never asked for anything more from her, respected every boundary she enforced, never inquired about her species, never tried to find out where she lived, never called pest control, never set traps, never told anyone else about her, and never harmed a hair on her head, he sure made it hard not to trust him.

So for now, Ember would keep her guard up, accepting his help until Jamie gave her a reason not to, or when she had fully healed. Then, she could go back to her life as it was before. A life spent in the walls, with nobody to talk to, it was how things should be, right?

Right?

--

Jamie was happy.

It was nice to help out his miniscule third roommate who he now knew as Ember. He was especially pleased to see her ankle healing at a reasonable rate. Anything he could do to make her life easier; he was willing to do it. Although he could still see a lot of hesitation and distrust in her body language when he would, for example, fill up her water cannister for her, it was an improvement from the intense fear or sadness he had seen from her before. She was making progress in multiple ways.

One thing he still had to be careful about was keeping everything a secret from Jesus and Caleb, his other regular-sized roommates. Jamie could tell they were starting to become suspicious, they never said anything about the various changes in his behavior the month before, but he could tell they were noticing it themselves. All Jamie could do was try to act as normally as possible.

Key word, try.

It was a cool October night. Jamie sat slightly hunched over his desk working on a particularly grueling essay for his government class. As he typed the words into his laptop, his mind felt like a sputtering old car, like any moment, he would short circuit and his head would go crashing down onto the desk. As he began to zone out into space, thinking about how great it would be to just give up and jump into bed, he noticed a particular shape standing in the left corner of the desk. When his eyes slowly focused on the peculiar shape, he noticed it looked more and more like a person, a tiny person.

It was Ember.

Jamie jolted in realization, causing Ember to jump and shrink back as well.

“H-hey Ember! How’re you? How’s your ankle?” he said quickly.

“Um, I was just wondering if you had any tape?” Ember replied uncertainly. He noticed that her previously waist-length brown hair had been cut to her mid-back. Even though it looked slightly choppy, like she’d done it herself, it suited her.

“Yeah – yeah of course,” Jamie began rummaging through his drawers, “so, you were able to climb up on the desk ok?”

“Yes, but it’s pretty sore after that.”

A brief silence fell over them as Jamie finally dug out his small roll of tape from his messy drawer. He presented the tape in front of her. His breath hitched when her dark brown eyes met his, they were almost illuminated by the golden light from his desk lamp. His eyes took in her small form, noticing how her little fly-aways and loose hair pieces framed her face, she looked effortlessly beautiful. He almost lost his train of thought before he snapped out of it.

“How much do you need?” he asked politely.

“Not very much…” Ember trailed off, looking at him curiously as she pulled the amount of tape she needed, “This should do fine.”

Jamie nodded, but quickly grew concerned as she turned around to leave. She was still limping quite a lot.

“Hey, why don’t you rest before trying to climb down?" he suggested.

Ember gave him a skeptical look before ultimately taking a seat on a textbook which rested nearby.

A brief, awkward silence passed, with Jamie slowly turning back to look at his essay while Ember sat twirling her fingers.

“What are you writing?” she asked.

When Jamie looked down at her, a smile crept onto his face as he noticed her curious expression staring at his computer screen. How cute. He found himself wishing he could just scoop her up and hold her, but he knew that would dissolve any trust they had built between them. However, that didn’t stop his fingers from twitching with longing.

“It’s an essay for my government class, it’s super boring,” he answered.

“Oh,”

“Yeah, I really hate writing essays. I always get distracted so easily,” Jamie added.

Ember nodded understandingly.

After a minute longer of Jamie trying to focus, he couldn’t concentrate anymore. The presence of Ember made that impossible.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” he said standing up out of his chair, “I’m just gonna go get a snack. I’ll be back in like, five seconds.”

“O-oh, ok,” Ember replied, watching him leave the room and close the door behind him.

Once Jamie had closed the door, he took a deep breath in and out. Get it together dude.

--

Ember didn’t know why she stayed.

When Jamie left the room, she should have left immediately, but instead, she found herself staying, sitting in her spot, waiting for him to come back. Even worse, she wanted him to come back. No, this wasn’t right, she couldn’t get attached, he’s a human. But the way he would softly gaze at her, with such a tender look in his eyes, it made her heart flutter. The way his face was magnified to her, letting her see every little detail clearly. She could see all the freckles on his nose and forehead area, the way his wavy brown hair would fall into his face slightly, his huge dark brown eyes that gazed at her so sweetly.

Stop it, she thought. She shook her head from side to side, as if to shake those thoughts out of her brain.

Suddenly, the door swung open once again.

Ember froze, petrified.

It wasn’t Jamie standing in the door frame, it was Caleb.

--

Jamie’s stomach dropped when he saw someone standing in the doorway of his room.

Realizing it was Caleb, he dropped the bag of chips he was carrying and rushed towards his room. Jamie knew that Caleb would never do anything to hurt Ember, he was a good guy, but the image of the miniscule girl trembling in fear and terror on his desk was more than enough to jumpstart him into action.

“Hey Caleb! What ’cha need?” Jamie darted towards the desk where Ember was, turned around, and blocked her from view.

Caleb looked like he had seen a ghost. “What. The fuck. Was that?” he demanded.

“What was what?” Jamie replied trying to sound innocent.

“Do not fuck with me right now,” Caleb stepped closer, pointing at the desk, “What was that?”

Jamie said nothing, he was never good at lying. He took a peek behind him to see Ember shaking like a leaf, he tried to give her an extremely apologetic look.

“Jesus!” Caleb yelled suddenly, making Jamie jump in surprise. They all heard a distant, What!

“Nonono please don’t call him in here,” he begged.

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Caleb replied looking him firmly in the eyes.

--

Ember was trying to put on a brave face.

Here she was, sitting on Jamies desk with him, and his two roommates staring at her like they were trying to solve a really complex math equation. Jamie was standing out of their way, looking extremely apologetic, as if he wanted to say to her, this isn’t my fault! Ember didn’t blame him for being discovered, she blamed herself. If she had just left the moment Jamie exited the room, and not gotten lost in her silly little daydream about him, none of this would have happened. She was a disgrace to the name of borrower. What would her family say if they could see her now?

What followed her discovery is what Ember would describe as a full-on interrogation. Caleb and Jesus asked her just about every question their brains could come up with. Some of the highlights included:

“What are you?”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Are you alone?”

“What’s your name?”

“Do you have a last name or middle name?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

All of which Ember tried to answer honestly without giving everything away. The whole time, Jamie was standing off to the side looking incredibly uncomfortable and stressed, a few times he had to step in to tell the guys to back off a bit, or to calm down with their rapid questioning. Ember appreciated this, at least he was advocating for her, she could tell that he was also interested in her answers to the other’s questions as well. After all the boys’ curiosities were mostly satisfied, they mellowed out.

“Dude, it still feels like I’m fucking dreaming, bro” Jesus said to Caleb.

“Yeah, I feel like I’m on some shit cause no way this is for real,” he replied.

“Nice to meet you, Ember!” they both said, exiting the room waving.

“Yeah, feel free to come chill with us anytime!” Jamie promptly closed the door as soon as they both left.

Ember met his eyes, to which he immediately knelt down to her level, looking at her worriedly.

“Are you ok?” his eyes softening, “That must have been so scary for you,”

Ember took a moment to answer, she felt a mix of relief, fear, and bewilderment. She looked straight at him.

“What does it mean to ‘come chill’ with someone?” she asked, her head tilting slightly.

Jamie stared at her for a moment before a chuckle bubbled up in him, a bubble which turned into a full-blown fit of laughter, much to Ember’s confusion. She watched Jamie clutch his stomach on the floor, barely able to breathe through his laughter. She felt herself blushing watching him laugh.

His laugh was the most wonderful music to her ears.

“You, ma’am,” Jamie said gathering his composure, “You sure are something,”

For some reason, that caused Ember to smile.

[liebgirl]

i’m sorry. this is the most boring movie i’ve ever seen in my life i cannot finish it tonight…

[deepestbluesky]

everytime i see something like ‘do you ever just read a fic and Know that the author has never had sex’ i want to break down and never write a fic again!!!!! at least this time it wasn’t the deadly combo of remarks to that effect and then also seeing people i like in fandom say they won’t read anything that isn’t rated M or E because they only want to read fics with adult perspectives 🙃

[thundersoothers]

john price, his wife, and... the dog (derogatory)

who: John Price x wife!reader

what: inspired by this thought about john price being an absolutely softie for his wife. continued here!

word count: 2.4k

warnings: mentions of cheating but it’s NOT TRUE! you’ll see… just fluff that reallyyyyy makes me want to marry this man.

It’s 2AM on a Saturday in the summer when John Price thinks he hears his wife cheating on him. 

“Shhh!!  You have to be quiet, you’ll wake up my husband.” 

He opens his heavy eyes to see the TV paused at the end credits of some movie he can’t even remember the name of.  The screen reflects in the crystal of the empty rocks glass on the coffee table next to his feet, holding only a warm whiskey stone.  

He groans and stretches, his old t-shirt riding up to show a dark happy trail disappearing into low-waisted flannel pajama pants.  He has one sock on with a hole in the toe.  You told him to get rid of them and got him a pack of 20 of the same sock (he’s very particular about his socks), but he still wears these ones, anyway. 

“Stop moving, I’m trying to concentrate here.  Damn lock… can never— oh, shit.  Heh. Wrong key.” 

He can hear you muttering and giggling and the scratch of the key against the lock as you struggle to get it in. 

It’s your girls’ night and he likes to wait up for you to make sure you get in safely.  He saw you off around 8PM, pouring himself a glass of whiskey as you took a shot of tequila.  You planted a big kiss on his cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark that he didn’t bother to fully wipe off. 

“Sorry, I know you’re eager to get inside.  I bet you’re so cold, all naked.  Here, you can go in my dress, is that better?  Fu—ow!  Don’t bite my tit, Jesus!  Sharp teeth…” 

Price suddenly feels much more awake.  He pushes himself up from the couch and starts to walk to the foyer. 

“This damn door… ah!  There we go.” 

The door creaks open and he hears you tiptoe inside in your heels (wearing heels and tiptoeing—are two actions that are mutually exclusive, especially when you’re plastered). 

“Remember, we have to be quiet.  My husband waits for me to get home, we don’t want to wake him up.  He’s very nice, you see, but he can’t know you’re here.” 

Apparently, you have gotten home safely—with an extra guest who just bit at your tit.  And you’re being louder than your guest, who you keep telling to be quiet. 

“My husband is gonna be soooo mad.  He’s gonna be so mad at me, but once he sees how cute you are, I think he’ll forgive me.  He’ll understand.  I had to.  I just had to!” 

He hears rustling as he gets closer to the foyer, you fumbling around in the dark. 

“Stay there, don’t move, okay?  Stay, yeah?  You know that, don’t you?  Mummy will teach you if not.  Just stay right there.  Lemme get these damn heels off…” 

There’s an odd sound of something quickly clicking on hardwood floor that makes his eyebrows furrow, and then you gasp—

“Wait, don’t run—“ 

Bang! 

You groan loudly. 

Price flicks on the lights.

You’re lying face down on the rug.  You have one heel on.  The second heel is twisted around your other foot—what you fell over.  Your little dress is flipped up over your ass and your arms are outstretched. 

“You okay there, love?” John asks, torn between amusement and concern. You just groan.  “Sounded like you fell pretty hard.” 

“I tripped,” you say into the rug, sounding very sad. 

“You hurt?” he asks.  “Anything broken?”

You shake your head and curl up a little.  “I’ll just sleep here.” 

He laughs softly.  “Come on, none of that.” 

“It’s so comfortable.  I’ll just—“ 

There’s that clicking sound again and he’s almost startled by the abruptness of your movement.  You push yourself up with one arm, stretch the other out and fucking snatch the quick-moving little brown blob that’s moving toward you.  You pull it to your chest and cradle it, shielding it from John’s view. 

He blinks. “What you got there, love?” he asks after a second. 

“Nothing,” you say innocently. 

“Right.”  He crosses his arms, looking you over.  “Who were you talking to just now?” 

“No one,” you say quickly.  “Myself.” 

“Right,” John says again slowly. “Show me what you have.” 

You look over your shoulder up at him through your lashes, vision blurry.  “No.  You’re gonna be mad.” 

“Just show me.” 

“Promise you won’t be mad.” 

He sighs.  “I won’t be mad.”  You give him a look.  He sighs again.  You’re wasted—he can tell by your eyes. They’re unfocused and heavy.  “Promise.  Now show me.” 

You look down at whatever you’re holding to your chest.  “Okay,” you whisper (to your tits?), “you need to be very well-behaved, okay?  No biting, please.  Be very nice for Daddy so he will like you, okay?  Can you do that?  Yes?  Okay.” 

You glance up at John again over your shoulder and then turn yourself around in a very clumsy movement.  Then, as if presenting whatever it is like you’re Mufasa from the Lion King, you lift it up in the air toward your husband. 

It’s a puppy. 

It’s quiet. 

The little dog wriggles in your hands, wagging his tail so hard his whole body shakes.  He barks up at John, high pitched.  A small pink tongue lolls out of his mouth. 

It’s still quiet. 

You lower the dog a little so you can look up at John.  “You said you wouldn’t be mad!” 

“I’m not mad,” John says, sounding mad. 

“You look mad.” 

“I’m not mad,” he says again.  “It’s just… dirty.” 

You gasp.  “He’s not dirty!” you exclaim, sounding offended on behalf of the dog.  You pull him to your chest.  “He’s just a little mangey, you see.  But that’s okay.  It can be fixed.  You know—they have medicine for that.  Or lotion, or whatever it is.  He’s very nice, John, I swear.  I know he’s a little… skrunkly but he’s very cute and—ow!  That’s my hair, no biting Mummy, please.” 

“You’re already calling yourself his Mummy?” he asks, bemused, eyebrow raised at you.  Yep.  You’re fucking wasted. 

“Yes, and you’re his Daddy.”  You hold the dog up again, this time facing him toward you.  “I think you’re very cute, puppy. You’ll grow on Daddy.  Just be very good for him, you can do that, can’t you?  Yes, you can.”  You whisper, as if John isn’t standing right there, “We’ll wear him down. Don’t worry.”

“I thought it was something else,” Price says. 

“What did you think it was?” you ask, not looking away from the dog.

“Where did you find it?” he asks instead of answering. 

This is much better than what his traitorous mind momentarily supplied.  You, cheating? As if.

How silly of him to even think that. For a moment, his stomach twists with the guilt of doubting you. He should have known better. 

Of course it’s this.  What else could it have been?

A puppy. 

A puppy! 

“Oh, hello, there.” 

You crouch down in your dress and heels and hold out your hand to the little puppy emerging from the bushes by the side of the road. 

“What are you doing here, all alone?  Come here, love, I won’t hurt you.  Come on, puppy, come to me.  Yeahhh, there we go.  Oh, look at you.  You’re so cute.  You’re all mangey, though.  Oh,” you say pitifully, “you little baby.” 

You’re drunk as fuck at 2AM on a Saturday in the summer, halfway through your walk home from the bar, squatting in the middle of a back road in England, about to cry while petting this puppy clumsily—but he doesn’t seem to mind.  He wags his tail and nips at your fingers. 

“Where’s your mummy?  You shouldn’t be out here all alone.  No collar… oh, goodness, what should I do with you?  I don’t want to leave you.  I’m not sure what to do.” 

He barks at you, high pitched. 

You nod at him seriously.  “Oh, yes, good point.”  He barks again.  “Mhm.  Yes, yes.  I thought so, too.  Exactly right.” 

He runs in a circle around you. 

“What are you, a month?  You should be with your Mum, you shouldn’t be all alone.  Oh, you little baby, you must be so scared.”  (He’s wagging his tail.) 

“It’s so cold.”  (It’s summer.) 

“Maybe you can come home with me?”  (Your husband would be so mad.) 

“Yes,” you decide.  “You’ll come home with me.”  (Your husband is going to be so mad.) 

That’s how you end up stumbling home with a puppy in your arms, rambling to him about yourself and your life. 

“Well, puppy, my name is Mrs. Price.  I’m from around here.  I live in a nice three bedroom house with my husband, I think you’ll like it very much.  It’s very cute, but that's mostly because I decorated it. He doesn’t understand feng shui, you see. You should see his office, puppy, it’s so bland. No taste for interior design.”

“Our house is only 10 more minutes away.  See that big tree there?  That means we only have 10 minutes left until we’re home.  I’m not great with street names, so I go by landmarks.”  He barks.  “Yes, yes, you get it.” 

“Anyway.  So, I’m—stop wiggling please, Mummy’s going to drop you—I’m married to a very nice man named John.  I love him very much.  You’ll like him, too,” you tell the dog seriously. "He’s very likable.  I like lots of things about him, puppy.  Actually," you say, "I like everything about him.” 

“He says I can’t have a dog, though.  He says it’s for my own good—booooo. Boo! But maybe we can sneak you in.  What do you think, puppy?  Should we do that?  I think we should do that.  We’ll have to be very quiet, though.  Very quiet.” 

“John waits for me to get home safely—he’s so nice, he’s so kind to me, I love him sooooo much—but we have to make sure not to wake him up. This is one of them—uh, covert operations. He’s very well-versed in those. My husband is very talented, puppy, he’s a military Captain. So we’ll have to be extra careful.”

And that’s how you end up trying to sneak into your own house and then trip over your shoe and fucking slam! your face on the rug. 

“Where did you find it?” John asks you as you sit on the floor after you presented the dog to him.

“On the way home from the bar, kind of my that big tree.” 

“By Notting Street?” 

You furrow your eyebrows.  “Notting Str—I dunno.  Maybe?  I just know the big tree.  The one with all the branches.” 

“‘The one with all the branches,’” he repeats, nodding slowly.  “Right.” 

“But he was there all alone so I took him home.  I couldn’t leave him, John, he’s so little.  And he’s very cute, look at his little ears?  And his little feet?  His toes are soooo small.  His little teeth are sharp, though—like a shark.  Fuckin’ hurt, he almost bit my tit off.” 

“Yeah, I heard.” 

“You heard?  Oh.  I was trying to be quiet.  I didn’t want to wake you up.” 

He smiles at you.  “I know.” 

You smile back. 

“Give me the dog.” 

You frown.  “No.” 

“The dog, please.” 

“No.”  You hold him tighter.  “You’ll take him from me.” 

“Well,” he says, “yes.” 

You sigh heavily.  “Be gentle.”  You hand him to John and he takes him in one hand and holds him out, frowning, as if it’s offended him. 

A puppy. 

“Can we keep him?” you ask hopefully. 

He glances at you and then back to the puppy and then back to you and then back to the puppy.  “No.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” 

“But…”  You trail off and he looks back down at you.  You’re starting to tear up. 

“Oh—love, don’t cry.” 

“He’s so little and soft and nice and he’s all mangey and he’s all alone and he’s just a little baby and…” 

“Okay, okay, darling, we can keep him.” 

(By that, he means you’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober, and by ‘talk about it’, he means, ‘no.’) 

“Really?!” you gasp.  

The way your face fucking lights up makes John pause.  For a second, he almost feels like he lost his balance.

“Oh, John, really?  Oh, thank you so much!  Puppy, did you hear that?  Daddy said yes!  See, he’s very nice, just like I told you, remember?  He’s very nice and kind and he’s very handsome and I love him very much, and I—“ 

“The dog can’t understand you.” 

“You don’t know that,” you say defensively.

He looks down at you. “Right.”

You stare up at him, standing over you as you sit on the floor.  “How are you handsome even from this angle?”  You frown deeper.  “Stupid face,” you mutter. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Let’s get you up.” 

“I’m so comfortable.” 

“Hand.”  He tucks the dog under his arm and extends his other hand toward you.  He crooks his long, thick fingers at you.  “Now.” 

You look between his hand and his face, and then slip your hand into his. 

“Good girl.”

He fucking yanks you up and, in one movement that’s somehow graceful, bends down and throws you over his shoulder. 

He, naturally, slaps your ass and you squeal.  “Hey!!” 

You kick your feet (still with only one heel on) and he laughs, resting his hand on your hip, heavy fingers digging into the plush of your butt, as he makes his way up the stairs with you on his shoulder and the dog in his hand. 

Gently, he drops you onto the bed and you fall back with an oof! and stare up at him. 

“Well,” Price drawls, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

You grin.  “I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too.”  He takes off your shoe (singular), your dress, and your makeup as you hold the dog, curled up, on your chest. 

“You’re so good to me, John,” you say, your eyes closed.  “I’m so lucky.  I don’t know how I got so lucky.  And, you, puppy,” you mumble, petting him slowly, “you’re so lucky, too.  You’re about to have the best Daddy in the world.  He’s so good to us.” 

“‘Puppy’ is asleep,” John says.  “And,” he adds, scooping him up in one hand, “puppy is not sleeping in the bed.” 

You just groan, too tired and drunk to argue. 

He holds the dog out in the air again, turning him around and upside down to examine him.  He yips and wriggles in his hands, but John shushes him.  “Hush now.  Your Mummy is asleep.”  He shakes his head and sighs.  “What am I going to do with you?” 

He takes the dog to the bathroom and puts him down on the floor. His paws slip a little on the cold tile. John puts his hands on his hips, staring down at the dog.  “I can’t believe this.”

He reaches over to turn on the heated floor (which he got installed for you), throws a fluffy towel onto the ground (also for you), and says to the dog, “You are so, so damn lucky I love your Mummy.” 

In the morning, despite John Price’s best efforts to say no to you, you end up convincing him to keep the dog. He’s a military Captain but the pleading of his wife is enough to make him crumble.

The happiness on your face when he finally says yes, makes him wonder why he ever said no in the first place.

note: thank you for reading! this is my first time posting in years–and in a totally new fandom. thank you for your patience and your support. let me know your thoughts! merry christmas!

posted 12.26.2024. revised 02.17.2025.

do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform.

to masterlist.

[olsenmyolsen]

Three Weeks

Part 26 of On The Inside With Elizabeth Olsen

Word Count: ~6K

masterlist

Liz POV

It's been three weeks since Y/N left. Three weeks since I've spoken to my sister Mary-Kate and three weeks since speaking to Y/N's mother. I wish I could say that all of this was easy or made better due to the fact that I'm actively trying to live a life that doesn't involve me missing Y/N, but it sucks.

This is one of the hardest things I've had to do.

But here I am, waking up in my bedroom alone and sad, for you guessed it, the third week in a row. I think I've slowly morphed into my Character Leigh Shaw. That's who I am now.

A cold, depressed bitch missing her love and looking for answers.

Anywho, I did some of the cliche break-up things you're supposed to do! I cried while watching Rom-Coms and eating ice cream. I dyed my hair! Goodbye, dirty blonde, and hello, brunette Lizzie. I made sure to tell my friends that I was doing better when in reality, I was not.

Scarlett and Aubrey were quick to see through that shit.

That led to a very passive-aggressive forced lunch with a seven-month pregnant Scarlett and her daughter Rose who very sweetly had no clue what was going on. Colin was set to join, but I'm certain Scar made him stay home.

On the other hand, Aubrey called me out on everything once I spilled it all. But she wasn't as upset with me as other people had been. But she made sure that when I'm in LA that I stay with her since Robbie is still occupying our/my house. I told her that wouldn't be necessary since I have other friends and family to stay with but saying no to Aubrey is weirdly tricky.

Also, I took a page out of Y/N's book. Literally. I started writing. Okay, not like writing writing like Y/N but writing my thoughts and what I want to say the next to I see my Coffee Girl. I have a pile of envelopes ready to go. Each one is different but laced with love. They constantly stay in my purse. I'm afraid I'll lose them otherwise.

I know I haven't talked to her since, but.. this hasn't stopped me from trying. No calls, just texts every once in a while. Letting her know that I'm thinking about her and her safety. I know she's doing okay, thanks to certain people, but I can't wait to see that smile shine on her face whether I'm an inch away or thousands of miles.

I yawn and get the sleep out of my eyes before making my way into the kitchen. I haven't been eating the best or a lot lately, so maybe making a big breakfast will help today. It didn't help last week, but I can try again.

Waffles. Eggs. Cut up fresh fruit from my rooftop garden.

This is what I ended up making, and to my surprise and delight, I ended up eating a good majority of it. I compost what I don't eat because I'm not sure when I'm returning.

Oh, did I not mention? I'm flying to Los Angeles today.

I still have a couple of hours until my flight, and I packed last night, so I might as well water and say goodbye to my plants before making one final trip to Y/N's apartment.

Y/N POV

Today of all days, I have to wake up feeling like I got hit by a train.

Everything hurts. My head is pounding like a hammer. My nose is stuffed but also running. Every time I try to clear my throat, it feels like tiny needles are being dragged down my esophagus. This is awful. I knew something was happening, but I blamed it on allergies. I should've known when Nick said, "it's just a cough," he was lying. It's never just a cough. If he wasn't one of the nicest men I've ever met, I'd be so pissed at him.

Speaking of Nick. Since the last time he confided in me that he has feelings for my mom, nothing has changed. My mom knows but doesn't want to pursue a relationship. I understand her completely. I'm not saying I want to see her and Nick be together, especially since no one can replace Davey.

I know Nick wouldn't be, but that doesn't make it easier. But my mom and him have a perfect friendship right now. At the drop of a hat, they're there for each other. Wait-

What's that ringing?

I turn my head as I get pulled from my thoughts. I reach over and answer my phone with a scratchy throat.

"Hello?"

"Pumpkin? Are you alright? You sound terrible." Thanks, mom.

"I think Nick got me sick." My mom groans into the phone. "I told him to rest and that we'd have dinner together next time you visit, but no, he had to make a home-cooked meal for you."

That's sweet. I smile through the pain as she continues her rant. "He's just like your father at times, I swear." My mom laughs at her own words. I don't think she fully realized she just compared Nick to Davey, but I let it slide.

"Yeah.. so why'd you call mom?"

"Just wanted to make sure you'd be up and ready for today." I pull my phone away and see I still have a couple of hours until my flight.

Oh, did I not mention? I'm flying to Los Angeles today.

"Yeah, I packed last night. Remember one big suitcase." I try to stifle a groan as I sit up. But my sickness and back have other plans for me. If one thing is for sure, I can't wait to never sleep on an air mattress again.

"Oh, that's right! I'm sorry I can't see you off."

I roll my eyes, knowing how busy my mom is and that no matter what she says, she wants to keep me here. She practically didn't let me go last night after dinner.

"I know, mom. It's alright."

"Whose picking you up from the airport?" Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell my mom. "James. Max's brother."

My mom accepts the answer and starts telling me about how her morning has been so far while I fumble my way into the bathroom and begin searching through every drawer, looking for cold & flu medicine.

"What's that racket?"

Apparently, I was not as quiet as I thought. "Where's the medicine? I searched everywhere." I ask through a cough.

"Bottom drawer. Behind the green bag." I search precisely where my mom said, and she was exactly right. How do mothers do that? "Be sure to take some ibuprofen two hours from now as well."

"Okay, mom." I throw back the pills before scooping some water from the tap into my hand, drinking like a sick animal.

"Be sure to eat something too." My mom adds, but all I want to do is curl up on the couch and die. "Mom, I'm no-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence Y/N Y/L/N."

"Yes, ma'am." Great, now I'm in the kitchen.

"Oh, before I let you go, dear, what are your plans for your birthday?" Oh shit. My birthday is coming up. "No plans," I say, closing the fridge door with a shrug earning a sigh from my mom on the other end.

"Okay, let me know if you want to come back home for that."

I doubt it.

"Okay, mom. I'll keep you posted."

"Thank you, Y/N. Now I love you. Be sure to eat something and text me once you're on your way to the airport." I nod my head. "I will, mom. I love you too. Okay. Bye."

I end the call and throw my body onto the couch. I try to fight it, but before I know it, my eyes close, and I'm asleep.

Liz POV

They fixed the elevator.

The moving steel box's doors slide open as I reach my designated floor. Y/N's floor. With an envelope in one hand and her key in the other, I make my way to the door. I know she's not here. But a part of me still hopes I'll be in for a surprise when this door swings open.

And she's not here. In fact, the place is almost in the exact same position it was when I left it. Except it looks cleaner? Wait? Has someone been here? I take a couple of steps into the place and do what you're not supposed to do in every horror movie ever. "Hello?" I call into the quiet apartment.

I get no response.

Not fully trusting this situation, I close the door behind me and quickly search the place. It isn't until I find myself in Y/N's kitchen that I find a note stuck onto the fridge.

Hey Oslen,

Knowing you, you'll be back to Y/N's place more than once. But just in case I was wrong (I'm not), I went ahead and cleaned out her refrigerator and tidied up the place. You never know when she might come back, right? Plus, we can't have the place smelling like an old, run-down dumpster.

Anyways I'm sorry I haven't reached back out to you. But I'm happy to know that it looks like Y/N's case is finally on track to be over. Perks of having one of the hottest and best lawyers. ;)

Text me when you see this. And as far as I know. She's safe.

With care, Max

I fold up the piece of paper and place it into my back pocket but not before shooting a text to Max, letting her know that I saw her message and that I'm happy she's safe.

Reminding myself that I have my own piece of myself to share with Y/N. I take the envelope in my hand and walk it over to the coffee table. I hope she sees it. Maybe not tomorrow but some day.

After combing over the living room, I make my way into Y/N's bedroom. Knowing that there's not a murder in the building, I can actually look around to see the improvements Max made. Like for example, not more shirts on the floor. Instead, most of them are folded up on the bed or tossed onto hangers.

My hand immediately gravitated to one of the most recent pairs of shirts she wore. Yes, the pink-fonted Elizabeth Olsen picture collage shirt. I unfold the shirt and bring it up to my face. It still smells like her, but it's not as strong... I have to stop the pout from forming on my face. I've done it like crazy lately. I look back down at the shirt and start to get lost in a train of thought. Without another second, I find a small duffel bag and begin filling it with some shirts knowing that if I wear them out, I'll get seen. And if I get caught, they'll be posted everywhere. Everywhere- for one's woman's eyes to see.

_

"How did you get more bags?" My driver Mr. Bronson jokes as he takes them from me to place into the truck with my other luggage. "Technically, the one is a guitar case." This earns a sarcastic oooh from him.

I felt a little.. weird taking Y/N's old guitar, but it feels right at the same time. Plus, I keep remembering the texts Sam showed me from Y/N.

If you don't hear from me in the next couple of weeks, just know that I'm fine. Feel free to come to my place tomorrow. (Address) Take what you want.

Also, I don't want this guitar of hers to become lost or thrown out by mistake, and I've been itching to relearn to play.

"Ready?" Mr. Bronson pulls me from my thoughts. I quickly nod as the car slowly pulls away from the curb. I take one final look behind me to see Y/N's place become smaller.

Y/N POV

"Okay what about this." (Video attached)

That's more what I'm thinking.. but faster and don't be afraid to make it more Appalachian.

Y/N It's your song why don't you just record it.

Robbie, first off it's our song and I don't exactly have my guitar with me.. also the lyric is "I only want to be in the passing lane" Not "fastest lane."

Shit. You're right. This will be much easier when you're here.

Couple of hours. Thanks again. I know I've said it a million times but thank you

I should be the one thanking you. But fr stop it. We're helping each other. Also I'm just glad we're past the awkward stage. It's not everyday two exs become friends.(?)

Writing partners *

Writing partners

"Earth to Y/N."

I lift my head from my phone, confused, which wasn't the brightest idea. My head is still killing me. The pills are helping but not as much as I want them to. "What?" I ask whoever is begging for my attention as I close my eyes and rub my forehead.

"Just wanted to know if you needed any help with your bags. You okay?" A male voice speaks.

I pull my eyes over to the voice. It's Nick. He's standing in front of the now-closed front door. How long has he been here? Shit what time is it?

I quickly panic and look at the time displayed on my phone.

Whew. I still have some hours till my flight takes off. But that means we should be leaving soon. Airports are always an annoying hassle.

"Y/N?" Nick's voice is now softer as he sits down on the couch next to me. "You okay, kid?" I take a deep breath and try and clear my painful throat.

"Yeah."

I guess I didn't do a good enough job at the throat-clearing. Nick's face remains unchanged, but his eyes are filled with worry and guilt. He knows I'm sick. And he gave me his cold.

"Did you take medicine?" I gently nod, not wanting to hurt myself more.

"Anything you need?"

"I'm fine." Me saying that and looking "fine" are two different things, but I hate being sick, so dwelling on it makes it worse. Plus, Nick and I are becoming closer. In fact, anytime my mom was at work, and if he had time, we'd hang out. It didn't involve much. Sometimes it was just watching tv or grabbing lunch, but it formed this weird bond between us. Maybe I remind him of his late son, or perhaps he is just a good man. Or, who knows, maybe he's showing me he can be... something more. I don't know. What I do know is that I don't want him to be worrying about me right now. I got enough going on.

Nick looks at me uncertain but doesn't push it. "Are you all packed?"

"Yeah, I did it after dinner." Nick nods his head as he gets up to go to the kitchen. "Tea?" He asks without turning his back.

"Yes, please."

Liz POV

Paparazzi present as always.

They're lining up at the entrance to the airport, just alive and waiting. I guess word got around. I was showing up. I mean, it makes sense the paps would want a good photo of me. I've barely left my place the last couple of weeks so getting a picture of me "out of my cave" makes people go crazy.

"Mr. Bronson?" I ask while keeping my attention on the picture takers outside. "Could you help me with my bags?"

"Of course." I turn to see him already looking at me with a smile. "Hat and sunglasses on." He reminds me. "Ready?" I nod once I'm "disguised."

"Ready."

"Let's go." Mr. Bronson steps out of the car and opens the truck grabbing all my bags placing them on the floor before closing up the trunk. He comes around to my side of the vehicle and sets something next to the door. Before I can think about what it is, he opens the door reminding me to "keep your head down." I nod to him as he places the guitar case in my hand. "Might help." He adds.

It surprisingly works a little. As we walked by the paparazzi, far fewer pictures than usual were taken of me. The ones that knew who I was knew. The others, I think, were taking a gamble and thought I was some indie singer or something. Regardless. I'm here inside the busy airport, from one anxiety-filled thing to another.

Mr. Bronson left shortly once we made it inside. I thanked him profusely, which he, of course, shrugged off. All he told me was to "go get her." I guess he thinks I'm chasing after Y/N.

Speaking of...

I'm now sitting down, opening our very one-sided text conversation. I scroll back up to the last couple of texts she sent me. They make me smile. This was back before the ignored calls. Back before I screwed it up. Back before, I lost the one real thing I've ever known. I remember it.

"Excuse me?"

I quickly close and fumble to put my phone away at a quiet voice speaking to me. I look up through my sunglasses to see a girl. She must be 14 or so. How'd she get into this airport lounge? Doesn't she need to have a credit card and be a member or something? Oh God, is she lost?

I can feel my nerves begin to overtake me. Deep breaths, Lizzie.

"Excuse me?" The girl speaks to me again. Shit, I should probably say something.

"Hello." I give a smile as the girl's face lights up from me just speaking. "Oh my God, It's really you! I wasn't 100% sure. I was going to be mortified if it was someone else." I giggle, calming down a bit at the girl's tone and evident nervousness.

"What's your name?" The girl smiles again before it looks like she's trying to remember her own name. Oh gosh, seeing fans get like this makes me feel a little bad. I don't want them to get too stressed or nervous just from meeting another human being.

"Geneva."

I say the name back to myself internally before gesturing to the seat next to me since Geneva was just hunched over in front of me. "Are you sure?" She looks at me with such worry, but I motion again. "Please. It's okay." Geneva nods before taking the seat next to me. She looks like she wants to say a million things, but at the same time, she's too star-struck to do anything. I got time to kill, and I haven't really been talking to many people as of late, so I'll start.

"Geneva?" The girl turns to me- jaw dropped. "You said my name." I nod. "I did. Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything." She replies quicker than I would've hoped for.

"How'd you know it was me? And where did you see me from?"

Geneva points to her head. Leaving me a little confused. "Your cap." I lift my hand up to touch it. My LA Dodgers Cap? "It's like your calling card. You rep it more than any other celebrity. It's basically your own merch." She tells me with a smile. Huh, I mean, I guess I did buy Y/N her own cap for a reason.

I do wear it a lot, don't I?

"I literally bought one because of you. Oh, and I saw you from... over... there!" I follow where Geneva's finger is pointing. In the distance is an older man watching, waving at our interaction. So that's how she got in here. "That's my dad. I tried explaining who you were and why I was freaking out, but he didn't get it. I hope I'm not bothering you." Geneva quickly adds that last sentence in.

"Not at all. I was getting lost in my own world, so I'm happy you stepped over here." I tell her honestly. "Okay, good." Geneva appears to take a deep breath and relax a little after hearing that. I know that feeling all too well.

"So, where are you going?" I turn my body slightly towards Geneva, so she knows she has my attention.

"My dad and I are going to Oregon for a week."

"That should be fun." I instantly encourage the idea seeing that Geneva looks nervous. "I hope so. I don't like flying."

"That's okay." I go to say something else, but I see Geneva's wandering eyes look over my carry-on purse. "Where are you going?"

"Home." I point to my cap with a slight smile. Geneva slowly nods her head. "Filming?" I shake my head. "Not for a while."

"I loved WandaVision. I think it made Wanda my favorite." She mumbles that last part, but I heard her. "Oh?! Well, thank you, Geneva, but who was your favorite?"

"Bucky and Black Widow," Geneva replies, almost scared that she had another favorite before me. She knows I'm not the Scarlet Witch, right? I subtly laugh at her responses. "Those are cool characters. One is way cooler than the other."

"And hotter!" Geneva replies casually before realizing I'm not one of her teenage friends. She looks at me wide-eyed. "I-uh-I didn't- I'm sorry- don't tell Sca-" "It's okay. Your secrets are safe with me." Geneva still looks a little panicked, and it reminds me of the talks Y/N and I would have about her love of Black Widow.

I will say Geneva and Y/N are right. She is hot.

"Can I say something?" Geneva breaks the awkward yet comfortable silence that is building up in this loud airport. I gesture for her to keep going.

"I'm really sorry for how it happened, but knowing that one of my favorite superheroes or anti-hero or whatever you wanna call Wanda now was being played by someone who is a lot more like me than I thought was important."

This is a conversation that Marla and Rhonda told me that needed to happen. I have yet to publicly confirm that, yes, I am a part of a certain community now. All that's been said is that Robbie and I were no longer together and that I was seeing someone named Y/N Y/L/N—so hearing from a girl who can't even drive yet that I mean this much to her. It makes my heart warm up and break at the same time. I feel ecstatic that I can now be someone for people to look up to, but at the same time, I haven't done enough.

This needs to change.

I look over to Geneva.

"As I said, I'm sorry for how it happened, but you and your girlfriend look really cute together."

Girlfriend. I quickly use my acting skills and cover up and frown or look that suggests otherwise.

"Thank you very much, Geneva! Yes, we are cute, aren't we." I chuckle at the same time she does. "And I still look at Wanda as a hero, so you can too." I nudge Geneva.

Geneva looks down as her phone lights up. I didn't even realize she had it in her hands. "Oh, looks like we're about to board." Geneva looks up at me. "If it's not too much trouble, could I get a picture?" This child is so kind.

"Of course." I quickly take off my sunglasses as Geneva has the camera ready. I lean in close to Geneva, but not enough, so we're touching. "I won't take too many."

"I think a couple will be fine." I calmly but sternly tell her.

"Okay. One.. two.. three.. GAY!" My smile quickly morphs into a laugh that I cover worth my hand. I was not expecting the girl to say this. While laughing, another picture gets taken. "I can't believe I made Elizabeth Olsen laugh!" Geneva says a bit too loud for my liking reminding myself where we are.

It looks like we're done with the photos, so I quickly take the time to cover my face back up. "Thank you so much. Omg, this is the greatest thing I've ever taken."Geneva shows me, and it's a typical one, and then Geneva smiling as I'm dying of laughter. "I'm glad to be a part of it." In the distance, I see Geneva's dad making his way over here. I guess they're running a little late now.

"Thank you again! This means so much to me." I smile. "Me too." Geneva starts to walk away, but I stop her. "Geneva!" She quickly turns back. "Yes?!"

How do I say this?

"Do you mind waiting until tomorrow to post that picture? If you do it now.. the paparazzi will be worse in Los Angeles." Geneva thinks about my words. "Sure. I don't want it to be worse for you." I graciously nod. "Thank you very much."

"Of course, Lizzie. Happy Pride Month." Geneva waves at me before walking to her now crossed arm dad.

It is the start of pride month.

I quickly pull out my phone, exiting my text conversation with Y/N and opening the one with Marla and Rhonda.

"An interview needs to be made today. People need to know who I am."

Y/N POV

The ride to the airport was uneventful. Aside from the occasional small talk and "I'm sorry for getting you sick" from Nick, nothing happened.

Now we're inching the car closer to the departure zone.

"Hey, kid?" When he first started calling me that, I thought it would go away because of how annoying it was, but it didn't, and I've grown to like it.

"Hmm?" I turn to face Nick as his eyes are watching the cars in front of us.

"Is the reason you left New York waiting for you in LA?"

"No," I say without another thought to the question or to the pain in my throat.

"Do you want them to be?"

I purse my lips and think. I don't know.. I've been avoiding Elizabeth for weeks but saying that I don't want to see her at all would be a complete lie because I miss her. I truly do. For the past couple of nights, I've been having dreams and nightmares about her. Maybe that's what's making my move to LA easier.

"I don't know," I whisper my answer out as Nick nods his head and drops the subject.

"You know, getting to know you these past couple of weeks has been wonderful. I'm happy to know Laurie has such an amazing daughter." The car has now reached my drop-off area. I turn to the older gentleman next to me.

"It's been a pleasure getting to know you too, Nickolas." Nick smiles but rolls his eyes at the awkward way I say his name causing me to laugh, which I regret doing as my warm throat starts fighting me.

"Need help with your bag?" I shake my head no, but Nick is already out of the car, opening the trunk for me. Once I'm about, he's already wheeling my suitcase to me. "Text your mother when you land. She'll be worried sick otherwise."

"I will."

Without thinking, I wrap my arms around Nick and hug him. I feel Nick hesitate before doing the same. It didn't last long, but it was nice. "Thanks again for everything." "Sorry for getting you sick, kid." Now I roll my eyes. "It's alright. I'll see you, Nick." I turn around and start walking to the airport doors.

"Wait!" I turn around to see the car window rolled down with Nick leaning over the passenger seat. "Don't forget to check your bag! You're flying to LA; who knows what someone might do if it's left in the overhead bin." I shake my head at him like he's crazy until I remembered the conversation over dinner last night.

"Literally pee all over my luggage. Someone left their child's toilet up in the top, and during take-off, it flew to the back, smacking everyone's precious cargo." (A/N this story happened on a podcast I used to listen to)

My face morphs in disgust. I shoot Nick a thumbs up as he laughs at my face. "So long, kid!" And with that, I turn back around and head straight towards my airline's desk. Ready to check this bag.

_

Okay, so that took longer than I thought it would. Of course, it's the beginning of summer, and this place is packed. What was I thinking? Now I'm sprinting, yes, sprinting to my gate! Mind you; I'm still feeling terrible!

It's like a scene out of a movie. I make it to my gate just as the last couple of people are shuffling on. The ticket on my phone goes through, and now I can finally breathe! I follow the people onto the plane, double-checking that I have everything. Phone? Obviously. AirPods? Duh. Cards and ID? Front pocket because what if my bag gets lost because I listened to Nick? Okay, time to find my seat and get rid of this headache.

I picked the worst day to fly.

_

Does anyone watch the stewardess do the safety instructions in case something happens and you need to step up, or is this just my anxiety making me watch them?

Anyways I feel relieved once they finish up. The person next to me couldn't give a shit. They were on their phone the whole time, and let me tell you, they were getting screamed at by someone through text.

Which weirdly reminds me.

I open my phone. I never finished my conversation with Robbie.

wasn't ignoring you just got on the plane. I'll text you when I land.

After a couple of minutes, Robbie responds.

No sweat I started taking a crack at that other song All Eyes On Me. Are you sure this is suited for me?

Moody indie? Uh yeah dude.

🙄 Saving it for when you get here. have a safe flight.

👍🏼

I exit that conversation, and I'm surprised to see a text from Max I don't remember getting.

"Elizabeth stopped by your place again. I think it might be for the last time. She's leaving ny."

Oh wow. Trying to copy me, Olsen?

I'm trying to formulate a sentence to type back, but I get interrupted when the mean stewardess tells me to put all electronic devices on airplane mode.

I'll just text Maxine back later. As of right now, though, I think it's time to pull out my AirPods, put on a relaxing playlist and tune out that crying baby five rows ahead of me.

Liz POV

Even in first class, I'm nervous. I don't know what it is today, but my nerves are doubled. Ever since we touched down in my home state, I've had this weird feeling.

Was I wrong to leave? Is it wrong to come back home? I should've apologized and seen my sister before leaving. No, I should've fucking chased after Y/N when I had the chance. Oh, God. Should I change my sunglasses and hat?

"Miss Olsen?" I dramatically lift my eyes up from the spot where my engagement ring used to be to see the eyes of the kind stewardess saving me from myself. "If you'd like to follow me." I nod before getting up and following her like a lost puppy. Except lost puppies don't get the stink eye from people, you never met.

Once we make it to the gate, the stewardess leads me to a man waiting with my bags. Well, all except one thing. Y/N's guitar case. Also, who is this man? Why is he here? I can carry my own bags.

"Thank you," I say to the stewards, who gives me a tight-lipped smile before turning back onto the plane. I walk up to the man and thank him for gathering all my belongings, but I can take it from here. He obliges as I double-check that I do indeed have everything except the guitar. I do! So with my purse securely on my shoulder and the bags and cases in my hands, I make my way to baggage claim.

Y/N POV

Two naps in one day.

I feel better after the second one. Or at least I thought I did. My eyes aren't tired. My head isn't killing me. But my throat. My throat got worse. Yes, it doesn't pain me as much to speak, but it's extra scratchy, and anytime I do try and speak, it's not my voice. I sound like a different person. Oh goodness, I need cough drops and water quick.

A text to James, Robbie, Max, and my mom later, and I'm the last one off. I've never been that last one off a plane, so I guess I can cross that off my bucket list. Why is it called that? Anyways with no bags carried on with me, it's now time to try to find my airline's baggage claim.

Oh yeah, also, I've never been to LAX before, so this is a new terrifying experience.

I hate that I'm doing this by myself.

_

I shouldn't have listened to Nick. I swear I've watched hundreds of people come by and be gone while I'm still here. I literally watched a guy walk around the corner, come by, scoop up his bag and walk straight into a car waiting for him. What the fuck?

Also, some people have zero sense of fashion. I know I don't, but I was learning a thing or two from the Olsens. Plus, I'm gay, so it's different.

Anygays, after watching the black suitcase with red lining pass by for the 7,495 time, I'm about to give up when brand new bags start coming down.

I watch as the crowd around me starts to grow. I had to do a double take when I thought I saw a woman in an LA Dodgers cap hanging around, but I didn't see her anymore, and I have to remember I'm actually in California now, so that's probably normal.

_

Finally, I saw it! My large suitcase was making its way to me. Without much of a struggle, I'm able to pull off the belt and make sure that, yes, it's mine. I'm about to finally walk away when something catches my eye.

I watch as it slides its way down before slowly making it was past me. It can't be. I look over the stickers on the case. Surely someone else has my exact same ones.

Except no one has my Davey-made sticker for my high school track team. Only one was made.

And there it is.

I watch as the case passes the people to my right. "Hey." I croak out of my throat as I watch a hand go and grab the case. Shit. They didn't hear me. When did so many people get here?

"Excuse me." "Get out of my way." "Sorry."

These are all the things I'm spitting out as the power starts coming back into my voice as I'm rushing to whoever thinks they can't steal my guitar case.

How the fuck do they have it?

"Hey, stop," I call out once I'm behind the person. "You with the case!" Fucking unbelievable! They're ignoring me.

"Hey!" I clear my throat once more and get right up behind the person before grabbing the bottom of my case from them pulling them back towards me.

"Who the fuck do you think you are!"

Liz POV

It took long enough, but it's finally here in my hands. I'm surprised I haven't been recognized with how long I was just standing there waiting.

I thought I saw someone who looked a lot like Y/N peer their way toward me, but I lost them in the ever-growing crowd.

Anyways. It's finally here in my hand. I hear some commotion behind me, but I'm too tired to see what that's about. I just want to "Hey!" get to Aubrey's before bringing this guitar to Robb-

"Who the fuck do you think you are!"

I feel the guitar case being pulled from behind as my hand gets yanked back, turning me around.

"Hey!" I yell before our eyes meet.

Y/N & Liz POV

It's her! She's here in front of me!! Don't fuck this up.

Part 27

[sematarygirls]

⠀     ⠀   ♯┆Rafe Loves Your New Lotion.ㅤ  ۪ ୧

ᰋ. ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎he's such a softie‎ ‎ : ‎‎ ‎ ‎WARNINGS . . . fluff, sexual comments.   ̼ ₊

"Yeah, baby, bend over a lil' more for me," Rafe's voice came from his place propped up on his bed, watching you intently through the open bathroom door as you stood in panties and one of Rafe's t-shirts with one leg up on the bathtub, applying some body butter.

"Oh, quit being such a perv," you rolled your eyes, rubbing the thick substance thoroughly into your skin. You'd just went shopping—with Rafe's black Amex, of course—and picked up a bunch of new body care in new scents. You smelled absolutely divine, and your skin was as soft as ever already.

He groaned, flopping back dramatically. "Just come to bed already. Didn't you already put shit on your legs?" He complained—which he'd been doing since you'd gotten in the shower and denied him entry with you.

"That was body lotion. This is body butter," you explained, straightening up and applying it to your arms.

"Christ, you women and your products. What's the fuckin' difference?" He scoffed. You gave him a shrug in response. You didn't really know the difference or if using both made any difference at all, but you liked the routine of it all, taking care of yourself and basking in the rewards felt nice.

"Dunno," you said, turning off the bathroom light and walking into the bedroom. "But I like it."

"Fuckin' finally," Rafe mumbled, grabbing you when you got close enough and pulling you onto his lap. His entire demeanor changed the moment you entered his space, his face lighting up as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of you. "Goddamn, you smell fuckin' amazing," he groaned, burying his face in your neck and making you giggle.

"Not complaining now, huh," you rolled your eyes playfully, a smile on your lips as he ran his hands over your exposed skin, clearly enjoying the soft, smooth feel.

"Shut up," he mumbled, pressing a kiss right below your ear as he squeezed your thighs. "Fuck, baby, you smell like heaven. And your skin is so soft," he murmured, spreading your thighs apart slightly and running his hands down them slowly. "Jesus. No wonder you put half a fuckin' pharmacy on yourself." He teased, making you laugh again.

"I'm glad you like it," you smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck and giving him a quick kiss, already knowing that it was going to be nearly impossible to get Rafe to keep his hands to himself with this new regimen you had going. He was already obsessed with you, but now? Now, he was utterly addicted.

[tinystarbites]

accidents pt. II | Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Summary: during a long case away, Spencer accidentally sees Reader's nudes on her phone and can't cope because he is a MESS for reader whoops pt.II The Reckoning /j, this is basically just 10k words of porn with feelings yikes

Warnings: SMUT MDNI, 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff, some angst (still Spencer feeling he isn't good enough 😔), EMOTIONSSS, Spencer STILL loves you so much, he gets a hug, and so much more!, talk about sex, detailed asking for CONSENT (be safe people), sex (piv), some frottage, uhhh what else, dirty talk, some dom/sub understones (sub!Spencer ofc), little bit allusion to subspace, Spencer discovers so many kinks in this awww we're so proud of you bby (mentioned kinks: praise kink, squint of liking being embarrassed, tiiny bit of a voyeristic thing), also I made him a virgin whoops so virgin!Spencer, proofread but prolly not perfect lol. Tell me if I'm missing any tags I am so tired

(also, Spencer will be bisexual in all of my Spencer fics because I am not a coward like the writers were and I will honour Spencer the way he was intended to)

HERE you can read pt. I, I do recommend it to have context and all but do whatever you want lmao I'm not your mother anyway have fun being completely wrecked like I was while writing this!! also thanks so so MUCH for 400 followers and almost 2k likes on the first part, you guys are the best and I hope you enjoy this fic as a thanks!!<333

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Spencer’s never sprung from his bed faster in his life before.

His heart is a jackhammer in his chest, chipping away at his ribs one bone splitter at a time because-

It’s you. In front of his door. And Spencer is so hard it hurts but- he can’t just-

“Spencer?”

He sucks in a haggard breath, hands reaching up and messing up his hair even more. His thoughts are everywhere and nowhere at once and he just needs to- needs just a moment to-

“Uh, yeah, just a second!”, he calls back, voice scratchy and used from the- the moaning Jesus Christ because he was about to come with your mental image and he somehow, magically, managed to apparently conjure you up in front of his door with his pathetic pining and oh god-

He has to- ugh- has to wash his hands and make it go away and –

“Okay, I’ll just…chill with that weird plant here.”

An overwhelmed whimper slips past his lips and he just, stands there for at least another five seconds before something in his mind snaps back into place and he rushes to the small, adjacent bathroom of his room.

After he thoroughly washed his hands, his erection has flagged off enough so that it’s not the first thing greeting you when he opens the door and thank god for that.

And oh- seeing you after doing that actually knocks the wind out of his lungs because you are just so goddamn lovely it makes Spencer want to do stupid, stupid things like cry or kiss you or spontaneously combust into a million pieces.

For once, he does something okay-ishly sensible though.

“Hi.”

You look at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement or scepticism, he doesn’t know for sure. Your eyes hold mirthful sparkles in them when he finally manages to meet your gaze, so he settles for the former of the two options.

You’re not wearing your work clothes anymore. Rather, you went for a cozy looking, oversized sweater and funkily patterned leggings. Your fashion sense outside of work always reminded Spencer of Penelope’s.

“Hi to yourself”, you chuckle, “Can I come in or are you too busy reading ten books at once?”

Spencer feels himself flush under your gentle teasing.

“Only seven books. But, yes, of course you can come in.”

He turns out of the way, creating room for you to pass him into his room. As soon as you are inside, you don’t hesitate to jump onto his bed and flop on your back with your arms spread wide.

Spencer’s breath hitches and he has to do some very extensive mental gymnastics to supress all the inappropriate thoughts from escaping the box he banished them into. Controlling his body’s response to seeing you in the same bed he was just jacking off in is… a different story. He pulls down the hem of his shirt as discreetly as possible, as he takes a seat next to you. Making sure that there is not too much distance between you two as to raise any suspicion and make it obvious he’s trying to get some distance between you, but also enough space so that he isn’t enticed to do anything unwise. Like, reach out and feel your warmth underneath his fingers. Or the softness of your skin. Or anything else really.

The more seconds tick by in which neither of you say anything, the more nervous Spencer becomes. He starts fiddling around with his fingers, aborting more than one move to steal a glance at your face to see what you’re thinking.

“Spencer”, you then finally say, voice kind of pout-y and if that didn’t make Spencer whip his head around to face you, the next thing you say for sure does. “Do you hate me?”

“Wha-“, he sputters your name, “No- no! Of course, I don’t- whe- why would you think that?”

You let out an exasperated groan, moving around until you are lying on your side, head propped up on your arm and frowning up at him. “Because you’ve been acting hella weird these last few days and you won’t tell me whyyyy”, you drag out the last syllable, pout on your lips and Spencer has to look up at the ceiling or else he’s just going to confess everything without second thought and that will definitely not happen.

“I haven’t been acting weird, really, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You remain silent again and Spencer feels the judging glare you send his way without having to look at you. Yes, he has been acting weird, he knows that, but you can never ever know the reason why tha-

“Is it because you saw my nudes?”

Spencer almost breaks his neck with how fast he whips his head down to look at you again. A strangled noise escapes him without permission and what. What.

“Because, that would actually explain so much, especially the way you’ve been acting and really, that’s probably on me because I’ve always been telling myself to put them behind a password block but I somehow always manage to forget that because apparently I have only one braincell left that’s stuck spinning on the deep-fried version of Funky Town and well, I guess I’m glad it was you that found them and not someone else and-“

“What? No, no, I didn’t- What- that’s not- what-“, Spencer cuts off your rambling with a horrified, screeched version of a protest because how- how could you have guessed what’s going on with just one try? Is Spencer so- so absolutely besotted with you that he’s so obvious? Spencer is so very confused and overwhelmed with whatever the hell is going on, he kind of misses the slight twitching of your mouth.

“Come on, Spencer. I said it’s fine and basically my own fault. Uh- well, actually… sorry. Because, well, that’s probably not very work-appropriate… I will pay for your therapy session, just send me the bill.”

Spencer thought he’d reached the limits of confusion seconds ago but apparently, he hadn’t. What. What are you even saying?

“Therapy sessions?”

You just- ignore him.

“Oh, also, please don’t tell Hotch? He’ll be pissed, despite me literally just doing hot-girl shit, y’know-“

Oh, Spencer cannot take it anymore.

He says your name and, “Stop, please, please, just-“

You snap your mouth shut, pulling your lips between your teeth and Spencer definitely doesn’t miss the way you have to force your mouth to stay still this time.

“Are you- is this a joke?”, Spencer asks, frazzled and desperate and so confused he just wants to bury his head under the duvet and never come out again. Because if you don’t actually know but- are just joking around, oh Spencer is overwhelmed, alright.

Your expression changes into something panicked then. “No, no, Spencer, sorry. I’m- sorry. Of course I’m not joking, I’m so sorry. It’s just a little bit too easy to tease you. Sorry.” You actually look apologetic now, lips downturned and frowning slightly.

“Not joking- so… so, you know?”, there’s something big and anxious pressing inside of Spencer’s chest. The urge to hide away and never face daylight again intensifies tenfold. He’s flushing before he realizes, hands trembling and breathing a bit too fast to be considered normal. Oh god, you know, you actually know, you’re going to- you’re never going to speak with him again you are probably here to tell him how weird and- and-

You must’ve noticed the frenzy he is thinking himself into, because you reach out with one hand and gently nudge his thigh with one knuckle. “Spencer”, you say, voice serious and steady and not the slightest bit disgusted or harsh and it snaps him out of his anxiety spiral.

“I knew the second I walked back into that room after you basically fled the precinct. I am, really, genuinely, sorry for making you uncomfortable. Like, it wasn’t actually my intention for you to see them. And then, after I realized what… I just wanted to wait and see what you’d do, if you came to talk to me or, well…”

You sigh, the hand that nudged him ruffling through your hair.

“I didn’t handle this situation very well. I’m really sorry. So… “, you trail off, scrunching your nose in that adorable way of yours that makes Spencer want to kiss it until it scrunches even further because you’d laugh and try to fight him off.

“We can just- forget about this. Forget that it ever happened, or-“, you hesitate again.

Spencer feels suddenly breathless. Like he stands in front of a cliff face, seconds before taking the step to send himself careening towards something immeasurably great or devastatingly fatal.

“Or…?”, he breathes, voice small and unsure.

You meet his eyes again after what feels like hours. There’s something intense in them, burning, and it’s like an electric shock to Spencer’s system. He’d give anything for you to keep looking at him like that forever.

“Or”, your hand returns to his thigh, but this time you let your fingers travel along the shape of it and Spencer whimpers. The burning in your eyes intensifies and Spencer feels hot, suddenly, so hot he’s burning with it. “Or we can do something else.”

“Something else?”, Spencer basically croaks because his throat is so dry and it’s difficult for his body to function properly when you are touching him like that.

You hum in agreement. “Whatever you want. You can tell m-“

“You.”

You look a bit startled when he cuts you off with that one, desperate syllable. Startled but also endlessly amused and Spencer just- his mind is apparently turned off, what the-

You laugh quietly, and your eyes soften, and it does something to Spencer that leaves an ach-y feeling in his chest. Oh, he loves you so much he can’t take it.

“Sure. You can have me”, you say simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for you to admit, “Tell me what exactly you want, because I’d give you the world if you asked.”

And suddenly there’s hot pressure behind Spencer’s eyes, at the back of his throat. You’re just- just- amazing and so lovely and so kind to him, no one has ever said something like that to him, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Spencer blinks up to the ceiling, desperately willing these stupid unwelcome tears away because crying about you treating him kindly is so on the bottom of the list of acting casual about this, so he rather feels than sees you sitting up next to him. Your hand slips from his legs and he feels the loss of your touch as if someone sucked the marrow from his bones. Before he can say something embarrassing like ‘please touch me again’ he feels your hand covering his. It fills him with a heady kind of courage.

“I want…”, Spencer starts, feeling entirely too uncomfortable with having to state his deepest and darkest desires. There’s the old familiar urge to start picking at his nails nagging at him, but you just interlace your fingers with his and start tracing random patterns into the skin there with your thumb. Spencer melts against you and tenses up at the same time because it’s just so- so nice. It feels so nice and Spencer never thought he’d ever get to have things like that with you but you’re here. You’re here, with him, and basically offering Spencer the entire world on a silver platter but it’s still so so unfathomably difficult just saying what he so badly wants.

“You want…?”, you hum slightly, voice soft and so tender as you continue painting patterns on his skin and Spencer would literally die for you. And that’s the entire problem. Spencer doesn’t know if you’d do the same. Well. Maybe not die die for him but. He can’t just sleep with you, and it not meaning anything to you. It would kill him. It would kill him, if after you give him tenderness and pleasure and acceptance in a way he’s never dreamed of receiving, you would go back to normal. Always politely distanced, close, but never close enough and it already twists his chest just thinking of that possibility.

“I just-“, he tries again, but when the words are stuck in his throat, sticky molten sugar that tastes like bile and fear, he pulls out of your grip and buries his face in his hands. He’s so bad at this. He’s the worst. No wonder he’s never had- had something like Morgan has, one night stand after one night stand (not that he particularly wants that, god no, but just-) because Spencer is just so bad at spilling all of the things that plague his gut and keep his thoughts in overdrive at night. No wonder he’s never even had a girlfriend or boyfriend before.

“Hey, hey, Spencer”, he feels your hands cupping his own, still over his face. Not taking them away, but just – there. “It’s alright, penguin, we can always come back to this another time. I’ll wait.”

Spencer’s face crumples and his breath hitches a little because- penguin. That’s the frankly ridiculous nickname you’ve been using for him ever since he apparently once looked like one, with that white scarf and knee-length black coat he wore during one of your cases where a blizzard surprised not only the team, but also the unsub. Spencer, like most of you, wasn’t prepared and thus, had to make do with what the helpful officers provided them with. And well, Spencer drew the penguin stick it seemed.

It’s ridiculous but sweet and it always makes him feel so loved, loved by you, because it’s adorable and theirs and he just loves it irrationally much, okay? And also, penguins are just really fascinating because-

“Did you know that most penguins live monogamously? The Emperor penguin is actually one of the only ones that mate seasonally, they only have one mate per breeding season. But most others have a mate for life, like, like swans and bald eagles.”

Before Spencer even opened his mouth, he was aware of the fact he was going to ramble on about some unimportant stuff. It’s always like this, it always feels like a breath he’s been holding in for too long, like an itch somewhere in his weird brain that only stops when he opens his mouth and infodumps and he cannot stop it. No matter how consciously he is telling himself to cut it out or screaming at himself to shut the fuck up you weirdo, it’s unavoidable. As soon as his brain latches onto a statistic or a fact it is reminded of, it’s an unstoppable force.

Like now. He is kicking himself. Why, oh why can’t he ever be normal? He feels himself flushing bright red from embarrassment and shame and frustration. He can’t believe he is rambling about birds while- while whatever the hell you two are doing right now. While in the middle of a conversation that started out with you confronting him about him seeing your nudes, jesus christ.

Spencer is about to suffocate himself with a pillow when you let out a graceless snort.

It confuses Spencer so much he lowers his hands to look at you and- oh.

Your eyes are shining with something that looks so close to what he would call affection, and it makes him want to bawl his eyes out and at the same time, smile so hard there’ll be laugh lines on his cheeks for the rest of the week.

“Well, that fits perfectly then”, you say, and Spencer doesn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

You smile just a little wider, a little more teasingly but in a nice way, in a kind way and it leaves Spencer’s chest blooming with warmth.

“If you’re my penguin, I’ll be your penguin.”

Youryouryouryouryour-

Spencer feels entirely braindead. Only the fact that you called him yours registers. Because yes. Yes. Spencer is so yours he’d gladly let you make every decision for him from now on in his life and yes. That’s not exactly a very normal thing to think. Or to want. Spencer doesn’t care. He’s never felt normal about you for a day in his life and he definitely won’t start now.

“You- you mean- like, as, as mates?”

You scrunch your nose in disgust. “If you want to call us that, I think I’ll take back my offer.”

It punches a giggle out of Spencer, sudden and kind of light-headed. He watches your face break into a wide grin.

“But you- you’d like that?” You’d like me?

You pull a face, sniffing in a nonchalant way, direct your face to your nails in fake disinterest.

“Sure. Whatever.”

And Spencer can’t help himself. He sobs out a laugh- laughs out a sob or, whatever that weird noise he makes is, because you’re so ridiculous and he loves you more than anything in the world.

You roll your eyes, fondly, shake your head slightly.

“Of course, Spencer. I’d like that very much because I like you a very unnormal amount. Literally. On my knees, crying, screaming etcetera”, you say just like that, smiling just like that.

Spencer feels like he’s dreaming. He must be. There’s no other explanation for it. He just can’t wrap his head around the fact that you could like him. You. You’re so, so lovely and amazing and you deserve everything good in this world and Spencer is just. Spencer.

“You- you like me? Me?”, Spencer can’t hide the incredulous tone that seeps into his questions because you like him?

There’s no traces of humour in your eyes anymore. Your eyes look painfully honest, face suddenly serious, and it steals Spencer’s breath away.

You lean closer to him again, grabbing his hands with yours. Your gaze bores itself into his, intense and steady and he can’t look away. “Spencer. I know it’s- I know life has been hard on you for way too long. And that leaves its marks on you. That’s fine. It’s human. But. You do not deserve any less love because of that, do you understand me? Of course I like you, what isn’t there to like? You’re kind and funny and sweet and just so- Spencer. You’re so lovable and it kills me to know that you don’t see how you are so worthy of being loved.”

Oh.

Oh.

You can’t just- can’t just say things like that and expect him to not cry a little. Can’t expect him to act completely nonchalant and cool about all of this when you say things like that to him. Are you trying to kill him? Because it sure does feel like that.

Spencer is so completely at a loss. He doesn’t know what to say to that- not to mention what to do. How do you always do this? How can you see straight to the hidden, bruised core of him, littered with all these ugly and bad things and. Just. Figure out what to say to strike him exactly there.

It should scare him, being known so deeply. It should, but it doesn’t because it’s you. You are warmth and acceptance like his favourite place in front of a fireplace, book in hand and rain gently knocking against windows. You are quiet mornings at work, you are soft rays of sunlight in his hair, you are gentle hands helping you up when you fall and bruise your knees. You are –

A touch to his cheek startles him. He opens his eyes – when did he close them? – to your fingers brushing some stray tears away, so softly as if he’s something precious, something to be held delicately. That thought sends new tears spilling down his cheek. He can’t believe this is affecting him so much, so completely he simultaneously feels like he is going to shatter and be stitched back together again.

He never knew he needed this so much.

“Sorry for making you cry, penguin. I didn’t think this discussion about my lack of nude etiquette would get this emotionally damaging”, you say, voice hushed in the big silence of the room, a small smile on your lips and eyes so kind.

Spencer snorts, despite himself. This has really been a very bizarre evening. He feels almost drunk on the weirdness of it all, on the rollercoaster that his emotions have ridden all evening. That’s probably why he does what he does next.  

“Neither did I, especially after you interrupted me while I wa-“

Spencer shuts his mouth so fast he clicks his teeth together, eyes wide and suddenly horrified. He- what-

Why?

Why can’t Spencer ever keep his big mouth shut? Is he completely and utterly insane?

There’re alarm bells going off somewhere in Spencer’s head and a concerning warmth settling deep in his stomach when your grin takes on a slightly devilish edge, one he knows all too well and. And. Oh. He’s in trouble. So much trouble. Why did he have to say that?

“After I interrupted you while?”, you prompt him, eyes electric and hot and oh god-

Spencer is so dumb. An idiot. Of the highest order. High IQ, where?

“Nothing”, he says, voice high-pitched and rushed and he curses himself and his ability to act everything else but nonchalant. He’d be the worst actor of all time.

“Spencer.”

The tone of your voice rearranges something in his neurons. He can feel himself sit up just that little bit straighter, can feel his mind buzz at the edges. He’s never felt like this before.

He loves it.

“Hmm?”, is all he gets out. Trouble, so much trouble.

Suddenly you’re standing up, away from him and Spencer wants to whine because you should stay there next to him, forever fixed to his side. He doesn’t have to despair long, because you take one of your knees and gently nudge his legs apart with it and okay. Okay. That definitely didn’t just send Spencer’s mind reeling. That wasn’t just totally the hottest thing that ever happened to him.

You slot yourself between his legs as if you own that space and. In his humble opinion, you do. You so do. Spencer is willing to give you a map of his entire body and a marker and tell you to please demarcate every part of him you want. He’d give it to you, no questions asked.

He is looking up at you, at your burning eyes that still hold something so soft in them that makes the lump in his throat bigger again. And by god, Spencer just needs to hear you say it again-

“You like me?”

You move closer to him, lifting one hand and placing it underneath his chin. Your thumb traces along his jaw and Spencer feels like he is going to burst into a million embarrassed pieces.

“Yes”, you say simply, but the way you say it. Spencer can’t help but shiver and exhale shakily. He feels so warm, everywhere. His skin burns where your fingers are touching him. He never wants this to stop.

“You- You want me?”

Your hand grips his face a little stronger, your other fingers splaying over and down his throat and there’s a high noise coming from somewhere and there’s goosebumps on his body everywhere and oh, wait- it’s him. The noise. Well, how embarrassing but. He doesn’t care. Nope. Not at all.

…Okay maybe a little. His face feels warm, suddenly, warmer than the rest of him and yes. He’s blushing, okay?

“Spencer”, the way you say his name it- god, “I want you. I said it before, but. I will give you anything. Tell me what you want, Spencer, and you will get it from me.”

Your eyes are so dark and your voice so low and Spencer actually whines and. He’s hard again, so hard, because he didn’t come before and now, he’s even more pent-up and his thoughts are a mess, but you haven’t even touched him more than this and he’s already so worked up from you just saying these things to him-

“I want you”, Spencer pants, currently finding no other English words in the dictionary of his mind. And well. Emily was right about him. IQ slashed to zero when pretty person do thing.

He watches you take a deep breath, as if to steady yourself, as if this whole thing is affecting you as much as it affects him but that’s- ridiculous. Impossible. Because. Have you seen yourself?

“I know that, Spencer. But what do you want from me? Do you want me to kiss you?”, you ask, face suddenly so close to his Spencer feels your breath fan over his skin, and he whimpers because yes he wants that wants that- “Do you want me to touch you more?”, your other hand grabs his side, gentle but just a little bit roughly and Spencer is suddenly vividly reminded of the fact how strong you are and he feels kind of lightheaded-

“Do you want me to fuck you, Spencer?”

Spencer is going to pass out. And die. And moan and say, “Please yes yes yes”. Maybe not in that particular order.

“Okay, angel, anything you want”, you say, smiling softly at him as if he’s the best thing in the world and angel. Angel. Angel.

Before he’s even started to process you calling him angel, he sees a glint in your eyes, that edge in your smile again and before he knows what’s happening, you’re kissing him.

You’re kissing him and it’s- everything.

Your mouth is soft against his, and Spencer’s insides twist and flutter and his brain is kind of lagging behind, but he wants to be closerclosercloser-

It’s so good Spencer completely blanks on everything. There’s nothing in his mind except the feel of your lips moving against his. There’s no insecurity, no embarrassment tainting this moment even though this is literally like, only the sixth kiss or so of Spencer’s life and he has no idea what he is doing. But it’s so good.

A noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escapes him when you lick into his mouth and Spencer’s soul almost leaves his body. He feels you shudder where you are pressed together, chest to chest.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe against his lips, in between wet, hot, kisses. You rub your nose against his, eyes closed.

“Hmm?”, he hums, his voice somewhere in Canada or wherever. His mouth is too busy smiling so wide it hurts, anyways. No time for articulating anything.

“You’re amazing, Spencer, amazing.”

And he wants to shake his head, no, because the only one amazing here is you. But it’s impossible to disagree with you when your mouth has returned to his in a way that is probably ruining him for anyone else. (He’s okay with that.)

You peck him on the lips once, twice more, before you press your lips against his jaw, exactly where you had your fingers before. Your hands are basically the only thing holding Spencer up in a sitting position, because he feels like molten chocolate in your hands. Muscles apparently forgetting to do their job and well. Who can blame them? Spencer has stopped thinking in proper sentences the moment you had walked into his life, so. Only a matter of time until you broke the rest of him as well.

You kiss his neck and Spencer gasps. It’s really been a hot minute - three years, one hundred, twenty-one days and twenty hours to be exact – the last time he made out with someone. Everything feels heightened on his heated skin, especially you opening your mouth against him and licking him oh god-

It almost feels like a reward when you gently bite at his skin next. Spencer almost screams.

“So good, so so good for me”, he hears you whisper into the skin of his neck and this time, Spencer does make a noise. Because yes. He wants that. Be good for you. That’s the only thing in his fuzzy mind that feels clear, that feels graspable.

He can see your pupils dilate. Can see the wicked lilt to your lips. “You like being good for me, don’t you, angel?”

ANGEL. Spencer is nodding his head before he knows he does so. “Yes, yes.”

“Fuck”, he hears you breathe against him and it’s strange, seeing the effect he has on you. Did really he do that? “I can’t believe how incredible you are, sweetheart.”

And you need to stop. If you keep calling Spencer these things- he’s pretty sure he won’t survive this. The team would need to find another genius to solve cases with. His cactus Greg would dry out and wilt and die. You and Penelope would need to find another victim to send confusing memes to.

“Did you like my pictures, Spencer?”, you then ask and that’s so not fair. You can’t just ask him that while he’s so utterly in your hands that he’s sure he’d tell you about every little fantasy he’s had about you ever if you asked.

Because Spencer wants to be good, feels that need so deeply in his bones, he nods frantically. “Yes, I- I liked them.”

At the same time the words leave his mouth, something feels wrong. There’s an ugly thing twisting in his stomach, so unpleasant it momentarily occludes the high-octane bliss-fuzz fogging up his mind.

You notice the shift in mood almost immediately. “What’s wrong, angel?”

And well. It’s just- that guilt. Of not saying anything to you about Spencer seeing your nudes, of just ogling you like that without your permission. That wasn’t very good of him. Actually, the opposite. He’s been bad and he hates that. Hates that so severely that there’s suddenly tears on his cheeks and oh no. That’s mortifying. Who cries before sex? Jesus Christ he’s such a virgin it is genuinely embarrassing.

“I’m- I’m sorry”, he stutters, a little bit hysterical, creating distance between you, arms slung around himself, “I should’ve, should’ve said something, I’m so so sorry, I’m the worst friend and now I’m- I’m crying, oh god, I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, hey hey whoa. Spencer, darling. Penguin. Look at me, please?”

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t deserve to look at you again. What was he even thinking? He was- so creepy and now- now-

Two warm hands grab his face and then Spencer is looking into your eyes again. He squeezes his own shut, but all that it does is send more tears spilling over his cheeks and he’s so fucking stupid-

“Baby, please.”

Spencer sobs.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. That’s the best thing he has ever heard but he doesn’t deserve these things.

“Of course you deserve it, silly goose”, you say and oh. He’s said that out loud.

Your thumbs brush over his cheeks and Spencer can’t not lean into your touch, despite everything. Because that’s just the way it always is. He’s drawn to your warmth and tenderness like a moon revolves around its planet.

“I thought we’d established that it was an accident? And if it was someone’s fault, then mine, because no password, remember?”

Spencer opens his eyes. The deep affection swimming in yours makes him sob again. He’s a mess. A crying, horny mess and Spencer definitely fucked this up. Why does Spencer always ruin the few good things in his life?

“Spencer, Spencer. Hey. It’s okay, I promise you. We wouldn’t be doing this, if it wasn’t, okay?”, you kiss his nose. “Do you want to lay down, maybe?”

He nods, not really thinking clearly. He moves up the bed, under the covers and curls up on his side. He waits for you to get up from the bed, for you to walk over to the door and leave. To say that this was a mistake, he was a mistake. To say that you take back everything you said to him in the last half hour.

He’s not just a little surprised to feel your weight dip the mattress, to feel even more sudden warmth engulf him when you spoon him from behind. You start tracing swirly patterns over the skin of his arm and he feels goosebumps spread all over his body.

Some minutes tick by, you still holding him, when his tears have finally dried up. He doesn’t remember crying so much in one day. Spencer feels miserable.

“Do you still like me?”, he asks, and yes, it’s pathetic and stupid but. He doesn’t care if you never have sex or if you’re not going to be more than his friend now. Because the thought of you not being in his life in any capacity anymore- just no.

He can feel you freeze and take in a sharp breath. “Wha- Spencer. Of course, I still like you. I don’t care what we do, I just want to be with you. In any way you’ll have me.”

You sound so understanding and sincere and actually confused about his fear as if you’d never even think of not liking him anymore and and and-

And something in him just- snaps. He wants you, needs you so much he’s going to die if he doesn’t-

He shuffles and turns in your arms until he’s face to face with you. You look at him, eyebrow raised in question but so beautiful and lovely and you still like him-

“I want you so bad”, he says and then he presses his lips against yours again.

You respond immediately, low moan escaping you and Spencer is greedy, he wants to hear more, feel more, feel everything with you.

He’s kissing you as if he’s going to die if he ever stopped, which, yes, he absolutely would, and you kiss him back as if you can’t live without him. It makes everything become hazy again, like before, and every bad feeling suddenly feels eons away. Like he’s underwater, floaty and relaxed. Safe, he feels safe in the way you kiss him and hold him. Like you always do.

You move your kisses to his neck, sucking and biting and Spencer is moaning and moaning and can’t stop and then suddenly, you’re gone, what –

“Spencer, Spencer, wait”, you pant, out of breath and flushed and he wants to cry again, “Sorry, sorry I just-“

You frame his face in your hands, a little bit roughly. “I’m so sorry for making this so hard, you’re being so good for me, but Spencer. Have you done this before?”

Somewhere in the fog that is his minds, Spencer finds his voice. It’s high and airy but he doesn’t care. “No, no, I haven’t.”

He watches you take a deep breath, feels your fingers digging into his skin a little bit more.

“Tell me. Do you want this, Spencer?”, your voice is shaking as if you need to keep yourself in check and Spencer can’t believe he’s getting to see you like this.

“Yes”, he says because he can’t ever want anything else, and, “Please make me feel good.”

You inhale sharply, your grip on his face bordering on painful. “Spencer, you’re incredible, amazing, the best- I’ll make you feel good, okay? I’ll make you feel so good because you deserve it.”

“Yes”, Spencer is not ashamed of how whiny he sounds. No. He’s owning it now. This is his thing now, okay? He’ll gladly be your pathetic wet cat, or whatever the term was that you sometimes use to describe him with. Whatever it even means.

“Good”, you grin, and then you push on his shoulder hard and he’s on his back. And you. Sitting on top of him, thighs on either side of him. Straddling him exactly where he wants you most and he exhales a needy ‘ah’. His hypothesis of liking being manhandled is… yet to be disproven. He’s discovering so many things about himself today.

Pleasure radiates in waves from where you’re passively giving pressure to his hard cock and yeah okay. This is good. Amazing. He’s never felt better. But-

“Please.”

“Please what, angel?”

“More?”

“More what?”

Your fingers trailing along his throat and jaw, down his chest and teasing ghost-like over his nipples are not really helpful in finding the right words to what he wants. You take pity on him.

“More touch?”

Spencer nods his head, so fast he almost gets dizzy because he’s at that point again where everything feels liquid, hazy, a little bit unreal. So, speaking is already quite the task.

You smile at him as if he just solved the most difficult equation. “Doing so good, Spencer. Incredible.”

He moans. Okay. Another hypothesis to add to his ever-growing list of scientific discoveries today.

“Where do you want touch, Spencer? Here?”, there’s hands in his hair. He shakes his head.

“Hmm… Here?”, fingers drawing circles on his chest and yes, that feels nice, so nice but he wants-

“Here?”, you ground your hips down and jesus-

“Yes!”, Spencer almost chokes on the sound. Pleasure shoots up his spine and he whimpers. “Please.”

You exhale shakily, looking flush. “Okay. Because you ask so nicely.” There’re two little taps on his lower stomach through his shirt. “Do you want to take this off first? Or no?”

The way you give him the chance to say no- the way you respect his autonomy so deeply-

It’s basic human decency, yes, but it’s also the hottest thing and Spencer feels so valued and understood and safe that he’s not even hesitating when he mutters a quiet yes.

You help him sit up because he’s currently not really heir over his body like he usually is. Help his head out of the shirt and thread his arms out. And then, he’s half naked in front of you and suddenly, the doubt and insecurity that’ve been so quiet so far are back with a vengeance.

The urge to cover himself is so big it’s impossible to stop his arms from wrapping around himself.

Spencer knows he’s not ugly. He’s not that bad looking actually. Can’t be too bad if Morgan keeps insisting on calling him pretty boy, even though Spencer sometimes still has the sneaking suspicion that he’s teasing him. But his friend wouldn’t be so cruel.

But other people like to be. Pipe-cleaner, leek, straw, big-eyes. He’s heard it all before. He has matured enough and grown into himself so that these things don’t bother him like they used to. But still. Still. These things are arduous to scrub from under his skin.

Your gaze on him though- he’s never felt so, cleaned from all of these mean words before. You look- you look reverent while mapping his skin and maybe that’s the reason why he lowers his arms again.

“Spencer. You’re a dream”, you say, almost in trance. Almost as if you’re hypnotized by him, and he’s flushing. But. Being watched so intently, being admired like that. He feels his dick give an indigent twitch against your clothed core. Another thing for the list.

“So impatient”, you tut and Spencer flushes more. He thinks he’s waited long enough for this. But he doesn’t say that. If you stopped now- he would definitely combust spontaneously.

You lean down, over him. Hands trailing along his sides like you did earlier, but without any clothes between your skin and his. It’s almost too much. And not enough. He feels electrified, where you touch him. His heart is hammering against his ribs so hard you must be able to feel it. His stomach is in knots, fluttery. He’s never felt more alive.

You connect your lips to his throat, placing kiss after kiss along the arched length of it. Follow the same path with your tongue and Spencer whines, curves up against you a little. Everything feels so good Spencer is floating in it.

You shift your attention to his collarbones next, kissing but then gently biting and Spencer feels the indents of your teeth all the way through to his back and he hopes, wants, you to sink them into him so deep they’ll leave marks. So that he carries the evidence of this with him for the rest of this case, so that there’s absolutely no more doubt to who he belongs to. That thought alone makes him whimper, makes him feel that tiny little bit more lost in you.

You start kissing along his chest, down his stomach. Open mouthed, wet kisses and Spencer shivers when the places you put them feel cold after because of your spit. The lower you get, the noisier he becomes and at one point, Spencer would’ve been embarrassed. Well, he kind of is, but he’s also so turned on that the embarrassment doesn’t feel as stifling like usual. Rather, in a weird way, it makes everything hotter, and he does not own enough brain capacity right now to decipher that. But he does add it to the list.

When your face is dangerously close to the waistband of his pyjama, Spencer tenses, holds his breath. Being shirtless is one thing, but… well.

“It’s okay, Spencer. We only do as much as you feel comfortable with”, you murmur, giving a small peck to the left of his belly button. You calmingly follow his sides with your hands, smiling at him with so much affection in your eyes that Spencer feels speechless, breathless, until the tension releases his muscles again and he melts into the sheets.

“’m just…”, he tries, he really tries so hard to tell you that he wants this more than anything he’s ever wanted but that he just feels… insecure.

You kiss his stomach again. “How about we only take off the pyjama? For now? If you want to take off your underwear too later, we can still do that.”

That… that’s actually a good idea. So, he nods.

“Words, angel.”

“Yes, yes. That’s- good.”

You look so proud of him. “You’re so good, Spencer. Perfect.”

He moans embarrassingly loud. He really should be more concerned about this. About how you are basically pulling him apart, thread by thread and he just lets you, willingly. How you know which threads to pull to reduce him to a sweaty mess in what felt like 0.2 seconds.

There’s a finger dipping beneath the waistband, moving back and forth along the newly exposed skin. Your eyes watch him intently, almost predator-like. A question is in there somewhere as well and Spencer nods again.

You help him lift his hips, help him pull down the pants. Spencer is kind of busy kicking his legs a little to shake them off completely but when he looks back and down himself to where you are hyper-focused on the outline of his cock through the thin fabric he blushes.

Even more when he notices the big, dark blue splotch in front of his underwear. That’s definitely never happened before. How embarrassing.

When you look up at him again, you’re also flushed. Eyes dark, wide, voice kind of unsteady. “Spencer, Spencer, can I?”

“Please”, and then you palm him with your hand, and it feels so good it takes all of his concentration to not come on the spot. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive this until you arrive to the main thing.

It’s not the first time someone has touched him like that, but it is the first time you are doing it, and it already feels better than anything he’s ever felt before. You’re either a wizard or Spencer is just biased because he thinks everything you do is ten times better than the same thing done by someone else.

Probably the first reason.

He has his head angled back, one of his arms thrown over his eyes. If he looked at you now, he’s pretty sure, he’d come. Visual stimulation on top of physical would probably be the end of him. It’s already too much, just feeling your hand move up and down his dick in various pressures. Almost as if you are testing what he likes best, and Spencer is definitely here for it. Definitely. He’s happy to just let you experiment with him until you know all the different ways to drive him mad with pleasure with just a few moves.

Which, you apparently already figured out, judging by the way Spencer can’t form a single coherent thought anymore. It’s already, so good, so freaking good holy shit, and you’re still not touching him. Still a layer of fabric between your hand and him and he kind of- just-

“Take it off?”

You still your hand, looking up at him. You look kind of crazed, almost a little pained. It takes two deep breaths for you to process what he just asked, eyes a little unfocused before they fix Spencer to the bed with an intensity that makes him feel unfocused. “You sure, angel?”

Spencer literally can’t do anything but nod. You stay in your position for some moments longer, before you sigh out a long breath, mumbling something that suspiciously resembles you’re gonna be the death of me. Spencer misses your warmth on top of him the second you hoist yourself up. It’s kind of crazy and destitute of him. You are literally right there but he’s waited for this for so long it feels like he’s suffocating without your weight pressing him down. Which is ironic and also, insane.

Your fingers are gentle, when they move under the stretchy fabric of his underwear. Even gentler when they pull down and down and down until Spencer is entirely naked in front of you.

Oh, he feels so exposed. While he has been the recipient of a mediocre hand job before, it’s been in his trousers. This is kind of the first time someone sees him naked like that, because school locker rooms and his mother don’t count.

He doesn’t dare look at you. If there’s anything akin to disappointment, not to mention disgust on your face- Spencer probably would have to jump out the window, stat. His gaze is frozen on his cock, steadily leaking precum on his stomach (which, embarrassing). He’s abashedly trying to insert himself into your point of view, tries to imagine what you think about seeing him like this. What you might think about his dick, if it’s too short or too thin or if it looks weird, if he should’ve shaved. If his legs look strange and too gangly now, or if his stomach connects to his pubic area wrong or-

“Holy shit”, you say, and Spencer is too curious for his own damn good sometimes, because he can’t force his gaze to stay away from you.

You look at him- like before. Reverent but more, so much more. He almost feels like a deity, the way you look at him. Someone to be awed by, someone that should be worshipped. Spencer feels his already in overdrive heartbeat quicken even more, blood flushing his cheeks so much it leaks down his throat, to his chest.

Spencer would literally kill to have you look at him like this for the rest of his life.

“Holy shit, Spencer”, you repeat, eyes now meeting his, “You’re like- a literal fucking dream. I cannot believe- you’re so beautiful, how are you so beautiful everywhere?”

Spencer whimpers and he needs you to touch him kiss him fuck him anything please now or he will absolutely die from heart palpitations.

Some of his despairing thoughts must’ve come through to you, because the next thing you do is moan, which is the best thing he’s ever heard. Then, you take off your sweater. Second to go is your cropped tank top and you aren’t wearing a bra and good heavens.

Pictures could never compare. Not even Botticelli could’ve adequately committed you to canvas.

Spencer must’ve taken some brain damage from seeing you half naked. He doesn’t remember you taking off the remainder of your clothes, nor does he remember you straddling him again. But, fuck.

Spencer kind of doesn’t use the f-word that often but-

fuckfuckfuckufuckfkcufuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckcufkc-

You’re warm against him, and wet, so freaking wet, and it feels so mind-blowingly good- it’s a miracle he’s still holding on. But-

“Won’t last long”, he gets out, breathy and whiny and just so goddamn fuzzy from pleasure. The world could literally perish right now, and he wouldn’t care. He can’t care, because this is the best thing that ever happened to him and he won’t ever care about anything else ever again other than feeling you, you you you you, against him.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe, gasp, and fuck, the way you keep using his name. “Are you okay? Do you still want this?”

It’s ridiculous you even ask. But the warmth in his chest, the feeling of comfort and safety and ease – because everything with you is so easy, so natural - he feels with the way you look after him-

He feels your thumbs caressing his wet cheeks. You put small, sweet kisses all over his face. Take the time to brush away some of his sweat-sticky hair from his forehead. Place kisses there too. You end with a drawn out, gentle kiss to his lips.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

There’s really only one way for him to answer that. He trusts you. Plain and simple. There’s no one else he could ever do this with.

“Yes, I want. Please.”

You kiss him again. “So good Spencer, you’re so fucking good to me. I can’t believe you are trusting me with this. You are incredible, angel.”

Spencer doesn’t know how it’s anatomically possible, but he blushes even harder. Also, feels his cock twitch against you because he apparently likes to be called good almost as much as he likes being good. For you. Only you. Jesus Christ.

“Do you have a condom?”, you ask and ah. Well.

“Suitcase”, and wow. First word with more than one syllable since you straddled him the first time. He’s being so brave right now. He deserves a medal. Proof of Being Able to Speak Polysyllabic Words While Getting Fucked (Almost).

There’s humour glistening in your eyes, when you hide a fake gasp behind your hand and say, “Oh my god, Spencer you dog. Can’t believe you planned this entire thing.”

Spencer almost chokes on his own spit. “N-no! I just- uh, like being prepared.”

You grind down a snort, drive your teeth into your lower lip. “In case you accidentally saw your coworker’s nudes and them being down to fuck you about it?"

Oh my god, you’re the most ridiculous person he’s ever met. He can’t stop himself from grinning because seeing you trying to keep your laughter at bay-

“Yes. That.”

“But what if- what if it was Rossi instead of you seeing them? How would’ve your plan worked out then, huh?”, you wheeze, shaking from literal suppressed laughter and Spencer makes a sound like a dying horse.

“Rossi? Rossi?”

“Oh my god, imagine it would’ve been Hotch. He would’ve probably fired me so hard and then called me a week later to disappointed-dad-talk me to come back but to please, refrain from bringing personal files to work in the future.”

Spencer laughs. He’s still rock-hard underneath you, but he’s laughing because that’s what you always do. Being so absurd and silly that he’s shocked to laughter.

He adores you with every fibre of his being.

“What the fuck?”, you ask, incredulous but laughing yourself, “Is my misery amusing to you?”

And Spencer feels like being a little bit of a brat. “Very.”

You flick his nose. Grumble something like I’ll show you misery and then you move your hips against his and Spencer sees stars. Let’s out an embarrassingly high whine.

Ah well. It was still worth it.

“Don’t move”, you order, when you climb down from him to retrieve a condom. Spencer watches you, lets himself look at you. All the times he’s wondered how it would be, how it would feel like, being in this kind of situation with you. He’s never in a million years thought it would feel so familiar. Like you’ve done this before, so many times that it’s just become something normal between you two. He’s actually relaxed. So turned on it feels like he’s going to burst any second, but he’s calm. He feels comfortable, so much so that it doesn’t even matter that it’s the first time he’s doing this and he’s so clueless about all of this.

But he knows, if it’s with you, he never ever has to worry about anything.

“Do you have lube as well?”, you ask, rifling through his suitcase and distracting him from his sappy thoughts.

“Hmm. No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, angel”, you say while returning to Spencer, and the nickname kind of switches something off again in his brain. Perfect. He’s never going to be able to be normal again about that word.

“We’ll have to get some, for next time. Always feels better with it.”

Spencer hasn’t really registered more than next time next time next time-

He’s pulled out of his daze of knowing your intentions of this not only being a one-off thing, when you straddle him again, a bit lower on his legs. Spencer moans, loud and high, when you grab him by the base and god, fuck, his skin is tingling with anticipation.

With your other hand, you grab the condom and then use your teeth to open the packet, and his cock jumps in your hand. How are you so hot. How does everything you do turn him on so much, what.

He watches you take out the plastic ring as if he’s watching from above, out of his body. He watches as you position the condom over his tip and then pull it down, down and Spencer’s brain must be lagging because he feels everything with at least a two second delay and shit, god, son of a-

“You ready, baby?”

He makes a noise between a sob and a whine. He’s losing his mind. “Please please please-“

“Fuck, Spencer”, you whine, lift yourself up a bit with your legs and then you are sinking down on him, inch by agonizing inch.

It’s so good, it’s so good, you are so warm, so hot, and Spencer can’t stop making noises until your hips are flush to his and he’s inside you.

You let out a loud, drawn-out moan above him. “Fuck, fuck, Spencer. You feel so fucking good, holy shit.”

He feels like he’s one move away from coming. God, oh god, it feels so incredible.

“Can I move? Spencer, please?”, your voice is wrecked, you’re flushed down to your navel, and you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Please please please please”, it’s the only word he remembers how to pronounce.

“Fuck”, you almost sob, lifting yourself almost completely off him. You lower yourself back down again, one swift move, and you both moan.

You pick up the pace a little, fucking him with still languid but purposeful thrusts. Every time his cock sinks back into you, Spencer feels bits and pieces of his sanity crumbling away. He can’t think, can’t speak, his mind so fogged up and fuzzy he’s having troubles remembering who he is. He’s so completely at your mercy he’d let you do anything to him.

That turns him on a worryingly huge amount. List, something about a list somewhere.

“Oh, god, look at you. Spencer, baby, angel. You feel so good inside of me, so good.”

He keens, grabs at your strong thighs bracketing his slim hips. Arches up into you, closerclosercloser-

“You like being good for me, right angel?”, you ask, hips slowing down to a gentle grinding that absolutely drives Spencer insane and he’s too far gone to even nod, “It suits you. Being so wrecked for me, moaning and shaking. God, fuck, you’re divine, Spencer, fuck.”

The pressure behind his cock, low in his stomach, that’s been building all evening, all week, holy shit, it’s too much. Spencer feels delirious, feels your hotness around him, feels your hands pressing his chest down into the bed. He’s going to die it feels so good.

“You going to come for me, Spencer? You gonna be good for me and come inside of me?”

Please please please please- it’s all he can think, all he can feel, because because-

You give a particularly hard thrust and-

Spencer’s coming, moaning and moaning, shaking everywhere. He’s coming and it feels so good, so fucking good. He’s never come so hard in his life before.

He might have blacked out a little. The next time he’s aware of something, it’s you cleaning him with a wet washcloth. Slow, and gentle and Jesus.

“What?”, is the first thing he manages to say, and you snicker beside him. You caress his face, hand running through his hair, down his chest. Peck his lips. You’re both still naked.

“Feeling good?”, you ask and what kind of question even is that. You just fucked the soul from his body, and you ask him-

“I almost died”, he says, tagging your name at the end with an incredulous tint to it.

You snort, setting the washcloth on the nightstand behind you. You lie down close to him, cuddling into his side. “That was the plan.”

“Killing me with sex?”

“Yep. That’s for ogling my nudes without my permission, you creep.”

He says your name again, exasperated but so fucking fond it’s a miracle you’ve never noticed his pining before. You shrug, pull a ‘what can you do face’. Spencer rolls his eyes and then, unceremoniously, flops on top of you.

“Uffff”, you press out. “You’re smothering me, penguin.”

Spencer shrugs and copies the expression you just did. You bark out a laugh.

“Ha! Didn’t know post-sex Spencer is such a cheeky little shit. I’ve created a monster.”

He can’t entirely control his face, some parts of a smile slipping into his features. He does manage to poke out his tongue at you though, before he buries his face in your neck.

Some minutes tick by, you both enjoying the other’s presence and warmth and idleness, before something in his brain-

“Wait-“, Spencer splutters, pushing himself away from you so that he can look at you. “Did you- did you even finish?”

He’s kind of horrified. He was so focused on his pleasure- he- how did he forget? He doesn’t remember you coming and oh no, he’s such an asshole, who doesn’t make sure the other person has come as well and-

“Spencer, Spencer”, you shush him, fingers trailing along his back, and he shivers, eyes rolling back.

“I made myself come right after, don’t worry. You were kind of busy in your post-orgasm, pussy-drunk coma.”

Spencer flushes. “But I wanted to…”

You laugh softly. “You can do whatever to me, next time, sweets. This was about you. We’ll go on a date as soon as we’re back home. Fucking Florida is driving me nuts.”

Oh, he suddenly feels shy. A date? You want to go on a date with him?

“Really?”, he asks, and he hates how insecure he sounds.

You send him an unbelieving look. “Uh, what about the last hour makes you think otherwise? Seriously, Spencer, we need to work on your confidence.”

“Okay”, he mutters, a little bit pout-y and you scoff, pulling him down on top of your chest again.

There, with your hands painting patterns on his back and him completely lost in your warmth and familiarity, Spencer thinks that maybe, Florida isn’t that bad.

--

Bonus

“So, then. Made any scientific discoveries last night, pretty boy?”

Spencer chokes on his coffee.

“What?”

“Nothing”, his ‘friend’ says, smirking and leaning against his table, “You just seem to have figured out that little problem that’s been keeping that pretty head of yours all messed up.”

Spencer feels himself flush. Stupid body and stupid involuntary, physiological reactions. Morgan picks up on it, of course.

“Ohhhhh, want to share with the class what those discoveries were?”

Briefly, so very briefly, Spencer thinks of his self-compiled list but- no no no no.

“Shut up, Morgan.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

tags: @sebastiansstanswhore @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @wasitforrevenge @wannabewolf @tommorecommendedfics @winterhi09 @theoraekenslover @chaewondrful @okeyhoezayy @busy-buzzing @laurakirsten0502 @redros3y @trashxqueen @kitty-kei @so-long-daisymay @hayleythecannibal @jsnsnsnszjzj @reeidsluv @kayane28 @moonysreid @desperately-seeking-serotonin @munsonslunchbox @tul1p-mimi @anuttellaa @pinkgomie @elizabethmidnight2017 @evrmorets @cyanidebitsg @bangchansdog @pinterestwhore145 @some-one-yiu-dont-kno @emma-e-a

i hope these work lmao, also let me know if you wanna be on my eternal tag list for any future Spencer fic ;)

[tojisun]

the apple that rolled over to the tree

!! fluff; f!reader; parenthood!!; simon-centric hehe >:3 // divider by @/plutism!

there is a… kid attached to your hip when simon returns home from a mission, his exhausted body stumbling into the kitchen where he finds you and it.

“what—”

he can’t even fathom the emotion coursing through him at the moment, what with shock triumphing over everything. still, you’d probably need to give him credit for not losing his goddamn mind at seeing a whole child — he couldn’t have been more than two years old with how he’s only three apples tall — clinging to you like a baby koala.

“oh my god, you’re back!” you squeal, unfazed at how dumbfounded your fiance has become, before shuffling close to embrace him.

simon reciprocates the hug anyway.

you step back, your lips still wobbling in your tears as you stare up at him, all awed like you couldn’t believe that he was back and simon wishes he can press his promises to your lips because he will always find a way to come back, he swears on his life, but also—

the child.

“sweetheart?” he begins, soft as to not spook you or the kid. “who’s, uh, who’s that?”

the child shifts, turning his little face from where it was burrowed onto your neck at the sound of simon’s voice. he rests his head on your clavicle, smooshing his already chubby cheek, before the biggest brown eyes that simon’s ever seen stare up at him, all doe-eyed and jarringly innocent, and simon, he—

well, not even babysitting tommy’s kids prepared him for this.

“this is yasha,” you murmur, pulling simon’s attention back to you. “or yakov, or james if he would want an english name.”

the boy reacts to you calling his name, and simon watches as those curious eyes tip up at you in question. you swipe your finger over his nose, the little thing scrunching up at the ticklish feeling, and simon becomes breathless at seeing the unadulterated joy in your face.

it is all parts soft and tender, but also anxious and worried, and simon begins to puzzle out the pieces.

“he’s my foster child. or ours, i guess, now that you’re here.” your voice is so fragile as you reply to him, your hand now beginning to rub soothing nothings on the boy’s back. simon wonders if it’s more to calm yourself down than it is to comfort the boy.

your lips purse, hesitating, and simon waits because while he he’s pieced out what you want to ask, he knows that this is something you would want to truly talk to him about. it is something he knows you have mustered up the courage to bring up so he gives it to you, open and ready, and he hopes that his face and his gait show that whatever it is you would want to say, simon will always support you no matter what.

“si?” you begin, looking heart-wrenchingly small in your worry. “i think i wanna adopt him.”

simon hums, stepping close but also being careful not to crowd yasha, before he curls his arms around you two — his family — and nuzzles his face on your other shoulder. “i’d love that.”

he offers you a smile, and squeezes your arm in comfort, then he watches as the tears come, easily springing up from your eyes. yasha startles, whirling to look up at his mother in worry. simon’s throat constricts at the thought of you being a mother and him, a father; how, now, there is someone else for simon to come home to. someone to fight for.

jesus. he’d need to tell the lads and maybe get wasted as a celebration.

“owies?” yasha asks, chubby fist balling your shirt.

“they’re happy tears, sweetie pie,” you reply, crooning. “i’m just so, so happy.”

yasha hums, nodding, probably already distracted, and simon takes that time to straighten back up. he pushes your hair away from your face, before he pitches forward to press a kiss on your forehead.

yeah, he’s happy too.

.

yasha gets spoiled, not that simon’s complaining given that he’s been the one doing all the spoiling.

“really, si? a new toly?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest in your exasperation.

toly or anatoly, or tory because yasha still can’t speak properly, is the name that yasha gave to all of his new stuffed toys. it all started with a dog plush that simon bought from the supermarket on a whim and gave to the boy. it was laughably quick how yasha had abandoned his blocks to make grabby hands to the toy, before squealing out that name.

the next stuffed toy that yasha received, which was just the softest and roundest penguin plush toy that simon’s ever seen, was also named toly. so was that teddy bear you bought for him. or that reindeer he got for christmas. somehow, every single one had been named toly.

the only thing you and simon can find about toly was that anatoly means sunrise. simon was so sure it was the russian word for animal, because why else would yasha repeat it, but who would have thought that their little fish is so imaginative?

like, of course he’s going to name all of his toys toly because they are as warm as sunrises. see? smart kid.

but this one, this new toly, set off world records. it was a camel plush that simon saw at the airport when he was out, pretending to be a civilian.

(garrick had been assigned with him for that mission, and was quick to spot and mention simon’s on-duty purchase.

“it’s for my boy,” he grunted in reply, forgetting the fact that he’s yet to truly break the news to his squad. garrick had never looked as surprised, and next thing simon knew, the news made its way to their group chat.

price was amiable about the whole thing. mactavish? not so much.

he just about begged to see a picture of yasha — “and yer girl again, if you wouldn’t mind.” — or even visit him. then he invited garrick to come and price invited himself too, so now the guys are going to swing by some time soon.)

when simon gave it to yasha, their boy had stared at it for a solid minute — simon counted — before screaming and then running to snatch the toy from simon’s hold. he hugged the camel close to his person, his little head nuzzling against the plush face of the camel, all the while absolutely vibrating in unabashed excitement.

he picked up thundering footsteps and turned around just enough to see you literally slide into the room. yasha continued to hug the camel, ignorant of the distress he caused, while you looked on in your panic, buzzing with worry because you just heard your boy scream, damn it!

“he’s fine, bub,” simon said before you could ask, and he watched as you came down from your frenzy, your breathing slowing down at the rationalization that if simon was not panicked, then everything’s alright.

then, your eyes landed on the new stuff toy.

“really?” you asked.

in his defence, yasha adores camel-toly.

in your defence, yasha’s room is running out of space for his tolys.

…well, simon does have all that military money. gonna have to spend it on something else, right?

.

[charlie foxtrot]

sriley: link

john2: ????

sriley: new address.

garry: oh? congratulations.

sriley: thanks.

johnp: 👍

.

yasha was shy when saying hi to price, then outright cried when he saw mactavish, which made simon bark out loud in laughter. yasha only stopped sniffling when he saw kyle. in no time, yasha absolutely adored garrick to the point that he would not even let him go.

dinner was prepared and while you called them all to eat, simon ambled out of the kitchen, where he had been helping you, and walked towards kyle and yasha to pick up his son and seat him on his high chair. but yasha had only looked at him, his head tilted in question, before ignoring simon and clinging onto kyle.

hell, he had even let go of camel-toly so that he could use two chubby fists to hold onto kyle. surprised, simon didn’t even know how to react and watched as his sergeant offered him an apologetic smile before carrying his son to the dining room. kyle rounded the table and sat yasha on his high chair, only, yasha made a scene when kyle did so, and he released a lungful of screams and cries, breaking everyone’s eardrums and their hearts.

kyle stood there, worried and confused, and hovered because he did not know what to do. hell, none of them did, and then you walked out of the kitchen, rushing to yasha, and hummed songs to comfort your son.

you crooned when he made grabby hands to be picked up and you did so with no hesitation, your touch soothing the boy into quiet sniffles. but even then, yasha wouldn’t settle down as he wriggled in your arms, short limbs reaching for—

simon glowered.

yasha was reaching for kyle. you were quick to giggle, asking kyle if it was alright that yasha would eat with him, and simon had glared at his sergeant, daring him to deny their son of anything, before reluctantly nodding his approval at kyle’s happy trill of, “of course, ma’am!”

yasha had finally calmed down when you sat him on kyle’s lap, and his boy was even polite enough to actually eat his soft veggies every time kyle beckoned him to open his mouth for a new spoonful.

simon did not startle, but it was close, when your hand landed on his thigh.

“you okay, baby?” you asked, eyes furrowed in your worry.

“yeah,” he remembers replying with, his throat all choked-up because he knows yasha must be excited to have new people to play with, but still, there was something that stung when his boy chose garrick over him.

not that it was kyle’s fault because he is a dear for even doing all that he did for yasha, but simon had hoped that he would always be yasha’s favourite.

too lost in his thoughts, simon had almost missed yasha’s call.

“-ddy? daddy?” yasha asked, startling simon.

it was not the first time yasha called him that, but every time he did, it never fails to make simon melt.

“yeah? what’s up, buddy?”

simon pretended that no one was watching the interaction.

yasha giggled, hiding his food-smeared lips behind his little palms, before turning to use garrick’s front to hide from simon. you snorted, murmuring to kyle how you swear you would wash his shirt before they go, but it’s all buzz to simon because his son — his darling boy — wanted to play with him during dinner.

yasha peeked at him again, before giggling once more when he caught simon’s eyes. this continued on until dinner ended, with simon occasionally miming growling monsters to induce more hearty giggles from his son, and being rewarded with the happiest laughter ever.

simon turned to you, with his heart on his throat, and beamed.

“aww,” mactavish sang from somewhere beside him. “ain’t that adorable— argh!”

simon had swung his arm out and thumped his fist on johnny’s stomach. thank god, yasha had chosen that time to hide his face again on kyle’s stomach.

.

“unca’ john?” yasha asks in a stage-whisper because everyone within earshot just heard him even with his attempt to be quiet. it’s only their training that stopped simon from acting like he’s noticed.

“yeah, bubsy?” john replies, sounding so utterly soft that this version of him is so foreign to simon.

“this tory,” yasha says and simon discreetly peeks to see which toly is being introduced to uncle john — it’s the elephant one.

price gasps theatrically like he hadn’t seen yasha drool all over this elephant toy before, and puffs out, “how cute!”

“mhmm,” yasha says, nodding, then smacks the face of the toy on john’s face. the trunk smooshes against john’s nose, and thank god that elephant-tory is soft because that aim would have been lethal if it wasn’t.

“jesus—” price gasps out.

“language!” simon hisses, and ducks his head back down just before yasha could catch him peeking.

.

yasha is now four and he still gets teary eyed when he sees johnny. simon placates his friend and says it’ll pass soon. maybe.

basically, i wanted to write a fic wherein simon’s reaction to being presented with a child is “what— oh okay, sure why not” and (literally in 20 minutes) “i will kill everything for this child” and so here we are

a simon spinoff - it takes a rampage (to be a dad)

[cumironi]

SO, SHARPENING KNIVES, HUH? jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, sukuna, toji, shiu, higuruma

summary. you are mad at your boyfriend because you dream of him with another girl, and at 2am, they find you in the kitchen, sharpening knives...

warning. established relationship! jjk men, non-sorcerer, 23 you & 31 them, fluff, crack, petname(s).

#GOJO SATORU

it’s 2:08 a.m.

the house is dark aside from the dim fridge light that leaks across the tiled kitchen floor. the soft metal-on-metal sound echoes faintly, a slow shink—shink—shink that drifts down the hallway like a warning bell in a horror movie. and that’s what pulls gojo from bed—not the chill air, not the absence of your warmth beside him—but that sound. the same sound that made his brain go, hm. sexy and concerning.

he drags himself down the hallway, shirtless and in some embarrassingly expensive pajama pants with little ducks on them, rubbing his eyes as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

and there you are. sitting pretty at the counter in one of his oversized t-shirts and nothing else, your legs swinging idly off the stool as you sharpen a kitchen knife with deep concentration. the air is thick with unspoken rage.

gojo leans against the doorframe, yawns, and mumbles, “baby, if you’re planning on killing me, at least let me put on some cologne first. i wanna die smelling sexy.”

you don’t look at him. just run the knife across the whetstone again and mutter, “shut up, satoru.”

uh-oh. first name usage.

he blinks, wide awake now, and pads closer with a slow, cautious step like a man approaching a wild animal with a stick of beef jerky. “okay, okay, we’re using full names now. is this like… a sexy roleplay thing or am i about to be on an episode of dateline?”

you still don’t look up. your tone is flat. “i’m mad at you.”

he frowns, pushing his glasses up as he squints dramatically. “why? what’d i do?”

you pause for a second. the whetstone stills. then, honestly, almost angrily, “i don’t remember. but you pissed me off, and i know it.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “okay. so. you’re mad. but you don’t know why.”

“but i feel mad.”

“so you're telling me my sweet, perfect, sexy college girl with the sharpest eyeliner and even sharper tongue is in the kitchen… at 2am… sharpening knives… because she thinks i did something?”

you glance up slowly, face calm, eyes a storm. “do you wanna find out if it’s real or not?”

he chokes on a laugh. “jesus christ, i’ve never been more turned on in my life.”

you roll your eyes, tossing the knife down onto the counter with a clang. “this isn’t funny, satoru.”

he immediately sobers up. walks over, places both hands on your thighs and spreads them gently so he can stand between them. he rests his forehead against yours, voice low now, soft. “okay. sorry, baby. if i did something—even if i didn’t—you’re allowed to be mad. i probably deserved it.”

you lean into him a little, which is a good sign. but you don’t hug him back when he wraps his arms around your waist.

he starts rocking you gently like a damn lullaby, humming something dumb—probably that tiktok sound of “it’s me, hi, i’m the problem, it’s me,” except he sings it in falsetto.

you snort against his neck despite yourself.

“there she is,” he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. “come on. let’s go back to bed. or you can keep sharpening knives and i’ll lay on the floor dramatically and pretend you stabbed me for cheating on you in your dreams.”

“…it was a dream, wasn’t it?”

“ah-ha!” he gasps dramatically. “so i didn’t even do anything and i still almost died?”

you finally wrap your arms around his neck, sighing as you lean fully into him. “you were flirting with someone else in my dream. i woke up mad and it stayed.”

he grins, wicked and teasing. “was she hotter than you?”

you slap his back. hard. “satoru.”

he wheezes but keeps laughing, nose buried in your neck. “i love you so much it’s actually stupid. i love that you get mad at me for fake shit. it’s hot.”

“you’re insane.”

“and you’re the hottest nightmare girl i’ve ever met.” he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then lower. “but like, seriously, if you’re gonna kill me, can you do it while sitting on my face?”

“get out of my kitchen.”

“fine, but i’m taking you with me.”

and he does—scoops you right off the stool, knives and all, and carries you back to bed like some deranged prince charming. you’re still a little mad. but you’re also warm in his arms, and when he presses a kiss to your forehead and calls you his little knife-wielding goddess, you’re not quite as mad as before.

GETO SUGURU

it’s 2:12 a.m.

the moonlight filters through the slats of the blinds, casting pale shadows across the kitchen where you sit at the counter, elbow propped, chin in hand, eyes narrowed at the knife you’re currently sharpening like it’s the damn source of all your rage. the blade catches the light with every pass against the whetstone—shink, shink, shink—a steady, menacing rhythm that echoes through the quiet apartment.

geto had been reading in his study—something thick, philosophical, probably written by a dead white man—when he noticed your absence the moment he came to the bedroom. and the sound. and the vibe.

he doesn’t bother turning on the light when he enters. doesn’t have to. he sees you in the kitchen like some pissed-off housewife from a mafia movie. the kind that poisons the soup when her husband comes home smelling like another woman.

“...should i be concerned, or is this one of your stress-relief hobbies again?” his voice is calm, amused, but low—like he’s testing the waters.

you don’t answer at first. just scrape the blade again. and again.

he steps in, barefoot and shirtless, hair down and tied low at the nape of his neck. his sweatpants hang low on his hips, a little slouched from sleep, and he stifles a yawn as he eyes you from across the island.

“what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“you.”

his brow lifts. “mm. can’t say i’m surprised. what’d i do this time?”

“i don’t remember,” you mutter. “but i know you did something. i feel mad.”

he blinks. then slowly walks over, rests both hands flat on the counter, leans over just enough so you’re nose-to-nose. his voice is low, soothing, dangerous. “baby. you’re sharpening knives in my kitchen. you’re allowed to be mad at me, but can we at least talk about whether i deserve to be disemboweled or not?”

you don’t flinch. “the fact that i don’t remember doesn’t mean you didn’t do something. you have that guilty little face.”

“what guilty face?”

“that one.” you jab your finger toward his face like it insulted your ancestors. “the one you make when you’re trying to act innocent after being a whore.”

he blinks. then smirks, slow and indulgent. “okay, now i know you dreamt something wild again. lemme guess… i cheated on you with a librarian while you were giving a college presentation and your powerpoint crashed?”

you pause. jaw clenched. “…maybe.”

he hums, walks around the counter, and stands behind you. his arms circle around your waist from behind, hands brushing against your stomach beneath the oversized tee. “you poor thing. had to suffer through my dream whore behavior and a technical mishap? i should be punished.”

you huff. “you think this is funny?”

“no,” he murmurs against your shoulder, pressing a kiss there, “i think it’s adorable. my sweet girl gets so mad over dream-geto being a slut. how much do you love me, huh, if my imaginary crimes piss you off that bad?”

you try to pull away, but he’s already slipping his hands up to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, pulling you back against him. “and here i was, dreaming about waking you up gently with kisses and praise. but no, i wake up to my girlfriend about to reenact kill bill in our kitchen.”

“suguru—”

he cuts you off with a kiss, lips dragging along your jaw, then down to your neck, voice dropping low and rich. “want me to apologize? i will. i’m sorry, baby. i’m sorry for whatever my subconscious did in your dream. and i’m sorry you were stressed. and i’m sorry you were so alone in it.”

your fingers twitch, then relax around the knife handle. the whetstone sits idle. you sigh, soft now, tired.

“you looked at her like you used to look at me,” you mumble, quieter this time. “in the dream. that’s what hurt.”

his whole body stills. then—without hesitation—he turns you around on the stool, tugs your legs open, and sinks to his knees in front of you. his hands are firm around your waist, eyes locked with yours like you’re the only real thing in the world.

“you listen to me, baby,” he says, voice rough. “no one—no one—gets that look but you. no past, no fantasy, no dream. i look at you like that because i love you. because you’re mine. and even if i had to memorize a thousand faces, yours would always be the one i come back to.”

you blink down at him, the lump in your throat making it hard to answer.

he kisses the inside of your thigh. “still mad?”

“...a little.”

he smiles against your skin. “good. keep that knife out. i like my girls mean.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“yeah, and you love me.”

you sigh. set the knife down. and when he lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing, you let him carry you back to bed.

you fall asleep with your cheek against his chest and his hand gently playing with your hair, muttering every few minutes, “i didn’t even look at her in your dream. i bet she had bad eyebrows.”

“she did,” you whisper. “fucking awful.”

“good.”

NANAMI KENTO

it’s 2:23 a.m.

the air is still, the apartment too quiet, save for the gentle scrape of steel-on-stone echoing from the kitchen. nanami wakes the way he always does—immediately, sharply, like his body just knows something’s wrong. he blinks at the empty spot beside him in bed, still warm, still shaped like you. then he hears it: shhhk… shhhk… slow, methodical.

he sighs. runs a hand down his face.

this again.

he doesn’t even grab his glasses. just gets up, pulls on his robe with the resigned patience of a man already done with everyone’s bullshit, and follows the sound.

and there you are. in his button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up like a mob wife, hair a mess and mood worse. you’re at the kitchen counter, bent slightly forward, sharpening his most expensive cooking knife with a precision that’d make a grown man sweat. your brows are pinched together, your lips in a pout, muttering to yourself under your breath.

nanami watches you for a moment from the doorway, completely silent, and then—

“darling.”

you don’t look up. “don’t talk to me.”

his sigh is so deep, so father of three tired, that you nearly flinch. “am i allowed to ask why?”

you stop sharpening for a second. inhale. then, cold as the blade in your hand: “you pissed me off.”

he walks into the kitchen. calm. slow. quiet, like approaching a sleeping lion. he leans his hip against the counter, crosses his arms, and looks at you like you’re both a tragedy and the love of his life.

“...when?” he asks.

“i don’t know.”

“what did i do?”

“i don’t remember.”

he blinks once. then sighs again, reaches up, pinches the bridge of his nose. “so, let me get this straight—i am currently being silently punished… for an unknown offense… that happened at an unknown time… and may or may not have been real?”

you nod, calmly. “correct.”

“and the appropriate response to this was… weaponry?”

“it was either this or throwing your french press out the window. i made the merciful choice.”

he stares at you. deadpan. “you are the most terrifying woman i’ve ever loved.”

you say nothing. just go back to sharpening. shhhk. shhhk.

he closes his eyes. takes a breath.

then he steps closer, one hand sliding slowly around your waist, the other carefully easing the knife out of your hand like you’re a bomb about to go off.

“i’m sorry.”

you look at him then, eyes narrowed. “for what?”

“i don’t know. but you have a very sharp knife and my only other option was dying at two in the morning in boxer shorts.”

you purse your lips. then whisper, “you were mean to me. in my dream.”

“...oh for god’s sake.”

“you left me,” you mumble, voice quiet now, like it’s stupid but still hurts. “you just packed up and left. said i was too much for you.”

something in his chest twists.

his hand slides up to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw.

“i would never leave you.”

“even if i’m mean?”

“especially then.” his eyes are firm now, voice slow and steady, grounding you like always. “i will take every single mood swing, knife threat, and dramatic 2am dream tantrum. you want to sharpen things? i’ll sit here and read the manual to you. you want to yell at me for dream-nanami being a dick? i’ll write you a formal apology and sign it in blood.”

“you’re such a loser,” you whisper.

“a loser who loves you.” he presses his forehead to yours, tone dry. “and who desperately wants to go back to bed.”

you finally relax, leaning into his touch. “…can i still throw your french press out the window?”

he pulls back. “absolutely not.”

“what if i just threaten it?”

“you are unhinged.”

“you’re in love with me.”

he groans. then kisses you, slow and deliberate, just to shut you up.

when he carries you back to bed—bridal style, with a tired grumble under his breath about dramatic women and sleep deprivation—you curl up against his chest and mutter, “you better not leave me in another dream.”

he kisses the top of your head. “i’ll stay even when you try to stab me.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

it’s 2:38 a.m.

the fridge light is the only source of glow in the dark kitchen, casting this eerie blue hue over your face as you sit at the counter, hunched forward, eyes glassy and distant. there’s a cold can of soda next to you—untouched—and in your hands, the glint of a freshly sharpened blade.

you don’t even flinch when the hallway creaks.

toji appears like a shadow—bare chest, boxers low on his hips, hair a mess, tattoos still visible under the faint glow. he’s scratching his head like he’s just woken up from a nap he didn’t even remember falling into. and as soon as his eyes land on you, sharpening one of his knives with alarming focus, he pauses.

“…the fuck you doing?”

you don't look up. just grit out, “thinking.” shhhhkkk. shhhhkkk. blade scrapes the stone, your rhythm steady and pissed.

toji squints. “uh-huh. are we mad at someone?”

“we,” you hiss, “are mad at you.”

he exhales through his nose, tosses his head back. “jesus christ, again?”

you finally glance up at him, sharp and accusing. “don’t start with me.”

“no, no—i mean, can you at least tell me what the hell i did before you start sharpening my goddamn knives like we’re prepping for war?”

“you looked at her.”

his brow arches. “...her?”

“in my dream.” you slap the whetstone down and rise, eyes burning. “and you said, and i quote, ‘damn, she’s thicker than my girl.’”

a beat of silence.

toji blinks. “...you’re fucking with me.”

“do i look like i’m joking?”

he looks you up and down—your sleepy face, your oversized shirt (his shirt), bare legs, and the murder-ready glint in your eyes.

“…no.”

you slam the knife down dramatically, like you’re giving up murder for now, and fold your arms. “i don’t care if it was a dream. you betrayed me.”

toji snorts. rubs a hand down his face. “baby, i don’t even talk like that.”

“you did in the dream. and you said it with your whole chest.”

he steps closer, the floor creaking under his heavy steps. “okay, so let me get this straight: i got dream-jumped by dream-you, because dream-me looked at dream-ass?”

“correct.”

“and now you’re awake, pissed, and threatening to turn me into sashimi at 2am?”

“correct.”

he whistles low. “that’s hot.”

“toji—”

“no, i’m serious,” he cuts in, wrapping an arm around your waist, dragging you flush to him like you’re not seconds from violence. “you’re insane. dangerously unhinged. sharp object, grudge-fueled, nightmare-fueled rage? it’s doing it for me.”

“you’re so fucking annoying,” you mumble, trying to push him off.

he grins, dips his head into your neck. “mmm, yeah, but i’m your annoying bastard. and clearly the man of your dreams—”

you smack his shoulder. “you cheated on me in that dream!”

“and you’re still thinking about me. sounds like you’re obsessed, sweetheart.”

you growl. he laughs. full-on, chest-rumbling, god-i-love-this-woman laugh, then kisses the corner of your mouth and leans in close. “tell you what. next time i’m asleep, come in and slap me awake. remind me that my girl’s the thickest, baddest, prettiest thing in the multiverse.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re lucky i love you.”

“nah,” he smirks. “i’m lucky you’re crazy.”

he plucks the knife from the counter, tosses it back in the drawer without looking, and picks you up like you weigh nothing—arm hooked under your thighs, carrying you back to bed while you hit his chest the entire time.

“and if you dream of me saying stupid shit again,” he adds casually, “make me pay for it when you wake me up. i’m not afraid of a little punishment.”

you scoff, curling against his chest despite yourself. “maybe i’ll smother you with a pillow next time.”

he grins, teeth sharp. “make it the fluffy one.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

it’s 2:56 a.m.

the silence in the house is oppressive, like even the walls are holding their breath. the only sound slicing through it is the rhythmic shiiing… shiiing… of steel grinding against whetstone.

and there you are. bathed in moonlight, crouched at the kitchen table like an ancient assassin. in nothing but one of sukuna’s black shirts that swallows you whole, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess. the way you’re hunched over the blade—sharp, smooth, focused—makes you look like a vengeful spirit.

and it’s clear you’re furious.

but you haven’t said a word.

from behind, a slow, amused chuckle cuts through the stillness like a blade.

“...and what kind of tantrum is this, little wife?”

you don’t look up. you just turn the knife slightly in your hand, catching the light on the edge. “don’t test me, sukuna.”

he pads into the room barefoot, shirtless, with nothing but loose black sweatpants hanging low on his hips. every tattoo on his chest flexes as he scratches lazily at his stomach and leans against the doorway, grinning like the devil himself.

“you gonna stab me in your sleep again? because i still have the scar from the last time you got dramatic.”

you finally look up—slow, lethal, eyes burning. “i should’ve gone deeper.”

his grin widens. “what did i do this time, hm? kill your plants? eat the last pudding? or was it another dream me?”

you stand abruptly, knife still in hand. “you were flirting. with some bimbo in a red dress. right in front of me. like i was invisible.”

“...dream-me again. got it.”

“you ignored me!” you snap. “you were smirking and leaning close and she was touching your arm and you laughed and—”

“and what?” he interrupts, voice suddenly darker, stepping forward. “you think i’d actually look at another woman when i’ve got you?”

“you did,” you growl, shoving the knife down on the counter, “in the dream, you did.”

he stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell his skin—warm, a little like smoke and spice. his hand comes up, grips your chin, forces you to look at him.

“then let me be clear,” he says lowly, voice like silk dragged across a blade. “i don't give a shit about anyone else. i look at you, think about you, want you. even when i’m asleep. you think some faceless red-dress fantasy’s gonna replace the girl who sharpens knives and threatens my life at 3 a.m.? don’t insult me.”

you blink. your pout falters just slightly. “you were smirking…”

he snorts, then suddenly grabs your waist and lifts you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing, standing between your thighs with a wicked smirk on his lips.

“you get like this every time you dream about me misbehaving,” he mutters, dragging his hands up your thighs, “but you never dream about me begging for your forgiveness. where’s that dream, sweetheart?”

you huff. “maybe because you never apologize.”

“i do it in my own way.” he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “usually by making you cry on this counter.”

your breath hitches. “you’re such a fucking menace.”

“and you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad,” he growls, kissing your jaw, your neck. “look at you, sharpening knives in the middle of the night. unhinged, dangerous, insane—my perfect little nightmare.”

you slap his chest, but your legs instinctively tighten around his waist. “i’m still mad.”

“good. stay mad.” he kisses you again, slow and messy this time. “dream me’s an asshole, but real me?” he smirks, licking into your mouth. “real me worships you.”

you try to stay angry. you do. but the way his fingers dig into your skin, the way he grins like he owns the world and you’re the crown on his head—it all makes your chest flutter and knees weak.

you grab his jaw, bite his lower lip, and mutter, “if i catch you looking at another dream bitch again, i’ll gut you in your sleep.”

his grin is all teeth. “now that’s love.”

SHIU KONG

it’s 2:17 a.m. and the kitchen is dead quiet—except for the low, menacing sound of metal scraping against stone.

you’re at the table in one of his oversized dress shirts, sleeves rolled up, legs bare, hunched over the blade like a mob wife who’s finally snapped. hair messy. eyes blank. pissed.

a sharpening stone. a chef’s knife. your exhale.

and suddenly—

a groggy voice from the hallway:

“…you better not be sharpening that because of me.”

you don’t even look up. just shhhhhk—shhhhhk.

“i don’t know. am i?” you ask, flat.

shiu appears in the doorway, shirtless, gray sweats low, tie still hanging around his neck like he passed out in it. he leans on the frame, rubbing one eye like this isn’t the fifth time he’s caught you looking like this.

“okay. what the hell did i do now?”

you finally pause the sharpening, slow, steady, and look up at him with narrowed eyes. “you smiled at her.”

he blinks. “...who?”

“don’t play stupid.” your voice is low, dangerous. “the girl with the brown hair. in the blue dress. at that stupid little business dinner you dragged me to in my dream.”

a beat.

shiu runs a hand down his face. “…this is a dream crime, isn’t it?”

“you said she had a nice laugh.”

“oh my god—”

“and then you leaned in when she was talking! and you smirked. smirked, shiu.” you slap the blade down dramatically. “you were so damn charming.”

he groans. hard. walks into the kitchen like he’s been personally wronged and dramatically yanks a chair out to sit across from you.

“okay, first of all,” he starts, pointing a finger at you, “i don't even like women who talk that much. if she laughed at one more finance joke, i’d probably have started drinking hand sanitizer.”

you squint. “then why’d you smile?”

“because dream-me is a fucking idiot apparently. just like real-me, for falling in love with the queen of vengeance.”

you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “you’re so dramatic.”

“me? you’re sitting at the table sharpening knives like a disappointed italian grandmother.”

“i’m being proactive.”

“you’re being hot.” he shrugs. “deranged, unwell, a little scary—but hot.”

“you always say that when i’m mad.”

“and it’s always true. you should be furious more often.”

you stare at him, flat. “say something charming again. i dare you.”

he leans in, chin on his palm, lazy grin spreading across his lips. ��i think you're sexiest when you're plotting my murder.”

you slam the blade back onto the table with a thud.

he exhales, then rises from the chair, walking around the table slowly until he’s behind you. his hands slide over your shoulders, down your arms, slow and unhurried.

“c’mon,” he murmurs into your ear, “you wanna really punish me? come back to bed. take it out on me there. i’ll even wear that stupid tie you like.”

you huff, arms crossed. “the one i used to choke you with last time?”

“that’s the one,” he smirks. “see? you remember.”

you don’t turn around—but your lip twitches. and he sees it.

“you’re impossible,” you mutter.

“and yours,” he whispers back, brushing a kiss against your temple. “now c’mon, before you cut off a finger trying to teach dream-me a lesson.”

he gently plucks the knife from your hand and tugs you to your feet.

“next time you smile at another woman,” you say, letting him drag you down the hall, “i’m putting glitter in all your dry-cleaning.”

he snorts. “joke’s on you. i’ll look fabulous.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it’s 2:34 a.m.

your apartment is dead silent. no traffic, no buzzing electronics, just the occasional shhkt… shhkt… shhkt of metal being sharpened in steady, practiced strokes.

and there you are—kneeling at the coffee table, hair messy, lips pursed, one of hiroshi’s crisp white button-ups hanging off your frame. a serious, eerily focused look in your eye as you sharpen the knife like you’re prepping for trial by combat.

the overhead light’s off, but the dim kitchen lamp casts long shadows across the room, catching on the edge of the blade every time you tilt your wrist.

you don’t notice the door open to the bedroom.

and then,

a sleepy voice, cautious but gentle,

“…do i need to hire a lawyer?”

you don’t answer at first. the knife just makes another clean pass on the stone.

he steps into view slowly—disheveled, soft gray sweats slung low on his hips, hair sticking up on one side. he rubs the heel of his palm into his eye, squinting. “or am i about to be the defendant?”

you glance up. narrow your eyes. “you told her she looked elegant.”

he pauses mid-step.

“…who?”

“the woman at the opera. in the green dress. in my dream. don’t play dumb.”

there’s a long silence.

he takes a deep breath. “…okay. dream-me’s a bastard. i’ll give you that.”

“you smiled at her,” you snap. “you complimented her earrings. you said she had refined taste.”

he covers his mouth with a hand, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “i was polite, apparently. can i just say—dream-me is way braver than me. real-me knows better.”

you slam the knife down on the table with a sharp clatter. “you told her she smelled like vanilla and cedar.”

he stares.

“okay. what the hell kind of man am i in this dream?!”

you squint at him, full-blown offended. “that’s my perfume.”

his face softens immediately. “wait—are you upset because dream-me complimented her for smelling like you?”

you go silent.

then murmur, “it’s the principle.”

he exhales slowly and walks over, crouching down in front of you, taking the knife gently from your hand. “okay. i’ll talk to him. dream-me and i clearly need to have a serious conversation.”

you huff. “he’s arrogant.”

“mm.” he sets the knife aside and cups your cheek with his palm. “and he clearly doesn’t realize he’s already got everything he could ever want right here, sharpening a very real, very sharp knife at two in the morning while looking ridiculously pretty in my shirt.”

you glance away, cheeks warm. “you’re not gonna charm your way out of this.”

he smiles gently, thumb brushing your cheek. “i’m not trying to. i’m trying to survive the night.”

you roll your eyes, leaning your face into his palm just slightly. “…you said she reminded you of your mother.”

he chokes. “okay, no—i’m innocent on that one. your honor, i plead the fifth.”

you crack a small laugh, finally. he softens.

“you know i’d never look at anyone else, right?” he says, quiet now. “you’re… it for me. even if i’m half asleep, lost in a dream, at a trial, or just doing laundry. it’s always you. only you.”

“…you should’ve said that in the dream.”

he hums and leans forward, brushing his lips against your forehead. “next time, i will. and i’ll tell her to leave the opera, too. loud.”

you mumble, “good.”

“now come back to bed,” he murmurs, tugging you gently up by the waist, “before you make me sleep with one eye open.”

“no promises.”

he smiles against your hair, “yeah, i figured.”