#last one a wip i probably will never finish

[klinefelterrible]

sooo I’m doing it for @k-kizkhalifa :} Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

There are times when I daydream a lot about a certain idea, like for example about the one about pairing Ron with Blaise, but mostly it’s just a Boom! and if I don’t write it now, it’s dead and gone.

Where do you get your fic ideas?

I imagine my (as in “original but in my way” or headcanonly or au) characters during certain activities (mostly: fucking) and I add something or someone extra, or I set the scene right before or after - as it comes to me.

Do you share your fic ideas, or do you keep them to yourself?

I rarely have a big idea that is different than a shortie I am writing or wrote already, but in my head it’s like once I say it, it’s done and gone - so sharing is equal to abandoning it most likely forever

How do you choose which fics to write?

Since I don’t understand the question really I will try answering how I feel it: I choose just by how I feel about right now. When I think of Eomer, I write about Eomer. As simple as that.

How many wips do you have? What fandoms/pairings are they for?

GURL YOU NOT READY!

I have many wips, mostly of HP wizarding world, and probably sometime soon I will release another chapter of two halves of Draco’s broken wand and my favourite pairing there is Draco/Bill Weasley and Fred/George/Hermione and since it’s me, it’s going to be juicy as fuck. Literally.

What’s the last line you wrote?

“He’s a cuckoo”

Post a snippet from a wip.

Post an out-of-context spoiler from a wip.

Draco is being blackmailed and fucked by Bill Weasley

Does this word [chosen by asker] appear in your current wip?

Do you work on multiple wips or stick to one fic at a time?

M u l t i p l e

Do you write scenes in order, or do you jump around?

I truly have no idea what I’m doing

Do you outline your fics? If yes, how detailed are your outlines? How far do you stray from them?

It depends. For Lucy I invented a whole new interest and branch of magical creatures for Lucius to be interested in and for the moment I was even sad that I am doing all this work to finish it with some porn scene.

Do you listen to music while you write? If yes, what have you been listening to recently?

Rarely as I am bilingual and most of the music I listen to is English so I get distracted very easily

What is your favorite location and position to write in?

Any. Sometimes I park my car on my driveway and just START WRITING

What’s your favorite time to write?

Any. No particular favourite time. But I don’t like meal time to use on writing if I really must differentiate between this or that

Do you write by hand, on your phone, or on your laptop?

99% phone.

Do you have a writing routine?

I barely have any routines!

Do you enjoy research? Which fic of yours required the most research?

Research yes, sometimes a lot! But for a fic? They don’t require much researching… maybe just checking if I remember something correctly or not.

Do you enjoy creating OCs or do you prefer to stick solely to canon characters?

I like creating OCs based on characters from other fiction and I am not ashamed at all.

Do you prefer writing AUs or canon fics?

Asking that a guy who writes hardcore gay porn from Wizarding World…

Do you prefer writing chaptered fics or one-shots?

Why not both at once?

Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles?

I hate titling!

Is writing the beginning, middle, or end of the story easiest? Hardest?

I never know how to end stuff. Ever. Anything. I have to force myself to shut the fuck up.

How do you choose whose POV to write in?

I don’t like POVs

What’s your favorite part of the writing process (worldbuilding, brainstorming/outlining, writing, editing, etc)?

The part when I am just a finger that clicks and my subconsciousness does everything else.

What’s your least favorite part of the writing process?

Making sure it all makes sense! Fuck. That!

What area of writing do you feel strongest in?

Area of writing? As in I AM A DIALOGUE MASTER and a little bitch for remembering what the fuck did I start with

What area of writing do you want to improve in?

I won’t improve in remembering so maybe I can start making sense more…?

What’s something about your writing that you’re proud of?

I can make literally anything about gay men crossdressing or women wearing high heels and sometimes I can even make them sassy. I am not proud of myself at all so whatever

How much do you edit your fics? Do you edit as you write or wait until you finish the first draft?

Wips are being edited hard, especially longshots. I write, I stop, I edit two weeks later, I write and so on and it all depends on my mood.

Do you use a beta reader/editor?

Only for bigger or more serious projects and even then extremely rarely because I don’t know anyone that committed to my writing or weird enough and with so much free time

Do you take fic requests? Why or why not?

I WOULD TAKE REQUESTS ANYTIME BUT BEAR IN MIND THAT I AM NOT VERY GOOD AND YOU WILL SUFFER A LOT OF GAYNESS AND WEIRD SEX IN THEM, hit me up only if you’re ready for some hardcore porn or smut or sass

Is there a specific word count that you hold yourself to/enjoy writing the most?

I never think of that

How much of your personal life/experience do you include in your fics?

Barely anything other than sass and heels and my own stupidity

What’s your favorite fic you’ve posted?

I am currently a fan of my short incorrect quotes, it’s my most recent and most read work on ao3.

What fic are you proudest of?

Two Halves of Draco’s broken wand maybe?

What fic has been the hardest for you to write?

WHAT IS WIP IS A WIP BECAUSE IT IS HARD FOR SOME REASON

What is your most self-indulgent posted story?

Everyone would want a friend like you

What’s your most self-indulgent wip?

all of them :>

What is your favorite world that you’ve created for a fic?

I honestly have no clue!

Who’s your favorite character you’ve written?

From a fic? I enjoy writing young Narcissa, but frankly speaking I loved writing young Lucius and adult Draco.

What’s your favorite title that you’ve come up with?

I hate titling! Next question!

Is there a trope or idea that you’d really like to write but haven’t yet?

Next question!

What is your favorite genre to write?

Genre… as in dialogue-based fantasy weirdness?

What genre/trope do you tend to write the most?

PORN

If you could only write one type of AU for the rest of your life, what would it be?

one type as in the one where guys that canonically don’t fuck all of the sudden do?

Is there a trope that you’ve written before but are now sick of?

naaah

Who is your favorite character to write for? Has this changed since you’ve started writing for that fandom?

my most favourite of all times character is Sam Vimes but I don’t want to write ff about him really that much

What fic of yours would you say is the best introduction to you as a writer?

oh geez if you really need to think of me as a writer, please don’t read my fanfics EVER, I am writing them for fun and for fun only

How would you describe your writing style?

Funny, weird and sometimes even full of meaningful connections between the characters

Does what you like to write differ from what you like to read?

I try to be as good as my favourite writers!

What’s the average word count of your fics?

as me if I care about the numbers again and I will start telling random things

What is the most-used tag on your ao3?

maybe… blow jobs? High heels?

What’s the fandom/pairing distribution of your posted fics?

Harry/Draco!

Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

well yeah, blowjobs, denial, high heels, netorare, crossdressing, getting convinced, girls knowing and getting what they want… stuff like that

Are there any fics that you would change or rewrite if given the chance?

If I had, they’d be done already

How conscious are you about including symbolism or foreshadowing in your fics?

I have no idea. Next!

Do you have a favorite piece of figurative language you’ve written?

No idea. Next!

Have you participated in any fic events/writing challenges? If yes, what were they and did you enjoy them?

not yet! I plan on getting at drarry in january 2025!

Arethere any fics that influenced you to write the way you do?

The only fics that ever influenced me to write anyhow were Guarding Dark and some other fic about Sphene/Zeiat from but it was about writing more, not how

What are your favorite fics at the moment?

previously mentioned Guarding Dark, about death of Sam Vimes and dwarvish mine sign that happened afterwards. A very good fic, really a small treasure.

Are you subscribed to any writers on AO3?

no… I am a terrible subscription reader, I never have time and I always postpone to the point I hate myself

Do you spend more time reading or writing?

lately writing, but it’s a wave

What’s your favorite writing compliment you’ve gotten?

that someone read my book/story/fic and loved it or that it resonated with them somehow

What do you tend to get complimented on the most about your writing?

that it is funny I guess

Do you have a fic you wish got a bit more love?

yeah all the shorties that got little to no hearts on tumblr, it’s always that longer one that someone didn’t read whole I presume… if it’s long I had an idea! Not always a good one, but long idea anyway

Is there a particular fic that readers gravitated towards that you didn’t expect?

yeah my collection of those shortest fics is currently my most read anything on ao3 like wtf

How do you deal with writing pressure, whether internal or external?

there is no external pressure but internally I am in a constant state of chaos so I really have no idea what I’m doing. Sometimes I feel pressure, sometimes I don’t.

Why do you enjoy writing fanfiction?

are you kidding me? It makes me happy, it makes other people happy and it’s an act of creation so naturally I enjoy that. Also that bitch jkr did nothing to make them more interesting so I had to make a stand for them

What motivates you during the writing process?

a thought that “this will be fun”

Do you have any writing advice you want to share?

just write anytime you feel like writing, if you don’t have an idea for a name or some other detail, simply put [name] or [detail] and continue and it will clarify later if the character is Clark Bones, an architect who likes tomatoes or a Roan Desmond Ruttington, a gardener who killed his mother’s lover when he was twelve and noone ever found out; never let yourself stumble on some minor details and change major things AFTER you write an entire chapters or bigger parts, really, you will thank me later. Also if you write sex, please please please remember that fucking is a machine-like activity and courting and talking about it must be witty, with a good taste and if not that, at least dont be gross and remember that there is nothing less fun than gross AND boring sex scenes.

Thank you, Kiz!

Fanfiction Writing Asks

Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

Where do you get your fic ideas?

Do you share your fic ideas, or do you keep them to yourself?

How do you choose which fics to write?

How many wips do you have?  What fandoms/pairings are they for?

What’s the last line you wrote?

Post a snippet from a wip.

Post an out-of-context spoiler from a wip.

Does this word [chosen by asker] appear in your current wip?

Do you work on multiple wips or stick to one fic at a time?

Do you write scenes in order, or do you jump around?

Do you outline your fics?  If yes, how detailed are your outlines?  How far do you stray from them?

Do you listen to music while you write?  If yes, what have you been listening to recently?

What is your favorite location and position to write in?

What’s your favorite time to write?

Do you write by hand, on your phone, or on your laptop?

Do you have a writing routine?

Do you enjoy research?  Which fic of yours required the most research?

Do you enjoy creating OCs or do you prefer to stick solely to canon characters?

Do you prefer writing AUs or canon fics?

Do you prefer writing chaptered fics or one-shots?

Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process?  How do you come up with titles?

Is writing the beginning, middle, or end of the story easiest? Hardest?

How do you choose whose POV to write in?

What’s your favorite part of the writing process (worldbuilding, brainstorming/outlining, writing, editing, etc)?

What’s your least favorite part of the writing process?

What area of writing do you feel strongest in?

What area of writing do you want to improve in?

What’s something about your writing that you’re proud of?

How much do you edit your fics?  Do you edit as you write or wait until you finish the first draft?

Do you use a beta reader/editor?

Do you take fic requests?  Why or why not?

Is there a specific word count that you hold yourself to/enjoy writing the most?

How much of your personal life/experience do you include in your fics?

What’s your favorite fic you’ve posted?

What fic are you proudest of?

What fic has been the hardest for you to write?

What is your most self-indulgent posted story?

What’s your most self-indulgent wip?

What is your favorite world that you’ve created for a fic?

Who’s your favorite character you’ve written?

What’s your favorite title that you’ve come up with?

Is there a trope or idea that you’d really like to write but haven’t yet?

What is your favorite genre to write?

What genre/trope do you tend to write the most?

If you could only write one type of AU for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Is there a trope that you’ve written before but are now sick of?

Who is your favorite character to write for?  Has this changed since you’ve started writing for that fandom?

What fic of yours would you say is the best introduction to you as a writer?

How would you describe your writing style?

Does what you like to write differ from what you like to read?

What’s the average word count of your fics?

What is the most-used tag on your ao3?

What’s the fandom/pairing distribution of your posted fics?

Have you noticed any patterns in your fics?  Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Are there any fics that you would change or rewrite if given the chance?

How conscious are you about including symbolism or foreshadowing in your fics?

Do you have a favorite piece of figurative language you’ve written?

Have you participated in any fic events/writing challenges?  If yes, what were they and did you enjoy them?

In [insert fic], what inspired the idea for the plot?

In [insert fic], what’s your favorite scene that you wrote?

In [insert fic], is there a deleted scene/idea you wish you could have included?  Why did it get cut?

What was the hardest part of writing [insert fic]?

If you rewrote [insert fic] now, would you change anything?

If you wrote a sequel to [insert fic], what would happen in it?

What’s a fun fact about [insert fic]?

If a fic was titled [insert made up title], what would this story be about/how would you write it?

Are there any fics that influenced you to write the way you do?

What are your favorite fics at the moment?

Are you subscribed to any writers on AO3?

Do you spend more time reading or writing?

What’s your favorite writing compliment you’ve gotten?

What do you tend to get complimented on the most about your writing?

Do you have a fic you wish got a bit more love?

Is there a particular fic that readers gravitated towards that you didn’t expect?

How do you deal with writing pressure, whether internal or external?

Why do you enjoy writing fanfiction?

What motivates you during the writing process?

Do you have any writing advice you want to share?

Free space - asker can come up with any writing or fic-related question they want!

[borkb11]

guys i swear i draw i swearrrrrr

[lilredghost]

WIP Wednesday: Caught

GFFA Soulmate AU (follow-up to this post)

Anakin is two screws and a hex bolt into dismantling the saber, hardly ankle-deep, when the front door slides open.

And Obi-Wan steps in. “Padawan, have you seen my…”

Anakin grimaces in mortification as his Master trails off, clearly having found what he was looking for.

He looks calm, but a spark of fear lights in Anakin anyway. If his Master knows, if he catches wind of this insatiable need that Anakin has—

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says carefully. His body is tense. “What exactly are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Master!”

He’s been made. He’d tried to pry Obi-Wan open and crawl inside while his Master wasn’t looking, and now he’s been caught red-handed, still covered in his blood.

The two of them are Master and Padawan, but—

He knows that doesn’t give him permission for this kind of intimacy.

At best, Obi-Wan will see it as rude and violating.

At worst, he’ll see it as a betrayal.

“I just wanted to see,” Anakin begs. “I’m sorry, Obi-Wan. I know I should have asked.”

“Oh.” His Master’s gaze flickers to the mess on the living room floor, the electrical and mechanical parts scattered around from Anakin’s various projects, and then back to him.

Obi-Wan furrows his eyebrows, looking nonplussed.

“So this is… purely academic interest?”

Anakin seizes upon the excuse gratefully, trying to rein in the rampage of feelings inside him. “Yes, exactly! I wanted to see how it was different from mine, especially given that we’re using a lot of the same materials.”

Obi-Wan raises a hand to cover his mouth, stroking his beard, which means he’s a little rattled and needs a moment to regain his composure.

Anakin can relate.

“Tell me, Padawan. What do you feel when you touch my lightsaber?”

“What do I feel?” Anakin asks in surprise. “I guess— um.”

He scrambles for an answer he can say out loud, something other than Like I’m yours. Anything Obi-Wan would accept.

He remembers, with sudden clarity, the incident with Ferus’s lightsaber two years ago.

“I feel like I’ve eaten a good meal,” he lies. “Like I’ve eaten my fill, and I’ll never be hungry again.”

It’s only half a lie, anyway. Obi-Wan does make him feel all those things, with the way he looks after him, ensuring he always has more than enough to eat, even when they’re on missions.

It’s just not the lighstaber that does that.

Still, the answer has some kind of tension releasing from his Master’s form. Obi-Wan sags a bit, his expression settling into a small smile.

“Well,” he says lightly, shaking his head. “I suppose I can’t begrudge you that.”

Obi-Wan points a finger at him, mock-stern.

“But I expect you to ask next time, Padawan.”

Anakin, still reeling from the easy acceptance— from the explicit permission, the absolute trust— snaps to attention. “Yes Master!”

[forecast0ctopus]

which characters do you want to draw more of?

yknow i feel like this is probably more pointed towards star trek. which there ARE a lot of trek characters id like to draw more of. but you just opened a whole can of worms man theres so much stuff i love that i havent really done much fanart for..... i want to do scooby-doo fanart soooo bad but i never get past the sketch phase....i havent drawn hardly any paranatural in ten years... woould love to draw more my babysitter's a vampire fanart its been so long since ive drawn those guys....... ive wanted to do jaane tu ya jaane na redraws for the longest time... okay i wont go on any longer ill stick anythin g else. in the tags lmao

[luck-of-the-drawings]

when i was in highschool one o my biggest coping mechanisms was drawing all the kids i hated getting killed and eaten and killed. and well. time is a slowly ascending spiral. you will find patterns.(i work as a blackjack dealer. gamblers are FASCINATING

[nemaliwrites]

have a lil snippet from the siren AU! changing up my writing process for this piece - I'm drafting this one in prose rather than my usual zero-drafty style, so we'll see how that changes things!

The first thing your uncle says to you when he picks you up from the station is: "Stay away from the water."

You pause halfway in the front seat, mouth still poised to shape the syllables of, Fine, how are you?

If this were coming from anyone else, you would have written it off as a joke. You may not know your uncle very well - you wouldn't even have recognized him if not for your mother showing you his picture before you got on the train. The crease between his eyebrows, though, tells you that this is not a man who smiles very often, let alone laughs.

"...What?" you ask warily, car door still open as though leaving yourself the chance to bolt right back onto the next train home.

"The ocean," Dojima clarifies. "You've never been, right?"

You shake your head. If you're being honest, there isn't much you're looking forward to about this trip - a city boy through and through, you're far too familiar with all of the horror stories about the countryside - but the one exception to that is the ocean.

It's one thing to know that you live on an island, to know that Japan is surrounded by water: the Sea of Okhotsk, the Sea of Japan, the East China Sea, and the crown jewel, the Pacific Ocean. But picturing it is something you've never managed to do. Sure, you've seen pictures of the ocean before - but where does it end? What must it feel like, to be faced with that much raw power? To gaze out at that endless expanse of blue, and see no end in sight?

[khufiya-khaufnak-antariksh]

So earlier today I introduced some of my WIPs to some new people, and I realised that many people might not be familiar with those two WIPs.

Kriya Petri: fantasy (with body horror & dystopian elements). Setting: A country called Fillor on a planet called Thuluke. In Fillor, to bind yourself to the one you love, you require a trinamate potion to seal the bond. 'Trinamate' is marriage (though that is a rather crude translation of the word). But to get a trinamate potion legally, the couple needs to be… acceptable. A man and a woman who plan to have at least one child. Yes, it's been 1000 years since the global apocalypse, but 'sufficient reproduction' is still a concern among the Filore people (plus it's a moral virtue for the Divine Monarchy, who reside on the cloudlands, with an iron grip on the institutes of Fillor). A potioneer wants to elope with their lover, but the pair is, let's just say, not acceptable. So what are they to do? The potioneer brews a trinamate potion on their own, finding the closely guarded methods & ingredients for the potion through who-knows-who, bunch of shady people. The potion explodes. The potioneer knows the punishment for something like this. They'll be condemned to Kaewoe (so will their lover, if anyone finds out), a realm so deep below the ground that it's close to the core of the planet. Kaewoe, where the mind & body are destroyed by the horribly high concentration of magic. Kaewoe, the names & lives & loves of all who enter it, all slowly turned to unknowledge. Good thing stealing identities is absurdly easy in Fillor! The potioneer wipes all memory of their crimes & love (or else the Thought magicians would know), flees to the city of Naebo. Their name is now Kriya Petri,

.

Welcome To The Real World: scifi, fantasy, surrealism, horror, tragedy

This one's in very early stages Inspired by Frankenstein Setting: The Great South Asian Rip in Reality, where physics (time & space both) is just completely twisted. The year is sometime in the 2070s. Sometimes it's the 2040s outside the Rip. Depends when/where you step out. Moh-maya, reality's very fabric & everything that keeps up the illusions that comprise reality, are very malleable in here. Main character: Kabir aka Moksh. A closeted Indian trans man who lives a double life, perhaps even a triple life. One in which he's a cis woman & a regular bright STEM student (STEM studies also include study of moh-maya). Another in which he's just some guy with good friends (the most authentic of his lives), where he goes by the name Kabir & uses moh-maya to present as his true self. If only temporarily. (it's painful, mentally & physically, whenever he has to revert to the female form). The third is some mad scientist bullshit, he's going by the name of Moksh among his fellow mad scientists & his main project is a moh-maya Frankenstein's monster that others can share their consciousness with, such that they can experience shape-shifting more easily & go where they physically aren't, do things they physically can't. Let's simply call it the 'entity'. Due to many reasons, creating this entity is pretty illegal. Hence the new name & collaboration with fellow shady people. the plot, put shortly: he starts doing vigilante justice w/the entity & then goes far & gets more & more consumed w/work & things go verrrrrrryyyyyy wrong despite starting with (dubious but) good intentions.

in this second one i neglected to mention the fact that you, as the reader, get front row tickets to the main character's spiral into madness & justifying murders thru the entity + the entity is a whole person & has opinions + a whole lot of other stuff, I DID mention that this WIP is in very early stages but holy fuck i could go on & on about it (just not in a way that can be packaged in a structured & sensible introduction)

[r2y9s-notartblog]

me? writing timeloop au fanfiction? more likely than u think.

[scarlettcryptid]

hardcore projecting my avoidancy onto dabi in this soulmate au thing i started in november

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to kiss me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

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

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

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

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

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

Realized it was not at all a joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t want to see you.

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

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

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

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

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

Surely you’re hallucinating.

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

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

But it's him.

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

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

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

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

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

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

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

It chills you.

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

He is so different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silent moment passes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this what you want?”

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

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We don’t have to do—”

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

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

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

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

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

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t,” you admit.

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

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

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

Right. No shirt.

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

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

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

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

“I don’t believe you.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

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

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

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

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

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

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

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

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

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

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

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

“Is this okay?”

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

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re still pretty.”

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

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

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

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

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

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

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

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

“I...”

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

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

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

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re not even fucking yet.

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

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

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

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

Spencer. Your Spencer.

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

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

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

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

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

Spencer continues unprompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re here.”

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

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

“I’m here,” he breathes.

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

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

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

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

Honey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

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

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

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

“Am I going to hate you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

But it doesn’t work.

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

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

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

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

The bruises covering his abdomen.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

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

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

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

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

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

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

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

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

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

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

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

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

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

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

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

[povlnfour]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ EVERYBODY TALKS (LN4)

pairing: lando norris x f!reader

summary: lando eventually lands the girl of his dreams. he also finds out just how fast news travels

a/n: this was one of my wips i posted foREVER ago so enjoy the full one shot whilst i finish off some written stuff. based on everybody talks by neon trees🙇‍♀️🤍

*faceclaim (but imagine as you see her fit) is millie hannah

landonorris just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

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landonorris boo’s birthday

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alex_albon here’s a thought stop calling her your boo and actually make her your boo

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user did anyone else see that comment or am i making things up

user bro just ask her out i swear to god

user last photo is feeling very intimate mr. norris

alex_albon happy birthday y/n/n, please don’t get me super drunk tomorrow

user i saw that last comment mr ur not slick

yourusername no promises albono i intend to do a lot of shots

texts between lando and friends ੈ✩‧₊˚

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yourusername y/n’s big birthday bash🪩

👤 tagged landonorris, friend1 and 6 others

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landonorris did u run to the bathrooms just to post on instagram

yourusername stfu and order me shots

user is anyone else now thinking about how often y/n probably sees lando shirtless👁️👄👁️

user i’ve been thinking about it since she first posted that photo of him in the gym showing his abs

user @/user TAG ME IN THAT WTF

texts between lando and friends ੈ✩‧₊˚

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yourusername 💋

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user MA’AM YOU ARE UNBELIEVABLY ATTRACTIVE

lilymhe is that the lip combo i suggested because GIRL IT SUITS YOU

user lando MOVE i want her too

landonorris pretty

landonorris where are you off to?

yourusername meeting that friend i told you about on my bday!

y/n’s texts with lando ੈ✩‧₊˚

landonorris just posted stories ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 45,610 others

yourusername race days

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maxverstappen1 you’re a jinx. never come again

maxverstappen1 (it was lovely to see you)

yourusername hope you enjoyed your time in the garage🥰🥰

user come to every race you’re good luck

user personally if my best friend was super hot and came to cheer me on looking that good i’d cuff her but maybe lando’s different

yourusername nah he’s just oblivious

landonorris @/yourusername HUH

yourusername @/landonorris i said what i said

tmz just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

texts between lando and friends ੈ✩‧₊˚

landonorris just tweeted ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername responded: yes, literally everyone.

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landonorris lando: 1, friendzone: 0

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user FUCKIN FINALLY.

user @/yourusername i could treat you better

alex_albon you’re not really winning if you’ve been pining over her for two years mate

landonorris shut the fuck up before she sees this

yourusername @/landonorris TWO YEARS??? TWO YEARS AND YOU SAID NOTHING????

user uh oh. lando’s in trouble

————

a/n: this was… weak i apologise im still settling in😭 just wanted to put something out whilst i finish my charles/seb/lando written one shots eek!

as always any reblogs and whatnot appreciated. big love xx

- giselle

taglist (found here): @idkiwantchocolatee @vellicora @alessioayla @bborra @crimeshowjunkie @minkyungseokie @paolexsstuff @celestialpato @champagnelovers101 @loxbbg @hobiismyhopeu @tsukishitm-a @moonypixel @champagneproblems17 @ironmaiden1313 @lqvesoph @sunflower-golden-vol6 @six-call @skatingiswalkingincursive @peqch-pie @m0cha-bunny @woozarts @he6rtshaker @iluvvmeeee @goldenalbon @izzy-marvel @lucyysthings @lichterfee @tallrock35 @treehouse-house @iloveyou3000morgan @scopeiguess @amaranthineghost @gwginnyweasley @hetfieldd @sweetbabygirlsworld @wittywhispers @dark-night-sky-99 @namgification @casperlikej @marshmummy @geniusalpaca

[pucked-bunnie]

shameless flirt ⎜ a.matthews

pairings: auston matthews x reader prompts: "you can rest your head on me, I don't mind" + "I dont want to be alone." genre: fluff ⎜angst ⎜friends to lovers⎜ warnings: injured players ⎜auston is a little espresso depresso ⎜just auston being in love the whole time ⎜had to make tyler the bad guy, sorry ⎜ synopsis: working as a team trainer came with many ups and downs, when you pull one of toronto's super stars the downs seem to outweigh the ups - but auston is always willing to bring you back up. word count: 4.8k authors note:  this was a WIP i had already started but when doing the prompt list request I got two request that I felt tied in nicely, so I put them all together. I also love our gentle giant auston matthews. (disclaimer : none of the hockey events in this are accurate - so dont come for me.)

(unedited)

+

+

“You need to stop staring.” You can’t help the way you jump at the words, glaring at the man behind you before turning back towards the rink. 

“I’m not staring.” You huff, flicking some hair away from your face. “I’m assessing.” The large man steps forwards leaning against the barricade besides you, his eyes trailing over your face before following your gaze to the player on the ice. 

“Assessing for what?” Auston asks, his gaze watching his teammate curiously, before moving back towards you. Your frown was deepening as you watched the Swedish player move through the drills on the ice. “Is he okay?” 

Something was wrong.

What were you seeing that he couldn’t? 

“That is for me to know and for you to probably never find out.” You sigh as you push off the wall, turning towards the large man. “What’re you doing out here anyway, don’t you have an interview to do?” Auston shrugs as he turns away from the ice to look at you. 

“Is he injured?” He questions and this time you shrug in return. 

“It’s none of your business, Auston.” You begin holding up a hand before he begins to complain, “It’s a suspicion, nothing more and once it concerns you, you’ll be the first to know.” You finish, smiling as your player makes his way to the boards, unstrapping his helmet as he skates. 

“How was that, doc?” William asks, a large grin planted on his face as he nods a quick hello to his teammate. 

“Subpar.” You respond, William’s smile dropping slightly. “You seem to be favouring your left leg, I need to do a physical on you at some stage this afternoon if you manage to catch a free moment.” You continue, looking between the two players before letting out a relaxed grin. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Willy. But we can’t have you out there if you can’t play your best.” William nods slowly, trying to return your smile but you can see the worries running through his head quicker then he can keep up. 

He’s hiding something from you and you are determined to find out what it is. 

“Meet me in the treatment room after you shower, we'll go over my concerns then.” You say dismissing William back to the locker room before turning to Auston, glancing up at him with a sigh. 

“You need to go do your media, Auston” He opens his mouth to say something but you shake your head before you trudge down the tunnel after William. 

Working for the Toronto Maple Leafs had been nothing short of a dream for the three years you had been with the team - with one of the senior trainers leaving after last season you had been approached to step in as a full time trainer and senior member of staff - your role changing drastically and sometimes left you in the firing line when an unpopular decision had to be made. 

“He’s getting pulled isn’t he?” Auston’s voice sounds from the door of your office. William had left your office over an hour ago his eyes watering as you gave him the bad news. You had spent the hour in silence typing up the email recommendation to the coaching staff. 

“I can’t tell you anything, Auston.” You say quietly, “You know how this works.” Auston nods, taking a few steps into the room before closing the door behind him. 

“Is it bad?” 

“Auston, please.” You respond, rubbing your fingers against your forehead, a long sigh escaping you as you slowly nod your head. “It’s bad enough that he needs to focus on rehab right now.” You say, before adding “everyone’s gonna hate me for this.” This wasn’t your first time pulling one of the core four on the team - last time the boys had been more lenient as you were one of the junior staff members and the decision had your previous supervisor taking most of the heat - this time you were on your own. 

“I could never hate you.” He says softly, his chest squeezing as he watches the tiredness smooth over your expression. 

“Thanks.” You say with a bitter laugh, closing your laptop as you reach for your bag under the desk. 

“They’ll give the team an update tomorrow.” 

Auston stands with you, his hand reaching out to pull open the door waving for you to exit first. “I’m serious doc.” He says, “I’ve got your back.” 

Twenty four hours later you watch from the doorway as the coaches deliver the news to the team - the coaches waiting till after practice to announce that William would be pulled for the foreseeable future - Auston’s eyes flick to yours every now and then as the coaches refuse to divulge too deeply into the details. 

“What do you mean he’s getting pulled?” Mitch asks softly, yanking at the straps of his padding, pulling the equipment off slowly, “He seemed completely fine.” The volume is the locker room raises as the team all share their opinions of agreement.

The coach takes a moment to let the group voice their frustration before speaking.  “Our trainers are some of the best in the world.” Sheldon begins, “They have everyone's best interest at heart - she made the call to pull Willy as it was perceived that he was trying to conceal an injury and in the long run would be doing more damage. Willy agreed it was the best thing to do with hopes that with his full focus on recovery it will make him available for the playoffs.” Sheldon's words seem to quiet the group.

Auston hands pause on the laces of his skates as he glances over to you again, seeing your head fall, your hand pushing the loose hairs out of your face, as you whisper something under your breath before lifting your head again. “Anyway, let’s wish William all the best in his recovery and hope to see him back on the ice soon.” Sheldon finishes before dismissing the group, shouting out a quick morning practice time for tomorrow morning before exiting the locker room. 

The locker room is quiet after the coach leaves, Auston risking one more glance towards you, his heart jumping in his chest as he sees your eyes already locked on him with a sad smile on your face. Auston glances away quickly engaging in the ongoing conversation besides him to try and ignore you and your gaze on the side of his face.

He still notices when you turn slowly and decides to leave the room. 

+

+

“Fuck.” Sheldon swears under his breath as the end of game horn rings - the crowd of red roaring in victory as the home team groups together on the ice, patting each other on the heads. The sea of blue fans beginning to exit the stands all sending glares of anger towards your team slowly skating their way to the bench - hoping to make a quick exit. 

The game had been an intense one - the team had been so close to pulling through but continued to miss their shots, the fire power significantly decreased since you pulled one of their top scorers. You keep your head down low as you follow the last player down the tunnel, everyone making their way into the locker room - “Doc, we need to talk for a moment.” Your steps freeze as you glance ahead to the maple leafs coach waiting to the side of the locker room - his arms folded against his chest. 

“Sure, thing.” You say, plastering a smile on your face as you step away from the group - one of the players pausing by the door of the locker room, his hand making quick work of his helmet as he glances between you and his coach. 

“You have something to say, Matthews?” Auston glances at his coach, his mouth opening slightly before closing again, his gaze trailing over to you, your head moving side to side in the smallest movement he barely catches it. 

“It’s okay.” He can see you mouth the words, your head motioning for him to enter the room behind him before turning back towards his coach. 

“Don’t be too hard on her.” He says quietly into the hallway not waiting for you or Sheldon to respond before trudging into the locker room. 

“We both know that your decision to pull Nylander is one that can’t be reversed until you sign off on his physical.” Sheldon begins - the leafs had implemented a new protocol on the return of players from the injury reserve, the doctor who made the decision to pull the player had to be the one to sign them off on returning to avoid players and coaches undermining the doctors decision. 

You nod your head slowly - your smile faltering as you catch on to what the coach is hinting at. “You want me to sign him off early?” Your question almost comes out of your mouth as a scoff - your eyebrows raised as your smile officially switches to a frown. “You want me to break protocol for this?” You reiterate, your own arms crossing against your chest as you stare down the coach. 

“No, of course not.” Sheldon’s words come out with a nervous laugh - his gaze flicking over the hallways as he takes a step forwards - his voice lowers as he speaks again. “We only have one more game before the playoffs - we need our team back at full potential.” 

You nod taking in his words, giving him a second to continue, “You understand, don’t you? You know what this would mean to the team - to be able to begin the playoffs as a force to be reckoned with… we can’t do that without our core four.” You shake your head as you take a step away from the desperate coach. 

“No can do, Sheldon.” Your words are firm as you glance to the players beginning to hover at the door of the locker room. “I’m not going to risk him injuring himself permanently for the sake of playing a game.” You know your words are making the coach angry - his rage simmering as a red tint rises up his neck. “I care about our players, and I’d hope you’d share the same sentiment, coach.” The words hiss out of you as you glare at the man, not wasting anymore time in making your way into the medical bay besides the locker room - closing the door tightly behind you. 

You miss the way the rest of the team let out whistles of shock as their coach lets out a huff of displeasure.

You miss the way Auston watches you walk away, a slight grin on his face before his coach dismisses him to finish pulling off his gear. 

+

+

The team was two hours behind schedule - most of the staff already seated on the plane waiting for the players to join them so everyone could make the three hour flight back home. Slowly the players made their way onto the plane - each taking up their normal seats, most of the time the players would sit amongst each other while the staff would find their own seats towards the back of the plane - Sheldon considered it another of his many ways for the team to get closer together. 

“Auston, you gonna join us for some black jack?” Mitch’s voice carries through the airplane - his hands already shuffling a deck of cards, two of his team mates looking up at the newest arrival in anticipation. 

Auston hesitates looking between the empty seat next to you - and his best friend waiting for him to take the seat across from him. “I think I’m gonna miss out this time.” Auston says slowly walking further down the aisle - Mitch looking at his friend in disbelief. “I’m just super tired.” Auston adds as he shoves his bag in the overhead locker before dropping into the seat beside you - your eyes shooting over to him in confusion - your hand lifting to pull one of your AirPods out of your ear. 

“What are you doing?” You sneer under your breath - not missing the way some of his teammates glare over at you. “You need to move - staff and players don’t sit together, Auston.” Your hands shove at him lightly, but Auston makes himself comfortable in the seat beside you, a soft smile on his face as he ignores your pleading, clicking the seat belt at his hips and settling into the seat.

“This is ridiculous.” You huff, giving up on trying to move the large man, pressing play on the iPad screen in front of you, one AirPod still in your ear as the movie continues. “What’re you watching?” Auston asks as the flight attendants move down the plane checking everyone is buckled in and comfortable. 

You let out a long yawn as you shoot him a glare, “None of your business.” If your words were meant to stop Auston from interacting with you, they seemed to be doing quite the opposite. 

“You’re tired?” He questions as you let out another yawn, slapping a hand over your mouth to cover the movement, “You can rest your head on me.” He says softly, lowering his left shoulder, patting against the hard muscle with a grin, “I don’t mind.” He adds quickly, lowering his shoulder a little bit more. 

“Auston, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“It’s probably not.” He agrees, his right hand reaching over to shuffle your iPad into the middle of your seats, before reaching over his body to gently pull your head down onto his shoulder, his left hand, grabbing for yours - your fingers lacing together as he sits your joined hands comfortably in your lap. 

“But that’s never really stopped me before.” 

Your breath gets caught in your chest as you think of all the ways people must be whispering about your position - not daring to lift your head off Auston’s shoulder to look around at the people around you - not daring to lift your head from the comfortable fabric of Auston’s fleece jumper. 

“Rest, doc.” He whispers softly, his hand squeezing yours, as he watches the movie on the screen, pulling the spare AirPod out of its case to shove in his ear. 

You’re not sure when you fall asleep but you wake to Auston’s hand squeezing yours, his head laying softly on top of yours, a jacket thrown over your torso, the movie credits playing on the screen of your iPad. 

“We’ve arrived.” The flight attendant says quietly, her gaze flicking over you and the man beside you with a knowing grin - leaving as you thank her, detaching your hand from Auston’s, the man letting out a soft groan, his hand reaching out to take yours again. 

“We’re here.” You whisper to him, slipping his jacket off of you to place back into his lap, gathering all your stuff before shoving it into your backpack - gently reaching to pull the remaining AirPod out of Auston’s ear, sliding it back into the case. “Auston?” You say softly as you shake his shoulder lightly. 

He sits up slowly, stretching his arms above his head as he glances over at you, your bag already slung over your shoulder as you wait for him to move so you can exit the plane. 

“Same time tomorrow?” He asks, undoing the belt in his lap, and stepping out into the aisle. You shake your head as you pass him, not able to stop the spreading grin on your face. 

+

+

Your head falls forwards as the end of game horn sounds for the last time in the regular season - the leafs lost again - the final game of their season they lost and they lost by two. Even though they were still guaranteed a position in the playoffs it never felt good to start the first round on a loss. 

Not to mention the news hitting the team yesterday that they would be up against Boston in the first round - the two teams notorious for having very intense games. 

No one says anything as the team makes their way back to the locker room - everyone stripping off their gear with heavy heads, most wanting nothing more than to get on the plane and head back home, you included. You can’t ignore the way people glare at you as you enter the room, some players whispering to each other under their breath in frustration. 

Some of the team still makes friendly conversation or sends you tight smiles as you help them unwrap their tape - or roll out their tight muscles, but most say nothing. Your final patient never makes his way into your medical bay - the other doctors packing up as you wait for the tall brunette to pop his head into the room, but nothing, not even a glimpse of the large player. 

“We’re going to take this stuff out to the crew, are you alright to pack up the rest?” One of your colleagues asks as he passes by you -  a few cases in his hands. 

“Yeah, I’ll be good to go in just a moment.” You say softly, letting out a quiet sigh as you turn to pack up your equipment, turning as you head a soft knock on the door. 

“Do you still have time to help me get this tape off?” His voice is quieter than usual - the player you were waiting for standing by the open door - his skin red from where he had tried to rip the strapping tape off on his own. You nod quickly, taking in his sad eyes - the skin around them redder than usual. 

“I tried to get it off myself, but you’re clearly too good at your job.” Auston says a bitter chuckle coming out as he takes a seat on the table in front of you - your hands digging through your bags for the adhesive removal spray. 

“Why didn’t you come ask for help sooner?” You ask quietly, as you behind to spray the remover on the remaining tape wincing at the rash spreading across his skin where the tape was already removed. “You could’ve gotten someone else to remove it.” You add quickly the thought that maybe he was trying to avoid you running through your head quickly. 

“Why would I do that?” His question confuses you, your eyebrows furrowing but you continue pulling off the tape. “You think I’m avoiding you?” 

“Aren’t you?” You ask bitterly, remembering the looks of the others on the team, the ones that clearly blame you for the loss. “Everyone else hates me right now, so it’s not like I blame you.” Auston just watches as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, your chin wobbling as you try to suck in the overwhelming disappointment that’s been growing in yourself. He watches as you focus all your attention on pulling off the tape, keeping your attention on his sore skin as you rub soothing cream over the rash that he gave to himself. 

“I could never hate you.” He says softly as you twist the lid back onto the cream, standing from his spot on your bench, his hands raising to your face, lifting your head to tilt up towards him. “I told you when you first made the decision - I could never hate you, no matter what anyone else thinks - not even what you think, do you understand?” Your chin trembles as his thumb strokes against your cheeks softly, your head nodding in confirmation, his hands staying just under your jaw as he lets out a soft sigh.

“Then why are you sad? Why didn’t you come to me to help?” Your question stalls Auston’s ministrations on your skin, his thumbs stopping in their motions as he stares down at you, his jaw clenching as he tries to find his words. 

“I’m just disappointed.” 

“Disappointed?” 

“In myself.” He confirms before adding, “In the team, we let one person's absence throw us off the ball - we do this every god damn year.” His forehead drops to yours, his hands slipping away from your face, sliding over your shoulder before grazing down your arms, his fingers reaching out to lace with yours. “I thought we were going to do better this year… I thought I would do better.” 

The sound of footsteps in the locker room makes the two of you jump, your hands slipping out of his as you quickly throw the rest of your equipment into their cases, turning back to Auston with a soft smile. “You should finish getting change for the flight.” Auston nods, frowning as he glances out into the locker room seeing the other doctors hovering by the door. 

“You’ll wait for me?” He asks quickly, your head nodding before you can even register what he asked, his body slipping through the door before you can take back your agreement. 

But you do as requested, handing off your cases to the other doctors promising them you’d meet them on the plane, making excuses about Auston wanting to talk about a treatment plan for his shoulder - they both nod understandingly moving quickly to get the last of the equipment to the trucks to take to the airport. 

Auston’s surprised to see you still standing outside the locker room when he exits - his bag thrown over his shoulder, a large white hoodie thrown over your uniform as you turn towards him. The two of you walk to the bus in silence, neither knowing why you had stayed. 

Neither of you know why you still stayed as you sit next to each other on the bus. 

As you fall into your seats besides each other on the plane. 

Auston’s surprised again as you take hold of his hand once the flight takes off - your gaze focused on the window as the plane levels out - your headphones over your ears as you pretend your thumb isn’t rubbing gentle circles on the back of his hand. 

“What is going on with you two?” Auston’s head shoots up from the video playing on his phone, Mitch leaning over the back of the chair in front of him, his eyes lingering on the joined hands sitting in your lap. If you head Mitch you pretend not to, your chin in your hand as you keep watching the black sky pass by. 

“None of your business.” Auston replies, praying to whoever will listen that you don’t pay attention to Mitch’s interrogations, praying that you don’t take your hand out of his. “Mitch drop it.” Auston sneers as his friend's gaze drops to your joined hands again, Auston squeezing yours as he feels your fingers loosen on his. “Please.” Auston adds, Mitch’s eyebrows raising in surprise as he throws his hands up in surrender. 

The rest of the flight passes in silence, most of his teammates busy with their own unwinding processes, a lot of the staff sleeping for as much of the flight as possible. 

Neither of you two sleep. 

Neither of you acknowledge the other until the plane stops on the runway - the players and staff quickly making their way off the plane, stretching their limbs as they go. 

“Do you have a ride home?” Auston asks, his chest tightening as you finally pull your hands out of his, the warmth of your skin lingering in his palm. You shake your head softly, pulling out your phone and flashing the Uber app on your screen. “Come home with me.” Auston says wincing as the words hit him as soon as he says them. 

“Not like that - I mean I wouldn’t be against it but… I just…” 

“What do you mean then, Auston?” You interrupt, your face soft as you wait for him to respond, giving him the time to collect himself. 

“I don’t want to be alone.” He admits quietly, “I’d really like to spend some more time with you.” You don’t say anything, glancing down at the open app on your phone before glancing back up at him - handing your unlocked phone over, the arrival address waiting. 

“No way in hell you’re paying for the ride.” He hisses, pushing your phone back towards you as he pulls his own phone out of his pocket, reaching overhead to pull his backpack out of the locker, his hand reaching out for yours as he drags your off the plane behind him - the two of you bypassing the rest of the staff, Auston sneaking to grab your two suitcases before rushing you off the runway and into the airport an Uber waiting out the front. 

Auston sits comfortably in the silence, his hand warm between the two of you - his heart beating so fast he’s glad you know how to do CPR cause he might need it if you do anything else. 

Auston thanks the driver as he pulls up outside his building - pulling the bags from the trunk - your small duffle stacked on top of his suitcase - the bags dragged behind him as he also drags you behind him and into the empty lobby. 

“This place is really fancy.” You say as he scans his house fob - the elevator automatically selecting the floor for his condo. Auston doesn’t say anything, pretty sure he’d throw up if he attempted to get words out. 

“Are you okay?” You question as the elevator dings - the doors opening to the front door of his condo - the only condo on this floor. 

“Mhm.” He answers, swallowing his nerves as he shoves his key into the lock, opening the door as quickly as possible pulling you quickly into his empty apartment. 

“No Felix?” You question as you glance around, an empty crate sitting in the living room with no sign of the dog. 

“He’s at Mitch’s - Felix loves visiting Zeus when we go on roadies.” Auston finally speaks, his hand dropping yours for just a moment to set up your bags by the front door, pulling his large puffer off his shoulders and throwing it over a coat rack by the front door.   

“Make yourself at home.” Auston says as he strides into the kitchen grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge, his gaze shooting over to your body relaxing into the cushions of his oversized couch. 

“Where the hell did you get this thing?” You question as he hands you your bottle of water, slumping into the seat beside you, a grin on his face as he watches you settle in further. 

“I don’t know, my sister bought it.” He says quickly, your eyes squeezed shut as he reaches for a blanket draped over the back of the couch, throwing it over your lap. 

“Well I need the link.” You comment on bliss twisting the lid off the water as you take a sip. 

“It was almost ten thousand.” Auston’s hand moves to pat your back as the water gets stuck in your throat - coughs racking your body as you pat your chest. 

“Never-mind then.” 

“You can use mine whenever you want.” Auston says and you scoff, falling back against the couch as you drop the evil water besides you on the couch. “I’m not kidding.” He adds. 

Auston doesn’t know what makes him change his position. 

He’s not sure why he lies down on the couch, his head gently landing in your lap. 

He’s not sure what to do when he feels your fingers thread in his hair, running softly through his messy locks - the water from his shower still making the ends of his hair wet and tangled. 

Auston’s not sure when you both fall asleep - his phone making him squint as he checks the time - the four am flashing as he throws the device to the other side of the couch. 

He drags himself off the couch slowly, careful not to wake you as he slides his arms under your body, lifting you gently with a soft grunt as he scuttles down the hallway - his room only lit by the lights of the other high building through his window, his body freezing as you let out a soft whine as he drops you onto his mattress dragging his duvet down the bed to throw over your body. 

He doesn’t know what makes him round the bed, sliding onto the mattress behind you, pulling the blanket over his body as well, his mind running so fast as you turn on the mattress, your hands reaching out to tangle in the fabric of his shirt, your body shuffling in the cold sheets to move closer to him. 

“Don’t make things awkward, Auston.” You huff, as one of your hands releases his shirt, grabbing his frozen arm to drape over your waist, a happy hum leaving you as he pulls you tighter against him, his chin resting against the top of your head. “We’re going to have to talk about this in the morning.” You say. 

“I know.” He responds. 

Neither of you know when you fall back asleep.

But neither of you complain as you wake up bundled together in the large king bed. 

[writingmeraki]

here and now.

a kim mingyu drabble !

pairing : secret!agent!mingyu x secret!agent!reader, established relationship ( they are married )

genre : angsty with fluff :)

warnings : reader is pretty miserable, cussing, cheol is mean but annoying mean, petnames, kissing, unhealthy routines.

author's note : ohhh i can't let go of these two, i rlly jst like this au a lot lol, i wonder if you would want more set in this same au, lmk hehe :) hope you like this !! but also the fact that i have other wips but i can't get this specific couple out of my head ???? very self indulgent bcoz tell me why i want this mingyu with me rn. also third work this month...let's hope we keep balling like that!!!

set in the SAME universe as this !

word count : 1.6k

The world was miserable.

You wanted to curl up in a ball and just lay in your bed, sleeping until you could no longer differentiate between reality and dreamland.

But alas, you couldn’t. As an agent, sleep to you was like a reward. One would think a need should never be something you get once in a while but, your job was practically making all your essentials feel like rewards. 

Mayhaps not the healthiest, but you were already used to it and your body as well, so you were not truly affected when you couldn’t get any of your essentials. 

Though, you were sure the world felt more miserable because you hadn’t seen him in so long.

Kim Mingyu, the man you married. Your husband.Your other half, your other puzzle piece, your other- you get the point. Six months, twelve days, and ten hours since you last saw him. 

He was gone on a mission that was supposed to take no less than a month, but who were you kidding? Who was your boss kidding? Top priority missions always took up time. 

The thing that still pisses you off is why you weren’t allowed to go with him. 

Apparently, you were needed back in Seoul and not there was the bullshit reason. You spent enough time being annoyed and angry at that, now you just felt terribly upset. Upset without him in your life physically, sure virtually he was one message away, but being on the complete opposite side of the globe also meant time zones were a pain in the ass.

Sighing, you made your way into the tall building disguised as one of the offices but it was where your agency was. You held a cup of coffee, that was just as bitter as your mood, in fact you didn’t even like coffee, but today you felt no point in trying to uplift your mood because the only thing that would was a certain person who you were not even sure when you’d meet. 

It was not you who felt this way, in fact Mingyu was probably feeling worse. Having been someone whose love language was physical affection, it did not feel the same through a fucking screen. He was ready to quit actually, three months into it because he terribly wanted to see you, but you convinced him he’d be back sooner if he finished it. 

You knew you were lying to him and yourself, but you had no choice. This was your duty right? 

The boss’ office was still as peculiar as he was, never failing to amuse you whenever you’d enter and always finding new collections or items decorating it. Today, you saw an art piece that was of the sun and the moon. 

Everything reminded you of him. He was your sun, even your moon too. 

You frowned more at the thought, wondering how the heck were you not able to not think of him for a few minutes. Then again, perhaps being together for more than a decade would do the trick. You’re practically bound permanently by that point. 

Sitting down on the cushion chair in front of Seungcheol, you didn’t even bother greeting him, still in thoughts until you heard a chuckle from in front of you. 

“What’s funny?”

“You look extra miserable today.” 

You glared at the man, annoyance changing into anger with retorts about how he’d feel if he was kept away from his partner for this long, considering he was someone who was pretty boastful about his partner. 

“But- I did not call you for that. I have a special mission for you. And no, I don’t have any updates on Mingyu.”

You groaned at his words, considering what he said was just getting worse and worse as he spoke. 

“For this though, you’ll have someone with you. You’ll be needing another person to complete this task. They should be arriving in a few minutes.” 

“Please don’t be a rookie, I don’t have the patience to deal with one, not right now.” You figured you couldn’t not do it. It was your job after all. But perhaps he’d be a little considerate. 

“Oh don’t worry, I think they are pretty experienced, maybe even more than you.” He grinned but you couldn’t quite put a finger on what he meant. His eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t tell. 

“Just say you hate me, Cheol. It’s easier.” You bitterly spat out, taking a sip of the now cold coffee and frowning in distaste. It seemed it was up to par with your state. 

You leaned back, looking at the watch on your wrist, seeing it’s been a few minutes already and wondering just how long this person would take. 

You tried to pinpoint who it possibly was, but you were never good with names of people you might have seen in passing. That was more of Mingyu’s thing, he always remembered the forgettable things. 

The sound of the door opening was what made you perk up. You sat a little straighter, feeling like perhaps you shouldn’t make it outwardly obvious to the entire population how you were truly feeling. 

Seeing the chair pull, you didn’t bother looking besides you, feeling that seeing them from the corner of your eye was enough. They were a little further from you, but you could tell they were quite…large? They were wearing a cap and a mask, practically their entire body was covered with a black coat. It was suspicious and you just wondered if this was just an excuse for Seungcheol to have you murdered in a discreet way. 

Seokmin…? No, he's almost my height, probably Chan? 

You didn’t even realise the person had taken your coffee, pulled off their mask,took a sip of it and almost spat it out. 

“Baby this is actually so disgusting, since when did you drink this?” 

Wait.

You recognised that voice. 

He kept the cup back down on the table in front of you, wearing that very very familiar ring on his left ring finger. 

You think your brain short circuited at that very moment. 

Now you knew why Seungcheol had a sly grin. 

The fucker planned this. 

In all his glory, Kim Mingyu sat beside you, now seeing no point in wearing the cap, he tossed it off and threw it on the table. He shuffled his hair, which was now longer than you last saw it.

“Missed me?” He had the audacity to say that with his stupid canines peaking out, wearing that stupid grin that made you feel giddy all over and the stupid glint in his eyes that shone as he took you in.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Mingyu for making you feel like throwing up in all mixes of emotions. 

So in the mix of it, you just remained frozen. Eyes blank, nothing on your face physically to indicate any emotion. 

“I’ll leave you two…just don’t do…stuff.” Seungcheol retorted and your hands itched to strangle him. 

Before you could even comprehend you were now alone, you felt your chair being pulled to face him. Your mind still in disbelief and conflict.

“Hi.” He spoke gently, his hands now reaching towards yours and grasping them. It had been way too long since he smelt your signature perfume, held your hands in his with the same intensity, felt your touch. He thinks he might just die in peace now. 

“I’m just trying to figure out if I’m dreaming.” You murmured as you blinked slowly at him, still unmoving even though he now was bent down and closer to you.

The grin on his face widened as he leaned in, and next thing you know, you felt his lips on yours. 

Familiar…just like…home. 

He pulled back, still smiling as he softly laughed, “Real enough, darling?”

Mingyu wasn’t someone who was caught off-guard easily but he was the moment you launched forward and wrapped your arms around him. He yelped as he held you, surprisingly not toppling over.

You didn’t even grasp you were full on sobbing at that point, your entire body shaking and held you even more tightly. He stood up, one arm around your waist and the other gently rubbing your back. 

“I’m here now, I’m here.” He whispered softly as his hand caressed your hair, you moved your arms to wrap them over his shoulder as you placed your head in the crook of his neck. 

“i-i really-” missed you. I felt incomplete without you. I just…I really missed you. I really fucking love you.

You wanted to say as cheesy as it may have sounded, but cheesiness be darned you couldn’t hold back, not when the time apart made you realise that it didn’t matter if it was just another way of showing your love for him. You also realised Kim Mingyu deserved all possible ways of showing your love for him.

“I know, ‘s okay baby, I know.” You only sobbed harder as you pulled back, not caring how you looked, probably a whole mess with red eyes and tears all over, his arms were still around you as you held his face with both hands. 

He was there. You thought as you caressed his cheeks. He was there. You thought as he looked at you like he’d finally found his treasure,eyes twinkling, smiling at you.

And he was there, right there, with you as you tilted your head up, closing your eyes and placing your lips on his. 

Because no matter what or how long, Kim Mingyu would always find his way back to you, his other forever half. 

And oh, you’d make sure he was never apart from you from then on. Not even for a day. 

all written works as well as images and edits (unless credited) belong to pri. do not plagiarise, repost, re-edit or claim as yours. pics mostly found on pinterest.

writingmeraki Ⓒ 2024

feedback is always appreciated 💌

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[runawrites-blog]

No Takebacks (Deadpool x Reader)

Summary: After a mission, you jokingly propose to Wade but he takes it seriously. (Gender-Neutral Reader) Word Count: 805 Warnings: Fluff. Happy Crying. Mentions of Fights and Dead Bad Guys. Reader Works With The X-Men. Wade Works With The X-Men. No Y/N. A/N: I have so many WIPs and Drafts right now and even one request. But I swear I am working on it and I will upload it as soon as I finish it ^^

--- “That was the last one!”

You turned to Wade, nodding your head once as you put your hands on your hips and surveyed the scene, taking in the bad guys all scattered around the now-empty shopping mall while Colossus did quick work getting the civilians to safety. Then you turned back to Wade, giving him a victorious smile before you nodded toward the carnage.

“Want me to help collect all the knives you threw at the bad guys?”

“Thank you, Babe. Those were expensive!”

And so you got to work, climbing into a nearby candy store through its busted-out storefront, looking around to see if any of the knives Wade had thrown at the bad guys that had barricaded themselves inside were still around. You found two knives, one that hadn’t hit the mark and another that you had to pull out of someone’s neck.

“Found anything?”

You looked up to find Wade climbing inside before nodding and raising his small knife in your hands. “I got two knives, one of them is your Baby Knife, so that’s a win.”

“Perfect!” Wade grinned happily and came over, pulling his mask off and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

You then went back to looking around, digging through the candy that littered the floor after the fight but you found no more weapons around. You did find something else. Bending down at your hips you picked up a small red Ring Pop, still packaged in a little plastic bag and you quickly decided to make a joke, to lighten the mood after the fight.

Gingerly, you unpacked the ring pop and pulled it out before hiding it in your hand and approaching Wade who was currently pulling a dagger out of another opponent's thigh, his back turned to you. When you reached him you tapped him on the shoulder and before he could turn you got down to one knee, revealing the Ring Pop once your partner was looking at you.

“Wade, will you marry me?”

You would have expected anything, from a teasing comment to laughter. What you hadn’t expected was silence. And then frantic nodding from Wade as his hands came up to his cheeks, the dagger clattering to the floor. Any notion of his reaction being a joke went out the window when you saw tears escaping his eyes, running down his cheeks.

“Yes, of course!”

You were at a complete loss of how to react but you knew that if you went back on your proposal it would probably break Wade’s heart. It wasn’t like you wouldn’t love being married to Wade but it had never real come up as a topic of conversation, so you had always assumed marriage was far in the future. But now he was crying with joy and you felt genuinly happy about him agreeing to marry you, so you got up from your knee and held out the ring to him.

Wade grinned happily as you slipped it onto his finger and then he reached out to grab your face with both his hands to kiss you deeply, eyes falling shut. You blinked in surprise, still taken aback by the fact that you had just accidentally gotten engaged but also not put off by the thought of it. Slowly, you reciprocated, closing your eyes and wrapping your arms around him.

When Wade pulled back he still had tears in his eyes but he was smiling so widely that you knew this had been the best split-second decision you had ever made. And you smiled back at him just as widely. Before either of you could say anything you two were interrupted by Colossus entering, calling out your names and making you turn.

“Are you ready to leave? The hostages are all safe and the remaining criminals are being taken into custody. You two are taking very long in here.”

Wade turned around, letting go of you to place his hands on his cheeks dramatically. “Guess what just happened!”

“Do I want to know?”

“I’m getting married.” Wade exclaimed, limping his wrist and holding out the finger the ring was on. “My beautiful partner just proposed to me!”

Colossus looked at Wade and then at you, face contorting in confusion. “Right after the battle and with candy?”

“Are you kidding me? That’s perfect!” Wade answered before you could, grinning at Colossus. “It’s beautiful to be known and understood so thoroughly! I mean what better way to get proposed to? And no, I don’t need you to answer that. That was an ironic question!”

You chuckled at Wade’s words and put your hands on his shoulder. “How about we get out of here? We can probably find a better way to celebrate than staying here.”

“I can think of something!”

[shina913]

Merger | KNJ, CSC

Merger

Pairing: Namjoon x Fem!Reader x Seungcheol

Rating: M 🔞; NSFW

Genre: Smut; pwp; non-idol AU

Warnings: Threesome; porn with the barest of plots; cussing; alcohol consumption; voyeurism; fingering; clit play; breast play; oral sex; spit-roast(😬); handjobs; penetrative, protected sex; masturbation; multiple orgasms; pearl necklace; soft aftercare

Word count: 6.1k words

Summary: “Oh, so you guys are like a package deal then?”

A/N: It’s been ages since I’ve written and finished any WIP! This is probably the filthiest thing I’ve written--ever! It's completely indulgent, and since my moots and I have been kicking around the idea of a leader-line/crossover fic, I figured, why not? Thank you, @roaminginthenights and my Discord loves for enabling me!

Full disclosure: I’ve never written a poly fic before, so please be kind! Anyway, I'll shut up now. Enjoy!

You’re still shaking hands with Namjoon and Seungcheol, when you suggest getting celebratory drinks. They’ve just accepted your firm’s very lucrative offer to invest in their business, one you identified and insisted your firm consider. There’s still plenty of paperwork to complete, documents to sign, but for now, after securing the biggest deal of their lives, they (and you) deserve one night to bask in their success before the real work begins.

As a new partner at your firm who finds and manages ventures, you want to be seen as both an advisor and a peer. You aren’t just another representative of the new majority shareholder; you listen and care about their needs.

Just hours ago, they appeared as slightly awkward but well-rehearsed tech geeks, hoping to secure funding for their business. This more casual setting is exactly what they needed. And frankly, after a couple of drinks, you realized that you needed it too.

In a quiet corner of the bar, with loosened ties and rolled-up sleeves, your newest clients seem much more relaxed, blending in with the tech and finance crowd that frequents this part of the city.

Unlike the old crowd, Namjoon and Seungcheol stood out to you. They brought new energy and enthusiasm instead of the burnt-out, jaded-looking faces you usually saw. They had a spark that made you believe in their vision, making you excited to see where this partnership could go. It also didn't hurt that they were very attractive (objectively speaking), which was rare for guys in their industry.

“We can’t thank you enough,” Namjoon says. He handles operations for the business, led the pitch, and hasn’t stopped expressing his gratitude since you left the office.

“We promise you won’t regret taking a chance on us.” Seungcheol adds. He oversees the tech front and was quieter in comparison. He let the demonstration do all the talking for him, and you were very impressed, but now he seems to be livening up.

“Well, you guys made a convincing pitch. I think that the service you offer and your business model is unique and we see a significant untapped market for it. All you need is scale, and we’re very excited to be involved in that effort.”

Namjoon turns serious for a moment, “To tell you the truth, we’ve been used to hearing ‘no’ in the last few months, so we were shocked by your offer—I mean, we still are.”

You smile. “All you need is that one ‘yes,’ to get you going! I’m glad you both persisted and that we can be part of what we’re confident is going to be a huge success.”

“To getting rich!” Seungcheol roars, raising his glass, making you and Namjoon laugh in response. You then tap your glasses against his, echoing his sentiments.

Peering past the rim of your drink, you observe their banter and laughter at techy inside jokes you're not privy to. Outside the conference room and clearly more relaxed, you start to see their individual charm, which would knock the socks off anyone who stopped and paid attention.

You shift in your seat, leaning just a tad closer to Namjoon—close enough to catch a hint of his scent, but with enough distance to keep things semi-professional.

“So! I feel like I've been going on and on about how we like to work with our portfolio companies. But what about you guys? Tell me more about how this partnership works,” you ask, gesturing between them.

To your surprise, Seungcheol clears his throat and answers first. “We complement each other well. Joon is more articulate than I am, while I’m more comfortable working on the technical side of things.”

He seems shy, often hiding his face when laughing as if to avoid drawing attention to himself. Yet, his confident demonstration today—and the obvious technical expertise behind it—suggests that he’s more self-assured than he initially lets on. He may not talk as much as his counterpart, but when he does, he demands that you focus on him and nothing and no one else. With those dark, deep-set eyes and plush lips, you wouldn’t even think of diverting your attention elsewhere.

…Unless Namjoon was in the same room.

“Cheol is quicker at troubleshooting and debugging,” he says. “He prefers rectifying things right away, figuring things out as he goes. My approach is more theoretical. I prefer to take my time, gathering more information, maybe drawing things out a little longer than they need to be…”

Namjoon had your full attention from the moment he introduced himself. He had a boyish, dimpled smile that could make anyone swoon—a stark contrast to his tall and broad frame. He was mostly formal during the presentation but unafraid to go off on smaller tangents that showed his passion and kept you hanging on his every word. At certain points, you wished he would keep going, especially with that deep, rich voice of his.

However, as the night progresses, Seungcheol gradually draws your attention toward him as well.

“Let’s just say that Joon likes to play with his food, while I just want to get right to it and eat,” Seungcheol says, tipping his glass to his partner and winking playfully at you.

Your jaw drops at his unexpected comment, surprised by how bold it is. Normally, you'd think something like that would be out of line, but instead, you’re amused by it.

Little by little, you start to pick up on the subtle nuances in Seungcheol’s behavior. He has this laid-back attitude that contrasts with Namjoon's more reserved demeanor. It's fascinating to see the differences between the two, and you can't help but be drawn further into their intriguing dynamic.

Namjoon clears his throat, giving Seungcheol a subtle warning. “Uhh… please excuse my friend here. He offers the most colorful analogies.”

You wave him off. “I think he’s pretty funny, actually.”

“Why, thank you!” Seungcheol beams, takes it as a compliment then takes a sip of his drink.

“Besides, we need a little humor to get through the day, right,” you add.

You see Namjoon’s shoulders visibly relax. Your carefree reaction seems to give him a sense of relief.

With that awkwardness out of the way, you press on to get to know them better. You feel there's something more about them you can't quite put your finger on. Against your better judgment, and maybe due to one too many drinks, you’re dead-set on finding out.

You switch tact to keep the conversation going. “Has anybody ever pulled one of you aside to offer you an individual deal?”

“It’s happened before, but we’ve always turned them down,” Seungcheol replies.

Having been friends for over a decade, Namjoon nods in agreement. “Cheol and I have this pact—it's either both of us or neither of us.”

They’re young, business-savvy guys who haven’t lost their earnestness despite the ruthless competition. But the skeptic in you decides to test their ‘pact.’ “Oh, so you guys are like a package deal then?” you tease.

Seungcheol lets out a low laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

The look he gives you after he says it makes the words sound naughtier than they seem. But you brush the comment aside, keeping your thoughts PG since this is still technically a business meeting. Though, if you’re being honest, Seungcheol’s responses have been toeing the line between professional and provocative. His comment about preferring to eat his food rather than play with it makes you curious about what other colorful analogies he can come up with when he does cross that line. Frankly, you hope he would run through the entire spectrum.

Namjoon gives him a furtive look. “What he means is that this business wouldn't succeed if one of us walked away. It's better to hire both of us so you can get the best possible return on your investment.”

You scoff in disbelief. After years in this industry, you know that somebody is always looking to get ahead, as long as the price is right. “You mean to tell me that you’re perfectly fine settling for a 50/50 share when one of you could just take it all?”

“We don’t mind sharing.” Seungcheol bites his lower lip to stifle a smile, while his eyes glistened hotly in the muted lighting.

And just like that, this business meeting has evolved into something completely different. You’re not stupid, and neither is he. Deep down, you want to squeal from excitement. At least one of them is feeling you.

Before you jump to conclusions (or onto Seungcheol’s lap), you turn to Namjoon, expecting him to once again rein in his friend’s spicy comments. Instead, you’re surprised to find him staring, a smile ghosting his face.

“Do you disagree?” You ask him, rubbing the back of your neck to relieve some of the tension you were feeling inside. You’re interested to hear how he would try to spin Seungcheol’s comment.

There’s a slight pause before he smiles wider, flashing a dimple on his cheek. “Nah. I don’t see anything wrong with sharing… or taking turns, for that matter.”

You inhale sharply, holding that breath for a moment as your stomach drops. “Taking turns?” you ask carefully, brows furrowed in curiosity.

Unfazed, he answers, “Leading projects, of course!”

Your lips form an ‘o’ shape, and you nod slowly. “Right…”

The room suddenly feels hotter. Feeling parched, you tip your glass to your lips and drink, but it doesn’t help. Your body is telling you that you need something else to relieve your thirst.

Namjoon tilts his head, still appearing nonchalant. “What did you think I was referring to?”

“Nothing,” you reply. Narrowing your eyes at him, you ask, “What did you think I was thinking?”

They both stare at you quietly before bursting into laughter. Touché.

You’re laughing along with them when your phone chimes, reminding you about tomorrow’s meeting—something your boss has mentioned multiple times this week. When you look up from your screen, you notice the bar is nearly empty. You didn't realize it was so late. Even though you're reluctant to leave things…unsettled tonight, duty calls.

You motion for the server to bring the check, then hand over your credit card with a sigh. Guess you'll have to handle things on your own tonight.

Noticing your change in demeanor, Namjoon turns to you again. “So, are you one of those partners who pays for dinner and drinks, takes their commission, then we never see them ever?”

You soften at his question. “I’m sorry that’s been your experience in the past but I guarantee you, that’s not how I, or my firm, operate. I actually answer my phone and return calls,” you assure him.

He nods, seemingly satisfied with your answer. At least one of you is. You watch him toss back the last few drops of his drink, some spilling onto his chin. He picks up a napkin to clean up, but before he can, you see an opportunity and take it—swiping your thumb across his chin, surprising him and Seungcheol.

“I like to be hands-on with my clients.” Enough with the innuendo tennis! You're done playing games and want to see if one of them is willing to put their money where their mouth is. Meeting be damned, you’ll deal with the fallout later.

Namjoon is stunned into silence, trying to process what just went down. While you wait for him to get his head around it, Seungcheol jumps in. “Hmm, is that right?” His voice is low and husky, sending a chill down your spine.

You turn your head towards him. He appears to be pouting slightly, clearly jealous of the attention you're giving his friend and business partner. You smile, satisfied to provoke that bit of aggression in him.

You shift and bring your face closer to his, your voice steady. “Why? Is that hard to believe?”

He purses his lips, his dimples prominently on display. Normally, you'd find them adorable, but not now, as he looks like he's stalking you as his prey. “Well, there are two of us, you see…” He glances at Namjoon past your shoulder, as if giving him a silent signal.

Not a second later, Namjoon’s hand is under the table, sliding up your thigh. You’re thankful your table is tucked away in the back corner of the bar, keeping the lewdness out of sight.

“And we can be very demanding,” Namjoon breathes into your ear, while Seungcheol, humming in agreement, nuzzles his nose against your neck. “You think you can handle us both?”

Now that ache in your chest has traveled down between your legs. You press them together to hold off a bit longer, but it’s a futile attempt.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me, you know.” You lean in, your mouth hovering close to Namjoon’s. “I’m an excellent multitasker.” You push him to the brink when you touch the tip of your nose to his. Pulse racing, he closes the gap and seals his lips over yours. The kiss is soft at first, before he gradually deepens it. You succumb to the moment, letting out a soft moan when his tongue licks into your mouth.

You’re breathless when you pull away from him and turn to Seungcheol. He cups your chin to draw you closer, his eyes dark with desire, and captures your mouth in a hungry kiss. There's a hint of urgency in it that could be mistaken for impatience. But you like it, just as you enjoy Namjoon’s unhurried pace. You lose yourself between them, forgetting all the professional boundaries you were supposed to maintain.

You barely step into the room when Seungcheol tugs at your wrist, pulling you back and kissing you. Your fingers tangle in his hair while he holds your jaw, his mouth moving over yours, licking and sucking. You hear the door shut in the background, then feel Namjoon’s arms wrap around your waist. He starts kissing the exposed skin between your neck and shoulders.

Two pairs of hands explore your body, taking off your clothes, mouths trailing kisses everywhere. Your head spins as you’re caught between these two in nothing but your underwear, and all you can do is moan as they ravish you. You’re aching for attention. You arch forward, grinding your hips against Seungcheol’s thick thigh, desperate for some friction to ease the ache between your legs.

He pulls away, chuckling. “Someone’s a little eager.”

Namjoon murmurs in your ear, “Are you in a rush or something?” His hand slides between your legs, pulling you against him so you can feel his stiff cock against your ass. He cups your clothed pussy, fingers grazing over the damp material. You moan in response, your neck falling back on his chest.

“No rush,” you manage to say, “But aren’t you guys a little overdressed?” You reach back to palm Namjoon’s hardon through his pants, making him groan in your ear. You were wound up so tight at this point that you hoped one of them would break that seal, and fast.

“Ooh-ho-hoo…alright. C’mon then,” Seungcheol chuckles softly, pulling you away from Namjoon.

He leads you further into the room, until you find yourself standing by the foot of the bed.

“Before we start, is there anything you won't do?” Seungcheol asks.

“Or is there something specific you’re curious to try?” Namjoon adds, gauging your comfort level.

You appreciated their thoughtfulness and took a moment before sharing your boundaries with them.

“I’m not into DP or any kind of anal play. Choking is a no-go, and hard pass on any degradation. Besides that, I’m open to trying stuff.”

Namjoon nods. “And hey, if you're not feeling it, just let us know. We'll stop right away.”

Nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead, even in a threesome.

“Alright, that's settled then,” Seungcheol grins, but his smile quickly shifts to something more serious. “Now, sit,” he says softly. Without missing a beat, you sit down on the edge of the bed.

With his eyes locked on you, he slowly unbuttons his shirt, then moves to undo his pants with the same deliberate pace.

Your pulse races, your body buzzing with excitement and impatience. “We don't have all night, you know,” you said, watching his hand slip past his boxer-briefs’ waistband, stroking himself underneath.

“I know,” he says.

Movement from your periphery distracts you. You see Namjoon settling into one of the chairs by the window. He looks just as mouthwatering outside of his suit, all bare-chested and—

You yelp when Seungcheol jerks your hips to the very edge of the bed, your thighs on either side of him. Lowering himself, he whispers a warning into your ear. “And I also know that you want him…”

He glances at Namjoon, then back at you. Suddenly, you feel sheepish, like you've been caught trying to sneak another serving of cake before you've taken a bite out of the first slice you were given.

“I can make you feel good, too,” he breathes. He nips your earlobe, then rubs his hard length against your center to tease you. You moan, bucking your hips to feel more of him, but he’s got you pinned to the mattress.

“Besides, my buddy here prefers delayed gratification, and you—look really needy right now,” he points out. “I can help with that.”

Your core clenches desperately at his offer. “Please,” you whine.

He decides to taunt you, to make you squirm a little more. “Please, what? Use your words,” he says with a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Make me come… please.” You smile sweetly and bat your eyes at him. “Didn’t you say you preferred to get right to it, and eat?” You remind him of what he said earlier, hoping he'd finally end your torment.

He grins at your pouting, clearly amused. Teasing him a bit more, you reach back and unhook your bra. As you slide it off your shoulders, you catch his gaze and notice him licking his lips in anticipation.

He tilts your chin up and leans in for a kiss. Your hands instinctively wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. You sigh in contentment, lost in the moment, as his tongue explores your mouth, savoring you.

“Let’s get rid of these,” he says before slipping your panties off. He moves down, leaving a trail of kisses on your chest. He takes a hardened nipple in his mouth. You inhale sharply at the feel of his tongue circling and teasing it.

He moves lower, settling between your legs. Spreading them wider, he traces your inner thighs with his lips. He gently sucks at the flesh, purposely avoiding your center, prolonging the ache between.

He lifts your legs and props them on his shoulders. With his mouth lowered, his nose grazes your folds, making you shudder. He inhales deeply. “You smell intoxicating,” he says, before you feel his mouth on your clit. You let out a lingering moan at the contact.

“Ohh, right there,” as you push your hips shamelessly at his mouth. Your hunger builds as his tongue licks and flutters over your slick.

Your back arches, gripping the sheets as he inserts a finger, then a second. You throw your head back, eyes shut, lost in complete pleasure.

The mattress dips gently above where you lay. Feeling a warmth on your cheek, you open your eyes to see Namjoon lowering his lips onto you. You moan softly into his mouth while Seungcheol continues to lap at your soaked core, with his fingers dipping in and out of you.

Namjoon palms your breasts, teasing and pulling at your overly sensitive nipples.

“I love how responsive you are.” His tone carries that deep rasp that tickles your senses. You were incredibly turned on, feeling both the thrill of submission and the power of being serviced by two insanely hot men. Every touch, every whisper heightens the intensity, leaving you on the edge.

“I cannot wait to taste you,” Namjoon says, punctuating every word.

His voice triggers your release. That last bit of control snaps, and your body goes rigid. Your jaw goes slack as your orgasm takes over.

“F-uck…” you barely manage to say. Namjoon keeps caressing your face, helping you come back to reality.

Just as you're catching your breath, Seungcheol looms over you. He reaches above your head to grab something from Namjoon. After slipping on the condom, he hooks your leg around his waist to open you up for him. In one smooth move, he's in deep.

You moan breathlessly, wrapping your other leg around him as he finds his rhythm. Your fingers dig into the curve of his ass, leaving little crescent marks all over his skin.

“So good…” he breathes out.

Hearing rough groans above your head, you crane your neck. Namjoon is leaning against the headboard, fisting himself. His eyes blown out with arousal while watching you get fucked by his best friend. You want to take him in your mouth, but his cock is out of reach.

“I want him,” you say with a hungry look in your eyes. Then, turning your attention back to Seungcheol, “But I also want you to keep fucking me.”

His brows shoot up in surprise at your bold request, and he and Namjoon exchange looks, slightly taken aback.

“I did say I could multi-task,” you remark with a smirk, your confidence unwavering.

Slowing his hips, Seungcheol grins devilishly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Greedy girl, huh?”

Your reply is straightforward and unapologetic. “I want what I want,” you shrug. 

With a quiet laugh, Seungcheol pulls out, leaving you feeling bereft, but the promise of what’s next keeps you eager. Then, getting on your knees, you crawl over to Namjoon, your movements slow and calculated, savoring the anticipation. You look up at him and smile, then plant a swift kiss on his lips.

You dip down and give his cock some light licks, teasing the sensitive skin with your tongue. A deep groan rumbles from his chest, giving you a surge of satisfaction. You lower your mouth, taking your time, making him inhale sharply when the tip hits the back of your throat.

As you find a rhythm, Seungcheol watches intently, riveted at the sight before him. He traces your spine, trailing his fingers down your lower back. He presses lightly, urging you to bend further and lift your ass higher. He uses his thigh to push your knees wide, ensuring you're in the most optimal position for him.

Your cheeks hollow as you take long, deep pulls. Your tongue traces his length, flicking the tip when you reach it. Then, your body stills, pausing to let out a strangled moan at the shock of Seungcheol burying his cock in you from behind.

Namjoon looks down at you, his eyes filled with lust. “Don’t stop,” he begs softly.

Once you gather your bearings, you lower your head again. He runs his fingers through your hair, gathering it in one hand to keep it away from your face.

“Ahh…shit,” he hisses through his teeth. With a hooded gaze, he watches his cock slide in and out of your mouth.

He writhes in pleasure, giving into your ministrations, resisting the urge to push your head down and fuck your mouth mercilessly. His self-control turns you on even more, so you take him in deeper, pumping him with your hand while your mouth works up to the tip. You moan around Namjoon, and the vibrations from your lips send him into a frenzy.

Although you wish you could fully relish in satisfying him, you can’t help but get distracted by your own arousal as the heat in the pit of your belly grows.

Seungcheol’s hips churn, rubbing and thrusting into you, hitting the spot that makes you want to come more than anything. His fingers dig deeply into your flesh, likely to leave bruises the next morning, but right now, you couldn’t care less. You are getting fucked good and plenty tonight.

The air fills with the sounds of your moans and the rhythmic smacking of skin against skin. The room is thick with the unmistakable scent of sex. It’s a heady mix that you’re happy to surrender to. Your free hand finds your pulsing clit, knowing that one stroke would send you right over the edge.

You pull away from Namjoon seconds before you cry out, your core spasming with your climax—this one more intense than the first. Your walls clenching within sets off Seungcheol’s own orgasm.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” he breathes out, followed by a drawn out groan when he releases inside you.

As the euphoria fades, he pulls out and collapses to one side of the bed, utterly spent. Meanwhile, you slump onto the mattress, feeling the lingering warmth and the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He gets up, intending to make his way to the bathroom, when you suddenly reach out and give his ass a playful smack, catching him completely off-guard.

With a soft laugh echoing in the room, he continues toward the bathroom, his hand instinctively rubbing at the stinging skin, a smirk playing on his lips.

Namjoon lays next to you, his fingertips gently brushing over your bare skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Leaning in closer, he presses a kiss to your shoulder. It’s a sweet gesture, considering the debauchery that just occurred moments ago, and you don’t mind one bit.

“You okay?”

Your lips curve lazily. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Fine,” he replies.

You roll over to face him, drawing closer.

“You should rest a little more.”

Your hand playfully traces patterns on his chest for a moment before sliding down to his stomach. “I’m good to go, and you,” your eyes flit downward, “…look like you’re ready, too.”

He was half-hard seconds ago, but just before you can touch him, he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand up to his lips to kiss it.

You can’t help but frown at his rejection. “But you still haven’t—”

“I know. Let’s just take a minute,” he suggests. “Relax.”

Usually, when someone tells you that, you do the exact opposite. But his voice was so soft and reassuring that your furrowed brows start to ease. He seems to have other plans.

You keep your eyes on him, watching his every move—deliberate, and intentional. He gently strokes your cheek. You watch his hand travel slowly down to your neck, savoring the warmth of his touch as it lingers there for a moment. His hand continues down to your chest, pausing to stroke your nipple. Your eyes shut at the feather-light touches that send goosebumps racing across your skin.

When he reaches the juncture of your hips, he gently pushes you flat on the bed, with little to no resistance from you.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he breathes into your ear. You do so, then feel his hand move past your stomach. You hold your breath, expecting his fingers to touch your wet folds. But instead, his hand stops on your upper thigh, leaving you a bit disappointed.

His lips graze your cheek. “Tell me what to do next.”

Whatever complaints or protests you were about to voice out die out instantly, and instead replaced by growing anticipation. “Rub my clit,” you gasp quickly.

You hear a light chuckle from him before his hand reaches down between your legs.

“Like this?” He asks, then begins to rub slow circles on the sensitive flesh.

“No, up and down,” you tell him. You let out a sharp breath when he does so, and at the right pace. “Ahh, yes…up more…” You hum in pleasure when he strokes the most sensitive spot.

“What next?” He patiently awaits your instruction.

“Talk to me,” you croak out.

His breath blows gently by your ear. “What should I say?”

“Anything…” you pant, “Just want to…hear you.” You didn't think you had a voice kink, but listening to Namjoon speak earlier today was…a revelation, to say the least.

With his silky-smooth tone, he starts whispering the naughtiest, filthiest things you can think of, each word dripping with seduction. His voice wraps around you like a cozy blanket, pulling you deeper into his steamy fantasy.

You’re so wet for me.

So sexy.

As soon as you walked into the room, I wanted to bend you over that table and fuck you senseless.

You beg him to finger you, and he does so, sliding into you, working your sensitive nerves, and building up your need even further with every movement. There's something incredibly erotic about him asking you what you want and you telling him exactly how to please you. This is the kind of fantasy fulfillment that most people can only dream of.

“Should I eat that pussy after I make you come like this? You were making a lot of noises back there for Cheol. Will you do the same for me?”

You nod frantically.

“Yeah? Will you come hard for me?”

You nod again. “Yes, yyesss…don’t stop…”

“Tell me when you’re close.”

“Ahh yes, I’m there…s-slow down.”

He does as he’s told, coaxing your orgasm out of you. “C’mon, baby…let go.”

“Mm…coming—” As you say the words, he presses his fingers up against the roof of your cervix, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

“Let me hear you.”

You let out a deep, prolonged sigh that echoes in the room.

Namjoon’s fingers continue to pump slowly into you, stretching out your orgasm. “There we go, atta girl.”

Your legs tremble, breaths turn into shaky gasps as your walls clench and release around his fingers.

“Holy shit, that’s hot,” Seungcheol says from afar. Fresh out of the shower, he finds himself wishing he hadn’t missed the scene that has your face contorting in pure, unbridled pleasure.

While you’re still reeling from coming, Namjoon turns you onto your side. He then pulls your back flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around you to hold you close.

“You ready for me,” he asks, his teeth grazing your ear. Your body responds instinctively, trying to roll your hips into him. You feel his hard cock against your ass cheek.

“I want to ride you,” you plead.

“You do?”

You want to set the pace, the rhythm…the depth…You turn to face him, tilt your head up, and playfully bite his lower lip. “I want to be on top.”

He laughs, deep and husky, and eventually gives in. He pulls away to reach for a foil packet on the nightstand, sitting up against the headboard as he sheaths himself.

You move up to him, even though your legs feel like jelly. You straddle his hips and drape your arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer. With your eyes locked on each other, you slowly lower your hips. Your lips part with an involuntary sigh as you sink deeper. You fight to keep your eyes open, savoring the feel of him stretching you, filling you completely. 

Catching your hips, Namjoon looks up at you. “Ride me good, yeah?”

Your core clenches reflexively at the challenge.

You lift again, slowly, making you both feel every nuance of that mind-numbing friction. Then, you slam back down, the fullness, the connection, was too good to contain. He shifts restlessly, his hips moving tightly, wanting to feel more of you.

Seungcheol sits beside Namjoon, wanting to get a front row seat. He reaches for your breast, palming it as he lazily strokes his cock. “She feels good, huh? Nice and tight.”

“Mm-hmm,” Namjoon agrees. “Sweet mouth on her, too.”

Seungcheol hums, his lips curling into a dark, enigmatic smile. “Mm, I’ll have to try that for myself,” he says, his voice dripping with need.

Just thinking about having Seungcheol's thick, hard length in your mouth drives your senses wild, making your walls clamp around Namjoon, causing him to hiss through his teeth.

Seungcheol chuckles softly and decides to tease you a bit more. He rolls and tugs on your nipple. “Can I come on your tits?”

“Hmm… yeah…” you hum vaguely as another wave of throbbing hits your center.

With a soft growl, Namjoon captures your mouth, sliding his tongue into it. His hand cups the back of your neck, holding you right where he wants you. You kiss him back, matching his ardor while you rock back and forth against him.

He pauses the kiss and supports your back as he changes position. He gently guides you to lean back, allowing him to go deeper. You place your hands behind you for balance, steadying yourself on his thick thighs as he moves inside.

Seungcheol watches with a lust-filled gaze, his eyes darkening with desire as you and Namjoon fuck. Each movement heightens his arousal, and his breaths grow rougher. His hand moves in sync with your rhythm. His strokes grow more rapid, but still controlled; he wants this to last as long as possible.

You gaze at them with heavy-lidded eyes. Namjoon looks so tempting beneath you, his neck straining with effort, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and his breath coming in ragged gasps. Seungcheol, with his jaw slack and eyes half-closed, has every muscle in his body taut with anticipation.

A sob escapes your lips  as your entire body trembles with another promise of an orgasm.

Namjoon places his hand just below your belly, teasing your clit with slow strokes of his thumb as his thrusts turn messier.

“I’m close…don’t…stop,” you stutter, thighs burning as sweat breaks through your skin.

“Fuck,” he bites out, his teeth grinding,

Burying his face in your neck, he tightens his grip on your hips, holding you firmly in place as he continues to slam harder and deeper into you.

You cry out, your body shuddering as pleasure washes over you. Every nerve ending is alight, and you’re fighting to catch your breath.

His hips start to slow down, and you can feel his muscles tense. He tightens up for a second before finally letting go, the rumbling in his chest reverberating as he groans deeply into your shoulder.

Peering in Seungcheol’s direction, you wrench away from Namjoon, a soft moan escaping his lips as you get off him.

“May I?” Your lips hovered over his cock, waiting for him to give you permission.

Nodding, he moves his hand to give you enough space to scoot closer to him. You lick your lips, then take him in. He throws his head back and lets out a deep sigh, gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles turn white.

You hollow your cheeks, and his response is immediate, his breath hitching as he fights to maintain control.

He sucks in a sharp breath when you run the flat of your tongue up his length before your head dips down again. “Geez….ffuuuckk, this feels so good.”

He looks down at you, cups your jaw, and holds your hair with one hand to guide the pace. With a deep groan, he shifts his hips, pushing into your mouth.

Driven by the desperate sounds he made, you suck harder, determined to make him come again. Face flushed, and stuttered breaths escaping through his parted lips, he is completely at your mercy.

“I’m close, I’m close,” he says in a hurry.

You pull away, but remain bent over, pushing your tits up toward him, offering yourself to him.

He sits up, balancing on one knee. With a few definitive strokes, he spurts onto your chest. His moans of pleasure fill the room, his face grimacing in agonized bliss as he rubs out the last remnants of his release.

Namjoon approaches, handing you a warm, wet washcloth. A shower would be ideal, but this will do for now as exhaustion finally hits you. You fall backward onto the mattress, with Namjoon and Seungcheol sitting up against the headboard on either side of your legs.

The three of you lay in silence for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, heartbeats settling, basking in your post-orgasmic haze.

Namjoon interrupts your thoughts. “Are you alright?”

With heavy eyelids, you look at him, muster a hum, and offer a weak nod before your head lolls back on the bed.

“Tired?” Seungcheol asks, massaging your ankle.

“Naaahh, I can totally go for a couple more rounds,” you reply sarcastically, making everyone burst out laughing.

“Well, now you know how our team works,” Namjoon remarks with a chuckle.

You snort. “Interesting team-building activity.”

“I think we should do more of these, don’t you think?” Seungcheol counters.

You sit up, laughing and shaking your head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We could always arrange another meeting if you need more... convincing. Over dinner, maybe?”

Namjoon chimes in, “We can add it to the contract? Make it official?”

They both stare back at you with eager eyes, waiting for your response.

Pursing your lips, your mind races with possibilities, and you can't help but feel a thrill deep within you.

“Maybe,” you smirk.

BTS Fic Masterlist | SVT Fic Masterlist

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[magniloquent-raven]

I'm getting distracted from my current projects by someone else's post again someone tell me to stop going on tumblr while I have WIPs lmfao

@rosetterer this isn't EXACTLY what you posted about but it does get there in the end

**

Twenty-four hours has never seemed like such an insurmountably long time.

Buck's had long shifts before, the boring ones when he'd stare at the alarms on the wall, willing them to go off—he can picture Maddie's disappointed scowl if she ever found out about that, but he swears he was only hoping for something small and harmless to break up the monotony—and the busy ones. Ones that leave his ears ringing with phantom sirens by the end. Those days only ever seem long in retrospect, when he's bone-tired and trying to remember all the names he asked for.

But now every shift seems to find new and shittier ways to be gruelling. Eddie's miserable and trying to act like he isn't. There's this weird, uncomfortable tension brewing between Hen and Chim. Ravi got himself transferred to B shift—probably to get away from Gerrard, and Buck can't exactly blame him, but he sort of does anyway and their new probie is terrible, and... then there's Gerrard.

Like, Buck already knew he was a piece of work, but. Knowing and experiencing are two very different things. He could barely stand keeping his mouth shut at the medal ceremony when he met the man for five seconds, and now he has to put up with him making smug, belittling comments towards all his friends, all the time. Constantly needing to remind himself he doesn't want to get fired is actually killing him.

It doesn't help that every so often he'll remember Tommy's offhand Captain Gerrard was like having the dad I already had, with a pang as he wonders what exactly Tommy grew up with. What parts of Gerrard's condescending tyranny were familiar to him. Phillip Buckley may not have been father of the year, but maybe never being looked directly at was better than being raised neck deep in toxic waste.

Every time he remembers he gets the urge to pull out his phone and call Tommy up just to... he doesn't even know. Just to hear his voice, maybe. Know if he's doing okay.

Another reason work days seem so long now, if he's being honest. He's always counting down the hours until he can see Tommy again. Like a kid on the last day of school, watching the clock tick closer and closer to summer vacation.

So, of course, right near the end of a particularly busy shift, Gerrard gets them all lined up for a lecture about how sloppy that last save was. Everyone did something wrong, and everyone needs to hear about all the ways they could have gotten someone killed, like they don't all know how risky the job is already.

By the time he's finished telling Chim it's a miracle he managed to convince anyone to let him out on calls, Buck is clenching his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache.

"I'm sure Captain Soft-Touch loved telling you all it was okay to be mediocre, and that you were trying your best," Gerrard sneers at them all, waving a dismissive hand at very idea of Bobby's captaincy. "But the coddling ended when he retired. Sparing your feelings is going to get people killed. Diaz!" He shouts, abrupt, turning on his heel towards Eddie. Eddie doesn't flinch, but Buck does.

"Yes, sir?" He's coolly polite, and his face is carefully blank, but his posture is tense.

"If I ever catch you checking your phone at a scene again, I'll make sure you're mopping floors for the rest of your life."

Eddie's expression hardens. It was a fender-bender and Eddie didn't even touch his phone until everyone was accounted for and packed into the ambulance. "It was a text from my son. Sir." His tone veers a little to the left of polite.

"I don't care if it was from the goddamn Pope, when you're in the field your focus stays on scene. Next time your brat needs something tell him to go cry to his mother about it."

This time when Buck flinches, everyone else in line does too. Hen bites down on a grimace. Chim hisses quietly through his teeth.

"I can't do that," Eddie says flatly. "What with her being dead and all."

The firehouse is silent for a long, horrible moment. That might've taken the wind out of any decent person's sails, Buck thinks. At the very least most people would've retreated into awkwardness and ended the lecture entirely.

Gerrard's brow pinches angrily. "Don't get smart with me, Diaz."

Buck's not sure it's possible to hate someone more than he hates their new captain right now.

"I don't care about your little sob story excuses, I care that you're sloppy and distracted. If you can't handle the job and the kid, drop one of them."

Oh, he was wrong.

He hates this man so much he's choking on it, it's clogging his throat like bile and he's running out of strength to care that he shouldn't spit it out, spew it everywhere and ruin everything just for the chance of hurting this man in the process. He feels like his skin is bursting at the seams.

Eddie's biting the inside of his cheek, rage and sorrow warring silently on his face.

And Buck breaks. Bursts. "Hey, Captain, that's—"

"Can it, Buckley," Gerrard cuts him off before he can even start. It's not angry, it's not anything, he brushes Buck off like he's an annoying fly buzzing in his ear, barely worth glancing at for the two seconds it takes to tell him he doesn't care. "You're all dismissed. Get out of my sight."

Some of them flee, scurrying to their lockers, the kitchen, anywhere but here. A couple of people throw backwards glances before they walk away. Hen and Chim exchange grim looks. Eddie disappears out the back door in an angry haze. And Buck...

Buck feels. Empty. Small. Like he cut himself open trying to relieve the pressure and now there's just nothing left. No one to patch up the wound, and no reason for any of it, he didn't make an impact, he didn't help anyone, he stood there listening to his friends get degraded, and now—now he's feeling sorry for himself?

It's stupid. He's stupid. He feels like shit because, what, because he didn't get yelled at? Because his piece of shit captain took a break from implying he's a disgusting pervert?

He thinks himself in circles about it his whole way home, the pit in his stomach getting a little deeper every time he tries to will it away.

He's wallowed himself halfway through a six-pack, staring sightlessly at his TV, by the time his front door opens.

"Evan?"

One of the knots in his chest loosens. "Yeah," he calls out, not bothering to sound less pathetic than he is. "In here."

"Hey." Tommy's stopped next to the stairs, eyeing him. His gaze is assessing, but his tone is soft. He's always so careful with Buck. "Bad day?"

Buck takes another sip of his beer. Shrugs.

"Ah, one of those."

The couch cushions dip as Tommy takes a seat next to him. He's close enough that Buck doesn't have to look at him to know he's there. There's warmth radiating off him. The woodsy scent of his aftershave. Buck presses their knees together, and exhales properly for the first time in hours.

He knows he could talk about whatever he wants and Tommy would let him. He's waiting for Buck to take the lead here. Buck could avoid the issue entirely and decide to talk about anything. The fact that he can't really tell the difference between the fancy beer Tommy insists is better than the crap Buck's drinking right now. The documentary about bees he's pretending to watch. The goddamn weather.

What comes out of his mouth is a quiet, "I feel like an idiot."

Tommy pulls the beer bottle out of Buck's loose grip, puts it down next to the couch, and then takes Buck's hand in both of his. "Why?"

Buck scrubs at his eyes. "I..." He catalogues the tiny scars on Tommy's knuckles. Two, three, little dots on his index finger. A lopsided vee on his thumb. "Something happened at work."

"Did Gerrard say something to you?" There's an edge to Tommy's question, something sharp and flinty. It makes Buck's heart do dumb little somersaults.

"No." He stops, shame burning his cheeks. "Not. Not to me. That's... He was lecturing everybody, and I..."

"Evan." Tommy grips his chin, firmly, gently, guiding Buck's face until he looks him in the eye. There's a sympathetic twist to his mouth. "Tell me."

He does. As best he can when it feels like what's didn't happen is more important, and he can barely put into words why that is. But trying helps, a little. Trying to whittle it down into an explanation forces him to look at the whole of it, and realize it's not looming over him anymore.

Maybe it's just Tommy's hands on him, soothing the hurt away.

"I dunno. Feels like I could have done something differently, maybe"

Tommy hums, tilting his head in acknowledgement. "You could've."

Buck winces.

"But it wouldn't have turned out any better."

Oh.

A flower blooms on the TV, purple and white petals reaching for the sun. Buck toys with Tommy's fingers, and shifts his leg closer, hooking their ankles together.

"It felt so shitty," he mutters.

"I know."

He would, wouldn't he. Buck gets that pang in his chest again, and he pushes the rest of the way into Tommy's space. Tommy wraps his arms around him, and drops a kiss into his curls, seemingly content to let Buck situate himself however he wants.

He kind of wishes Tommy wasn't still wearing jeans, but asking him to take his pants off might send the wrong message.

"You don't think I'm, like...a bad friend, right?" He cringes his way through the question.

"No." Tommy responds matter-of-factly and without hesitation. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. "I think you're a very good boy."

Buck's entire head feels like it's on fire. A grin starts to creep across his face. It might be the first time he's smiled all day. "Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

Maybe he should ask Tommy to take his jeans off after all.