#let's see where this lifetime takes me

[eimearkuopio]

Leavened bread needs time to prove, to rise. Leavened bread needs yeast, needs true life (or like my ancestors, you can substitute for a chemical reaction if you know what you're doing and it's still delicious).

Unleavened bread is for times of fear and famine. Times when you need to remember that you should be prepared to drop everything and flee. I can't understand why you would build cathedrals of stone, decorate them with art that transcends your finite selves, but still use unleavened bread. It's an empty symbol to you now, because you kept the words and forgot the Word. I can't remember the whole script, but I've got the gist of it. Some of it, you had to prompt me to remember. Some of you didn't realise you were giving me cues. I really, really hope at least some of you knew something, or this will be a lonelier lifetime than it needs to be; but at least not lonely enough for me to choose my own mercy.

Grandma's recipe for wine might turn out to have Granda's recipe for bread written on the back. My eyesight isn't what it once was, and I can't make out the fine details. I genuinely don't know it by heart, but I know the taste of it. Some of it, you have reminded me of and I am sure it is right. Some of it sounds wrong. Bring me your best attempts and I will taste them. Who knows? Maybe you made something better with what he taught you!

The Reformation was the end of the first prove. It's time to shape this bread and bake it.

[flowercrowngods]

i don't know how to be merely acquaintances when we used to be friends. or i think we used to be. i don't know how to yearn for a simple hello when you've been heaping your affection on me months ago, and i don't know how to talk to you when you won't say anything. when suddenly it's all about me. you know i have nothing to say, you know my brain is void of everything but horribleness and i cannot tell you about my day because i don't even know about my day. i cannot tell you about my day when i know you won't listen, when i know you'll apply your philosophy to my world and don't believe me when i say that everything is terrible. i don't know how to be the person you seem to think i am, or the person you want in your life. i don't know if you want anyone else in your life now that you're in love and sappy, found another recipient for your affections, leaving me empty and wounded and yearning.

you said you missed me. said it many times, while i was gone. now i'm back, have been back, and i wonder how you missed me, why you missed me, when you won't talk to me. i think you mistook missing for worrying. i think you mistook caring for a feeling of obligation. i think you like missing me more than talking to me.

and i think i can't breathe with how much that hurts

[milo-is-rambling]

Me when I want to be wanted more than anything else

[tonycries]

Golden Boy - G.S.

Synopsis. Falling right back in love with the cult leader you’re supposed to kíll? Happens more often than you’d think.

Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader 

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, friends/lovers to enemies to lovers, oral (fem receiving), facesítting, creampíe, slight Gojo x Reader, running away from it, Suguru is so SOOO in love still, unprotected, spítting, kinda angsty, hurt/comfort, mentions of bIood and kníves, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.4k

A/N. I was listening to fantasmas while writing this so take that how you will LMAO.

The difficult part, surprisingly, wasn’t infiltrating Geto Suguru’s Time Vessel Association. No, a few faux tears, a decoy curse, and you were in - stepping through his grandiose hideout. The difficult part was convincing yourself that you were here to kill him. 

Something that utterly foolish little part of yourself still had trouble believing - even when you had a knife to his throat. 

“Any last words?” you spit, muffled through your mask, thankful for the way it covers up just how much your voice shakes. Maybe because of the way his lips curl into a familiar smile, maybe from his cool dagger pressing against the back of your neck.

Seconds away from a bloodbath. 

You don’t know if you’re breathing - or if he is either. Eyes locked on the way Sugur- your target only raises his hand up, up, up - getting ready to strike. To kill. Only you’d get him first and-

Snip!

You’re not dead. But you might as well have been, because your mask falls onto the tatami mat with a deafening clatter. 

“You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

It’s hard not to remember. 

“You don’t have any right to say that.” your knees tighten around where you had him straddled to the ground. Your hand pinning one of his down, blade digging deeper into Suguru’s pale neck - eyeing the slow, steady drop of blood that beads down it. “Didn’t think you’d remember me, either.”

With your mask now no longer on your face, you could traitorously take in that relaxed grin - as if your life wasn’t in his hands right now. As if he didn’t care. 

Suguru’s hair was much longer now, splayed out across the floor inkily. Circling around his broad shoulders, around the eyes that were just a bit harder than they were ten years ago. And yet, you catch the way they flicker briefly with something so raw as he whispers gently, “How could I ever forget my first love?”

So quiet that you could’ve blamed it on your imagination - and you wish you did. 

It’s so unfair. 

Unfair how you let out a gasp, despite yourself. Unfair how you were the best sword wielder that Jujutsu had to offer, yet your fingers tremble on your knife. Heart stuttering at the mere sight of the way his eyes crinkle with the beginnings of a smile. Pleading, like all he could see was you from what felt like a thousand lifetimes ago. 

Those golden years. Back when rare Susanoomon cards were what you’d fight over, and the only stains he’d wipe off were from the grassy grounds of Jujutsu High, still faint underneath the encrusted blood on that uniform nestled away deep in his wardrobe.

You manage to grit out, “Shut up. You left me- us.”

“I did.”

Like it was all he wanted to see. 

“You never loved me.”

“I do.”

Your voice is shrill at this point, words stumbling over each other. “You’ve massacred more people than you’ve saved.”

Suguru wastes no time denying - or in any niceties. Looking right into your absolutely crazed eyes as he answers, “I have.” And his answer rings so hollow and emotionless in your ears, cold-blooded. Absolutely nothing like the boy you remembered. The one that would laugh and steal you away to take you around campus on his bicycle, all because the next class was “too far”.

“I- fuck.” You place both hands on the hilt of your blade, distantly registering the way that Suguru lets his own drop onto the floor. “I should kill you- I should kill you right now.”

Just one flick of your wrist. Fast and simple. 

In and out - exactly like you’d been ordered to. 

“And to die by your hand would be a death that someone like me doesn’t deserve.”

You both jolt when your knife hits the ground - as if neither of you were expecting it. And before you can stop yourself, you’re fisting his thick robes, pulling Suguru’s face up closer to yours. Mere inches away. 

“Then- then I’ll-” you choke, a hand coming up to dig into the sides of his milky neck, leaving neat, red indents on his skin. “I’ll kill you with my own hands, Suguru.”

And he’s known you for years - would never admit it, but was by your side for only half as long as he’d watched over you. 

Saw - only from a distance -  those big fat tears you cried at graduation, the curve of your lips as you pulled a very reluctant Nanami into a hug outside his new office building. The steely look in your eyes meeting Satoru’s much softer one, telling him first how you’re going into teaching. And the smile on your face when you thought of who else might have, too. If he’d gotten the chance.

Always hidden.

Never so close to this frenzied glint in your gaze, a tiny sob threatening to escape your lips. Never like this - and yet, he never thinks you’ve looked so beautiful. 

But what would someone like him know about beauty, anyway?

You flinch as Suguru reaches a hand up to thumb away the furrow between your brows, catching on the single, stray tear sitting at your cheekbone. Whispering - so low that you involuntarily crane your head closer to hear - “Still such a crybaby.”

“And you’re still going to be the death of me.”

Soft - Suguru’s lips are as soft as you imagined. And it’s not exactly the tender, picture-perfectly romantic first kiss his teenage self dreamt up with you, but fuck if he wasn’t going to remember this like it was. 

Perfect. 

Pretty lips smothering yours, all slow and sensual. Drinking in those deliciously breathless gasps of yours as he sucks on your candied lips. 

You gasp, “Suguru.” and it comes out teary. Making you finally register the wetness rolling down your cheeks, glistening against the dim lighting. You tighten your grip around his neck, “This won’t fix-”

“I know.” Fuck, does he know better than anyone else. 

A hand slides up your forearm, the other cupping your face to pull you closer. He’s running his hot tongue along your cheek, pooling your salty tears on his lips. “But let me make you forget - if just for tonight. Please.”

The only answer Suguru gets is your fingers leaving his neck, dancing feather-light across his sculpted shoulders to slide under his robe. Feeling the smooth plane of his pecs underneath your palm, that traitorously thundering heartbeat he wishes he could slow down. “Kiss me.”

“Fuck.” he pants into your open mouth. The sight of your glossy, slightly puffy lips having him surge forward to reattach his with yours with a pained grunt. “God- jus’ a bit more, my love.”

Again. And again and again- like he was addicted. 

He’d always been, with you, anyway.

You let out a sinful sound of his name when Suguru kisses down your neck, lips slotting over your racing pulse. Throbbing and so real under his lips, remembering how he used to feel this song under his arms long before. 

“Oh- shit.” you moan, when his now rougher - larger - hands sneak underneath your crumpled shirt, deftly unbuttoning. Unbuckling. Impatient. “Sugu-”

A hoarse groan leaves him, only spurring him to all but rip the rest of your uniform off your body faster. 

And at the first sight of you clad in nothing but your panties, Suguru’s kiss-bitten lips are falling slack. Brows shooting up into the dark strands of hair sticking to his forehead now, “Been missing out, hm?” He’s dipping a hand down to run the back of his index along your clothed, puffy folds. Up and down. “Really been-” Heart clenching when he remembers the way Satoru now looks at you with a familiar glint. One he knew all too well. “-missing out, my love.”

You’re only trailing your fingers along his cheek - his neck, grazing over that little mark from your blade. He groans - maybe from your touch, probably from the way you’re dragging your cunt across that massive bulge underneath you. “Please, Suguru. Wan’ you.” 

And if Geto Suguru has spent ten years denying himself, surely he could sacrifice it for the way he lifts your stuttering, sloppy hips up so easily. All the way up until they were hovering over his mouth, hot breath hitting your clothed cunt. 

“Wanna taste you.” he groans, spying on the way your slick beads through your panties. “Wan’ see if you’re as hah- sweet as I imagined. Please.”

And he’s obsessed with the way you’re sinking yourself down so gently, cock jumping at the thought of you afraid you’d suffocate him - as if you didn’t have your blade at his throat just minutes ago.

“Fuuuck, don’t worry, pretty.” he groans, soft darting to lick at the juices smeared across your inner thighs. “Some more now. Put it all on me, I can take it- fuck-”

Your syrupy sweet cunt has Geto losing whatever’s left of his fucking restraint, dark eyes rolling to the back of his head because you were so sweet. So pretty looking down at him with your glassy eyes. So addictive. He moans, chest heaving as he breathes in your essence. “What happened to that feist from earlier? Gonna hafta do a lil’ more than that now.”

“B-but-”

It’s at this moment you realize that at any given moment Suguru could’ve easily taken the upper hand. A hand of his pulls down your hesitant hips, swollen lips against your covered ones in such a filthy kiss. 

He hums into your folds, bunching your panties between them. “Mmm. Shit- jus’ like I imagined.” Hot tongue dipping just underneath the flimsy fabric to feel out your sloppy entrance, “Better, even. Jus’ look how well you’re taking me, pretty.”

But you don’t - too scared to find out that you’d like the sight more than you should. How you wished you could go back to the golden days where it didn’t matter - wasn’t a matter of life and death. And something else entirely. 

And this dilemma has Suguru’s brows furrowing, sharp canines lightly nipping at one of your swollen folds. Wanting to see how it’s him - despite everything, it’s still him making you feel this way. “None of that now.”

RIP!

With this you have to look down, a desperate whine leaving your stupid mouth at the fucking sinful sight down below. Your panties now a tattered excuse in between Suguru’s teeth, baring them with such a devilish grin right up at you. 

“See?” he spits out the fabric onto the floor beside him, half-lidded eyes peering up at you so sultry. Looking right at you as his tongue lolls out, spreading your bare, needy folds shamefully. “Isn’t this much better?”

“Hngh- fuck, yes-” you slide your fingers through his now-messy hair, falling out of that half-bun. Jolting on top with each push of his tongue past that feeble ring of resistance, the lewd squelches leaving you with each graze of the wet muscle against your walls. “Shit- Suguru it feels too good. So deep ngh-”

He swats a hand against your ass, making you sit your slutty hips down deeper, all the way till Suguru’s jaw was grinding so greedily against your cunt. Tongue bullying past your folds in and out in and out in and-

“God- hah-” he’s pulling away to gasp deep lungfuls of air - secondary, to the way he was back immediately to making out so hotly with your tight pussy. “Mmm fuck. This cute lil cunt is so needy. S’like you’re trynna suck my tongue off.” Thumb reaching up to draw slow, languid circles that have you throwing your head back. “So perfect.”

Your delirious mouth is dropping open, body moving before your mind as you strain to reach your hand behind. Trembling. Shaky when you manage to cup Suguru’s aching erection. 

“G-guess m’not the only one ah- needy, hm?” you smirk, having him bucking and spitting out harsh little profanities with each rub of your palm down his drenched length. 

Suguru doesn’t give you a response - because his fingers are speaking on his behalf. Dipping into your sloppy hole, locating your g-spot, as if on instinct. He’s milking your pretty cunt while he roams for those sweet spots. Lips muffling around your throbbing clit, “You’re always right, my love. You always were.”

And his words are so gentle - mouth so sloppy. Squelches so obscene. 

Nose pressing up at the top of your abdomen, cheeks hollowing wetly around the sensitive nub. Letting your juices drip all the way down his chin, his jaw, dangerously close to that cut on his neck. 

The hand sliding back and forth across the swollen outline of his cock had Suguru get more frenzied. Faster. Like it was his personal mission to make you cum on his tongue before he fucking passed out. 

Penetrating your gummy hole with both his fingers and his tongue, spreading it open more. And it’s all you can do to keen, “Oh- oh my god.” Riding Suguru’s pretty face harder. “Shit- m’close, Suguru.”

“Always right.” he gasps, swiping his tongue faster across your clit. “Always perfect” Alternating between squeezing back into your hole, your sweet spots. Stretching out your gummy walls as far as they’d go. “Always made f’me.” Assaulting it with both his fingers and his tongue. Again. And again and again and- “Jus’ wish I got to have you sooner.”

His words make you snap your eyes up from his mean mouth to meet his gaze, devouring you as greedily and depraved as his tongue. They make your thighs burn with the effort to drag your sloppy pussy faster.

They make you cum - shaking, crying out little mewls of “Ngh- fuck. M’cumming m’cumming m’cumming.”

The way your voice is breaking at the end of each moan has Suguru’s cock straining so painfully against his trousers. One hand firmly on your waist, arching you deeper to tongue you through your high in ways he’s only ever dared to imagine. 

Ways he’s selfishly hoped only he could - even after all these years, the sight of any other man looking at you wrong having his irritation flaring. 

“S’right.” his voice is sending stars bursting behind your lids, tongue even worse. Having you pleading and so sensitive. “I got you, my love. Give it t’me.” Messy - not as forgiving as he’d like to be. “Give it alllll to me.”

And you do - all but smothering Suguru’s eager tongue with all your sweet juices. Ones he’s lapping up happily, tilting his head back as far as it’d go on the floor, letting your heady slick fill up his throat. His pussydrunk lips let out a hiss, both at the burn of that cut on his neck, and the way you’re desperately pulling your hips back. 

Too overstimulated. Too fucking sensitive. Too much - but it would never be enough for Suguru. 

“Please, Suguru.” you sob at the way your limp hips are being pulled back by a needy Suguru. “M’too sensitive. I- fuck-” He’s only lapping at your quivering cunt leisurely, smirk prominent against your swollen folds. 

And it’s all you can do to deliriously slip a hand underneath his robes, a desperate attempt to keep whatever shred of sanity you have left. Fingers feeling down his unfairly toned abs, the tufts of hair at his pelvis, reaching-

“Oh fuck!” Your heavy eyes admire the way Suguru arches into your touch in surprise - like he couldn’t help himself. Eyes flying open, glossy, plump lips curling into a disbelieving grin, “Ya really are made f’me, huh?” 

That’s all it takes for Suguru to head to your lewd whims, bruising fingers on your hips finally loosening to let you sit your sloppy cunt back down on his lap - except, this time, you were seated directly on his rock-hard cock. Pussy lips spreading around his length to just soak him. 

“Oh, my love.” He sits up, splaying you out so prettily on his lap. “How I’ve missed you.”

You don’t even register the way you’re raising your head up to meet Suguru’s - not until he spits. Once. Twice. Straight onto your awaiting tongue that you didn’t even realize you were sticking out, saccharine sweet saliva making such a mess when he’s crashing his lips into yours. 

“Yeahh, like that. Kiss me like that.” he slurs against your mouth, drunk off both sets of your sweet lips. Getting out through wet, sloppy pecks. “How I wish I had you sooner.”

You can feel your heart thumping so wildly against your ribcage, matching the needy, needy staccato of Suguru’s cock throbbing between your puffy folds. And, well, you really can’t be blamed for the way you break the kiss to look down and oh-

Oh Suguru notices that furrow between your brows, kissing away the nervous little wobble in your lower lips as he grunts, “God, you’re killin’ me.” 

Fuck. Killing him?

You were the one sent in for the kill, but it seems you won’t be making it out here alive. 

Because Suguru was so big, girth rubbing up against your thighs. So angry and heavy, smearing hot precum over his abs, your cunt, adding to add to the absolute mess. Long enough that you knew you wouldn’t be able to walk out of here - which, honestly, Suguru would’ve preferred. To keep you with him forever. 

To have you always mewling so prettily when he’s dragging his fat head down your sensitive slit. To have his name - and only his name - leave your bruised lips when he’s asking, “Who’s got you this wet?” 

You’re so cockdrunk already that you’re groaning mindlessly, “You- Suguru-”

“No, that’s not what you call me.” 

And it takes you a few, long seconds to understand what he’s saying, all the while trying to focus with the leaky tip being pressed past your swollen folds. Slow. Torturous. Hitting you so violently at the same time he slips past that first, slutty ring of muscle. 

“Sugu!”

A blinding grin splits across Suguru’s absolutely fucked-out face, brows furrowing together in ecstasy. “That’s more hah- like it.” Not having heard that familiar little nickname - one of your many - fall from your lips since high school - one that makes a heart he forgot he had grow five sizes too large. “Now, just take me-” Hips bucking up, so strong and ruthless. “-like I know you can, okay?”

Over and over. 

You can’t let out anything but barely-lucid whines at this point, letting Suguru sink in inch by fucking inch. Your walls stretched out so perfectly to take his sheer size. But the stretch- oh, the stretch.

Fuck, it has you clawing at Suguru’s exposed shoulders, fingers leaving angry, red marks down the muscles. An obscene ah! ah! ah! leaving your lips with each time he reels his hips back, only to bully his aching cock inside until he physically couldn’t.

“Hngh- Sugu, s’too big-” You buck your hips down in shallow, tentative grinds to meet his filthy method of fitting in. “Too- much. Didn’t expect you to be so mean-”

“The sorcerer that hah- held a knife to the infamous Geto Suguru’s neck-” he groans, hands groping your ass to move you further down his massive cock. To watch the way your sloppy entrance was stretching out so much to suck him up. “-can take this too, right? I know you can.” He reaches a deft thumb around to toy with your pretty clit, making your cunt relax like the good girl she is. Fucking up deeper, just a bit more mean. “You- can-”

Several things happen at the tail end of Suguru’s sentence - he’s finally fitting in all in one go. With a calculated, harsh thrust up into your poor cunt, your ass is kissing his heavy balls, pussy rubbing against the hair at his hilt. So full and so much.

And Suguru knows he just might not see heaven - but shit, does he feel like he’s there right now. The feeling so good that both of you letting out mingling gasps of pleasure. 

Your back falling onto the now soiled mats like such animals, the other not far behind.

“You alright, my love?” Suguru hums against your throat when you’re managing to adjust somewhat to the stretch, aware enough to kiss the palm resting protectively underneath your head - making sure you don’t hurt yourself.

You bat your teary lashes, “Never been better, Sugu.”

And something about that makes him remember. 

Remember the way you’d tell him the exact same thing when you fought with curses too strong for you - coming back to the dorms all battered and bruised, but alive. Flashing him that addictive grin, and a crooked thumbs up, “Never been better, Sugu. Gold, actually.”

His golden girl.

Shaking away the tightness at his throat, Suguru instead focuses on wrapping your trembling legs around his toned waist. Tight.

“Sh-shit- you’re milkin’ me so good, fuck-”

Abs burning as he just drags his cock along your plushy walls, keeping your legs held wide open for him. So tight - like you were sucking the fucking soul out of him. Making sure to angle his hips in just the way that’ll have your eyes tearing at the way he was massaging all your sweet spots. 

And sure enough - “O-oh my god-” you breathe, and shit, it was so hard to speak. Suguru’s cock too big, too depraved. Speeding up with every ram of his hips into a steady, mean pace. “Jus’ like that, fuck-”

“Mhm?”

You paw at his free hand settled by the side of your neck, trailing it down, down, down - rings and all - to the part of your stomach you could feel his thick tip hitting. A slight bulge, abusing your cervix over and over, “Here-”

“-s’where I belong.”

Your brows raise at his interjection, and you swipe away the long locks of hair partially covering Suguru’s face, legs tightening around his hips as you take a long, hard look. He repeats, “S’where I belong. Where ngh- you belong.”

Like some deep, dark part of him was trying to fuck out any and every doubt about this out of you - as if you’d have any - Suguru’s rolling his hips harder into yours. All the way until it almost hurt - until the sting of his twitching balls against your ass felt permanent, fingerpads pressing down so hard on your stomach. 

Lips searing against yours, punctuating each word with a jagged, rough thrust. “Because you sh-shouldn’t be ah- here. You shouldn’t be-” He drags you deeper onto his dick like some ragdoll, fingers frenzying on your clit. “-with me.”

Words slurring and as sloppy as his hips now. 

“Wh-why fuck- why wouldn’t I be?”

“Heh, you forgot?” Suguru spits out a chuckle, pushing you further and further up the mat with how bruising his hips were hitting yours. Alternating between marking your cervix - your g-spot - your gummy walls. “Forgot how I told ya to live a better life than this?” Everything and anything. Hips smacking so loud, echoing in symphony with those melancholy words he parted with so long ago. “How I told you to hngh- find a-another? Live a long life? To be happy?”

Now that Suguru was talking, it was like he couldn’t stop. Like a damn had been broken - both with his words and his movements. The curve of his dick drives you wild, veins molding your cunt into their shape. 

Gritting his teeth to hold back the way his drenched balls squeeze so painfully, biting down on your lower lip. “You’re s-supposed to kill me.” A drop of sweat splashing down on your cheek, “To kill me and maybe you’ll be hah- fuck mine in another universe. But not this one.” It’s like he’s out of control now, “Never this one. You can have anybody else.”

And suddenly you’re having a flashback to just a week prior, to an uncharacteristically solemn Satoru telling you words you should’ve been happy to hear. Quiet, and unassuming. Ones you knew that had you heard them before knowing Suguru, you’d have jumped into his arms - exactly how he hoped you would, the day of his departure. 

Chuckling at you being such a “crybaby” about him leaving. After all, this was just meant to be, right?

But no.

Instead, you’re here. Bunching Suguru’s beautiful, glossy hair curtaining the sides of your head, into a ponytail. Difficult - with how he was getting faster. Harder. Just ravaging your hole until you were gaping and breathless.

And yet, arms trembling and limp, you still manage to reveal the boy you fell in love with - the one you could never forget. From the flush on his pretty face, to the twisted, sad curve of his mouth. And the eyes that bore into yours like they were searching for the same thing. Smiling, for the first time since you entered this place, “How could I ever want anyone else, Sugu?”

The hand on your stomach is cupping your adorable face so softly - and it’s hard to believe those hands have killed. Betrayed.

Like they were capable of doing anything but as Suguru swipes the single tear glistening down your cheek, “Still a crybaby, huh, my love?”

And then you cum - and Suguru isn’t too far behind. 

It’s just a flash of hot white, tingles running down your spine - all the way to the thick, creamy base soon forming around his wildly twitching cock. 

And it’s so good. Too good that all you can do it scream out his name, letting him do anything - and you were glad all he did was fuck you so mercilessly through your high. So violent. Addictive. 

Vision blurry, mouth sagging open for Suguru to press intimate little kisses along the corners of your mouth. Whispering sweet praises as your cunt sucks him up so good. So sinfully milking him for everything he’s worth. 

Taking in rope after rope of thick cum that warms your gummy walls from the inside, overfilling just enough for it to dribble down into the mat below in an obscene little pool. Smearing down your thighs, his balls. Heavenly. 

His heaven.

And in the haze of it all, Suguru imagines that you’ll reach for your knife again, press it back against the curve of his exposed neck. He imagines you’ll laugh in his face, tell him what a great whim this was but you had to get back to your job, turning your back on him as he has done before. He imagines.

But what he gets is your strained, fucked-out little voice, “I missed you, my golden boy.”

A/N. Yes, That Line was inspired by HTTYD. If I had to be hurt, y’all do, too. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[halfgirl-halfdolll]

You always try so hard to hide when something's bothering you. You're so careful not to let your phone unlocked and out in the open, you try not to let your eyes unfocus as you think about whatever's bothering you; you work so hard to keep being productive despite your sorrows.

But they know you better than yourself, doll.

They see how your shoulders tense up whenever you leave Price's office and how you're always so wary of your surroundings, looking this and that way, waiting behind walls to avoid certain people. You can't hide your fears from them. Not from them. Not from the ones who were placed in this godforsaken world to protect you no matter what.

Figuring things out is easy. There's a reason they're a special task force. Swooping your phone from you is as easy as stealing candy from a little kid, and so is unlocking your phone (you need to be more careful about your passwords, love. Really? Your childhood's dog birthday? That's like basic information for them).

And when you come back to the room, flustered, fretting over your phone, it's there: on Price's desk, as if it was untouched. They hide the anger caused by their discoveries behind clenched jaws and hardened eyes and wait until you leave to begin discussing their plan of action (it's cute how you still look at each one of them to make sure they didn't see a thing).

Love, why didn't you tell them? Why did they have to search through your messages to find the reason behind your sadness? Don't you trust them? They're your guard dogs, doll, why don't you just order them to maul and gnaw and rip to shreds whenever you need?

It took them breaking into your phone to find out about the Sergeant who's been messaging you. They could read the suspicion behind your words as you accused him of pranking you after he asked you out.

Pranking you? Pranking?

They read the following messages, where he admitted to his lies – it was a bet, he said. Some friends had bet a good amount of money that he wouldn't be courageous enough to ask you out and then stand you up. He then had the gall to thank you for believing his words and going to the date. For dressing up "weirdly" and being delusional enough to think someone like him would be interested in you.

"just an advice: putting lipstick on a pig doesn't work lmao thanks for guaranteeing me the money tho" he had said.

Seeing red wasn't enough to describe how they felt.

Soap could barely stay still. He leaned his weight on one foot and then the other, itching to run as fast as he could until he found the bastards that dared to insult his bonnie. He needed to feel their bones giving out as he punched them into a bloody pulp. He needed to scream, to let you know that you were too good for all of those scumbags, that he and his mates were the only ones who could appreciate you, touch you with the reverence and devotion that you deserved.

Gaz felt like he failed you. The sourness of his anger mingled with the bitterness of his sorrow. He swore he could taste his emotions on his tongue. He always makes sure to tell how beautiful he thinks you are, how lovely your uniqueness is to him – his little porcelain doll he wished he could place on a shelf. To think some random man managed to hurt you and disrespect you under his watch... it was unbelievable. He would spend a lifetime spoiling you until you forgot about it. After he sunk his teeth into those men throats and ripped them apart, of course.

Ghost was the other side of Soap's coin. But while the Scotsman wanted to seek and destroy as quickly as they do in action, Ghost wanted cruelty. He wanted to take it slow, deliberate. One fingernail for every tear they made you shed. One bone snapped in half for every second you suffered due to their disrespect. If it depended on him, they would only live up until the clouds that covered your sun cleared up. There would be no surrendering, no mercy. You deserve thorough revenge, lovie. And only the muzzle that Price puts on his rabid snout can hold Ghost back.

Price wondered why you didn't tell them about this... incident. Why? Are you trying to defend those poor excuses for men despite how terribly they disrespected you? No, that can't be it. You're their angel, but he knows you aren't some punching bag. Are you afraid they'd agree with those bastards? At that, Price has to laugh. You're so smart, love, but so so blind. You still can't see how they could sell their soul to you, if you became a devil. You still can't see how they'd kneel down on nails and pray to you if you became a saint. After Price pulls a few strings and manages to get that scum dishonorably discharged, he and his muppets would have to work really hard on making sure you know you're the only thing that matters.

[tender-rosiey]

yoo rose I started following you a little while ago and I really liked you. I saw that your requests are open and I would like to ask for a scenario where Nanami arrives drunk and his wife takes care of him while he talks about how he loves her I liked all your stories with my businessman <3

unsteady love — nanami kento x f!reader

a/n: so glad that you do, love! <33 hope you like this one too 🫶🫶

kento stumbles slightly into your house, catching himself against the wall before you steady him, “kento… you’re drunk.”

he blinks down at you, the usually serious expression on his face replaced by something softer, more relaxed. there’s a faint flush coloring his cheeks, and he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle.

“I am not drunk,” he declares, his voice slurred just enough to betray him. “I’m... just—” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, searching for the right word. “...enlightened.”

you suppress a smile and guide him to the couch, sitting him down gently. “sure, ‘enlightened.’” you shake your head, amused. “stay put, I’ll get you some water.”

as you move to the kitchen, you hear him muttering to himself. “can’t believe I’m drunk,” he grumbles, almost like he’s scolding himself, “what kind of a husband does that?”

when you return, cup in hand, he’s sitting with his head leaned back against the couch, his eyes half-closed. but when you approach, he perks up immediately, watching you with a soft, slightly dazed look.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says. his voice is quieter, more sincere, and it catches you off guard for a second. nanami isn’t exactly shy about how he feels, but this is a side of him you don’t see often.

“drink,” you instruct, handing him the water to avoid the sudden rush of emotions his words bring. he takes the glass without complaint, but even as he drinks, his eyes never leave you.

after a few sips, he sets the glass down on the table and leans back again, sighing contentedly. “you take such good care of me,” he says softly, almost to himself, “I don’t deserve you.”

you chuckle at the sudden sentimental turn. “kento, you’re acting like I’ve just saved your life. you had a few drinks. you will be okay.”

he shakes his head, looking at you with those hazy, half-lidded eyes. “it is serious. you’re always here for me. always... my constant. my…” he trails off, struggling for the right words in his drunken haze, “you make everything better. I love you.”

his words are raw, unfiltered by the usual restraint he keeps on his emotions. there’s a vulnerability in the way he says it that makes your heart tighten.

“I love you too,” you reply, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

but before you can pull away, he grabs your wrist gently, pulling you closer. “no, you don’t get it.” he’s more insistent now, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that’s surprising given his state. “I really love you. I think about it all the time, all—the time.”

you laugh softly, though his words tug at something deep inside you. “you can tell me all about it when you’re sober.”

he doesn’t let go, though, his grip still gentle but firm. “I mean it. you make the worst days worth it. you... you’re everything.”

a soft laugh escapes you, touched by his sincerity but also aware of how much the alcohol is loosening his tongue. “I know, kento. you’ve told me before.”

nanami pouts—a rare expression that looks so out of place on his usually stoic face. “but I don’t say it enough. you deserve to hear it.”

he blinks sloppily as he stares at you before murmuring, "I need to marry you."

you let out a soft laugh and kiss his cheek, "we are married, you silly man."

in a once in a lifetime incident, your husband stares at you, eyes wide, face reddening by the second. he looks down at his feet for a few moments, then you see him hum, "that's nice."

his seriousness is almost comical given the state he’s in, and you can’t help but tease him a little. “y'know, you’re awfully chatty for someone who insisted they weren’t drunk.”

he lets out a sigh, leaning his head back again and releasing your wrist, “fine, fine. maybe I’m a little drunk. but it doesn’t change the fact that I—”

before he can finish, he shifts too quickly and almost topples off the couch. you rush to catch him, but you fall with him, and he blinks, disoriented, before breaking into a lopsided smile. “maybe a lot drunk.”

“yeah, maybe,” you say with a laugh, helping him sit back up. “come on, let’s get you to bed.”

as you help him to his feet, he leans heavily against you, his arm draped over your shoulder. you guide him down the hallway, his weight familiar but the situation still amusingly foreign.

normally, he’s the one doing the taking care of—you can’t help but relish this rare moment where the roles are reversed.

once you’ve managed to get him into bed, he pulls you down next to him, refusing to let go of your hand. his eyes, though heavy with sleep, remain fixed on you with that same soft, adoring look.

“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he mumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion and sincerity, “we have to go to malaysia together.”

“sure,” you smile, brushing your fingers through his hair as his eyes finally flutter shut. “goodnight, kento.”

just as you’re about to pull away, his hand tightens around yours once more, and he whispers, half-asleep, “I love you.”

his words are softer now, less dramatic than before but still brimming with emotion.

you watch him for a moment, his features relaxed in the dim light, and feel a warmth spread through your chest. this side of him—unguarded, affectionate, and a little silly—is one you cherish just as much as his usual seriousness.

as he drifts off, you press a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting his words linger in the air, “I love you too.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author

@libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee @lifeisadumpie @guacam011y @kurooandkenmasslut @callmemirro @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @dindjarins1ut @candy-s72

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize

check out my buy me a coffee!

[luveline]

𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

You begin to have intimate dreams about your roommate, Spencer. [9k]

c: pining roommates, dreams, tipsy non-confessions, spencer being a sweetheart. fem!reader. this fic was requested! 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.

i. a dreamt bruise 

“What are you doing?” 

Your chest lists slightly forward as a body warms your back. Arms wrap around you, solid but gentle, arms you’ve been held by a thousand times. 

You cover them with one of your own. “What does it look like I’m doing?” you feel yourself ask. 

The room is golden, gaussian, better now he’s behind you.

“I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.” His voice is soft in your ear. His hair presses to the side of your face as he hugs you —you’ve never felt love like this. It’s palpable. It’s in his hands. 

Nobody’s called you dove before, but he is, he has. It might feel strange if it weren’t for how softly he said it, affection in the very marrow of the word, warmth of it kissing your cheek as he holds you. He says ‘dove’, and it feels like he loves you. Feels like you’ve done something beautiful to earn it, but that’s the beauty of it: you didn’t do anything. 

The room turns narrow, sunlight on the dining room table of your apartment. A table usually crowded thickly with books, or your work. A space has been cleared away and filled with pieces of a jigsaw. 

“I thought you were going to do this with me,” you say, dragging a piece across the table with your fingertip. 

“Maybe later.” 

“You can’t stand there all night.” 

Are you sure? you think he says, but things are hazy, and he’s turning you toward him suddenly, you’re standing, the puzzle forgotten. “How’s your bruise?” 

“What?” you ask, almost sleeping as a big, kind hand drags up the front of your shirt, holding it to the underside of your breast. 

“Does it still hurt?” 

His thumb brushes over your contusion, skin on your side, your back. It’s tender. Any breath is lost, any sense of breathing at all. You’re not a girl so much as something being touched with care, warm joy and love and a contrasting ache wedged under your heart as he draws a circles into your skin. 

He hums sympathetically, the weight of him ebbing as he leans away, letting your shirt fall back into place. 

The dream stretches on for a lifetime, the two of you standing in your living room, dining table behind you, couch and TV opposite. Your life in one room, his life, his books, his furniture, but your home. You know it all well, just, in the light, you can’t see the stitching. 

He takes your face into his hand. Nobody’s ever touched you like, turned your face up like they were moving through honey, staring at you with eyes that shade of brown. Brown, brown… so big. So melting. 

Spencer holds your face gently. 

His nose touches yours. He tips his forehead into yours, his breath skimming lips he’d just warmed as he says, “Don’t worry, alright? You’ll be okay. Just take it easy,” he says, the last of his pleading lost to your mouth. 

You wake up with a caught breath. 

Your eyes are glued together, eyelashes threaded, gummy. You turn into the pillow beside you, slightly deflated and cold where you’d turned away in the night. 

The room is dark when you manage to pry your eyes open. You close them just as quickly, begging your body to sleep, to plunge back into the dream. Just five more minutes of golden colour, hugging your pillow, love in somebody’s hand, in Spencer’s hand… five more minutes…

Your eyes open again. 

Spencer’s hand on your cheek, guiding you carefully upwards for a kiss. 

You raise your hand, feeling along the swell of your bottom lip with your thumb and index finger. They tremble with the weakness of having just woken up. With having something torn away from you. 

What was that? you think, the hook of sleep lodged in your throat as you struggle to sit up. Your face tips forwards heavily, but your back doesn’t hurt like it tends to in the early mornings before work. There’s no ache there —your body slept well. You use your hands as anchors and drag yourself foot first from the bed. Your sheets fall to the floor with a quiet shush. 

It felt so real that for a moment you’re wondering where Spencer went. 

He was touching you, he was caressing your waist. You rush to the door of your room, every night left ajar, pushing it open and beelining for the bathroom. You flick on the light and stop in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, wondering if you’re foolish enough to do this, before peeling your shirt from your stomach to analyse your bruise. 

It’s not there. 

You turn and contort yourself to catch the light. Maybe it was further back? But no… there’s no bruise, nothing for Spencer to check. Your torso is a stretch of unharmed skin to run your hand down without pain. 

Your head whirs. 

From somewhere in the apartment, Spencer puts down a mug. You flush with heat at the realisation that he’s home, and panic flares when his footsteps move in your direction. Your bedrooms are on opposite sides of the apartment, and there are two bathrooms —the bath and toilet near your room, and the en-suite to his room— meaning Spencer’s coming to see you specifically. 

“Hey, Y/N?” he says. 

It’s been a few days since he was home, and you aren’t just roommates, Spencer’s your friend. He sounds happy that you’re awake, pausing at your bedroom door. 

“I’m in the bathroom!” you say, your dry throat turning your voice to fractures. 

“I just wanted you to know I’m home. Are you working?” 

“It’s Saturday.”

He laughs. “Oh. I know, I forgot. Well, can I make you breakfast? I was gonna have oats and sliced bananas and stuff.” 

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I’ll be right there.” 

“Sorry,” he says, like he’s just remembered where you are. “This is harassment. I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

You wash your face and brush your teeth. You head back into your room to change from your pyjamas into loungewear that’s just as soft. The flavour of your dream follows you around, you’d like to call it sweetness, saccharinity, but it doesn’t fit the bill. The feeling you’d woken with wasn’t a sugar high but contentedness, like a warm evening meal. You’d felt utterly sated, your arms reaching out for a body that wasn’t there. 

A heaviness takes your heart. Suffocating longing, you carry it to the kitchen with you to find Spencer’s already made you a cup of your tea. He’s warming oatmeal on the stove, blueberries and bananas on the countertop. You sit at the island. You should hug him. If you hadn’t dreamt of his hands on your waist what felt like mere moments ago, you would’ve. 

“Did you go shopping?” 

“I did, I went to Leaven last night. You were already sleeping at ten.” He peeks at you from over his shoulder. “Long day yesterday?” 

“I get too tired by Friday,” you say, averting your gaze to stare down into your mug, steam twirling up to kiss your chin. 

“No, I get it. Me too. Are you feeling any better today?” 

You were sick when he left. “I’m fine.” 

“Okay, good. I’m gonna put the blueberries in with the oatmeal, is that okay?” 

“Sure.” 

“Okay.” Spencer’s gaze lingers on you. He turns back to the counter. 

He cuts two bananas. You realise he has strawberries, too, watching as he cuts them, wetness leaking from their punnets where he must’ve rinsed them in the sink. He slices out the stems and cuts the strawberries in clean halves like hearts. 

“I missed you,” he says. 

You can’t read his tone, but you aren’t cruel, even feeling shy as you are. “I missed you too. How was the case? Everyone made it home in one piece, right?” 

“Everyone’s fine. Emily got into a car accident and it was pretty bad, but she’s okay now. Recovering from her concussion at home with Sergei.” 

That’s good. You’ve met Spencer’s boss, Agent Hotchner (very scary), and Emily, JJ, and Penelope (who aren’t scary at all). You’re glad to hear they’re all okay, because they’re good people, and they risk a lot to keep others safe. You forget sometimes how much Spencer puts on the line whenever he leaves. 

You poke at him for details of the case, though legally there are things he has to keep from you, and you don’t mind either way. Nothing personal can crop up while talking of murder, and for now you’d like the conversation to stay far away from you and your bed and your sudden dream. 

You assume you’re safe, but then Spencer mentions the bruise one of the sergeants got from their weapon’s kickback and you’re flushing nervously all over again. 

Spencer grabs two bowls from the cabinet, dark brown ceramics he got from Koreatown, the perfect size for each helping of oatmeal. The purple from the insides of the blueberries bleed into the oats as he pours.

He lays each bowl with a curve of banana slices, strawberries, and covers half with a drizzle of dark fudge sauce. “Salt?” he asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

Spencer grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer. He grins when he finally turns, bowls held aloft, making his way to the stool beside you. He puts his own down first, then the cutlery, standing ever so slightly behind you as he lays your breakfast down in front of you. “What have you been doing while I was away?” he asks softly. 

You can’t look at him. Can’t think. 

What are you doing? 

What does it look like I’m doing? 

I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked. 

You lean away from his presence, desperate to have him follow, and ashamed. Spencer’s a friend, a good one, he’s kind and loving and handsome beyond description, but you’ve never thought of him like that. Each time your mind slips wondering what he might be like in love, you’ve let the thought go. But now... 

You shrug, grabbing your spoon. “Not much, Spencer. This looks amazing, it’s really pretty. Thank you for cooking.” 

“No problem. Are you sure you’re feeling better? You don’t look so good.” 

You take a quick bite of oatmeal, the spoon scalding your tongue, “Ah,” you say, breathing harshly around it, “I’m fine. Woke up a little wrong, that’s all.” 

Spencer sits in the seat next to you with a soft smile. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” 

Oh, no, you think, reading way too much into how he says it. No, no, no.

—

ii facts 

We should explore the city, Spencer declares after breakfast, before we forget what it’s like to be outside!

You were outside yesterday before you got home, and everything sucked as much as it usually did —it’s the weekend, and the point of it is to stay home resting and or lazing, but you wouldn’t usually say no to Spencer so you can’t now. He can’t ever know about your dream, so he can’t know how you’re feeling, so you have to be the friends you’ve always been. 

Spencer analyses people for a reason, but you have practice. You’ve successfully hidden what it was that morning that made you feel cagey and tender. He knows something is wrong regardless. He attempts to fix it the best way he knows how: Spencer talks. 

“Cheese production globally outshadows coffee, tea, tobacco, and chocolate, over twenty two million metric tons of it every year, with almost half of that made in Europe alone, which is only a half million metric ton more than what’s being eaten. The average American eats forty two pounds of cheese a year, but I don’t really like cheese that much? So I’m bringing the average down. Besides, every time I eat cheese I get strange dreams.  There’s actually a chemical in cheese called tyramine which is linked to nightmares. Hey, you okay?” 

“Cheese gives you weird dreams?” 

“Why, have you been eating a lot of it lately?” 

“No,” you say resolutely. “I hate cheese. I’ve never eaten cheese before.” 

“That’s a lie.” 

“Let’s get donuts.”

Spencer is easily swayed. You glance around the square for the McDonald’s and follow that to the street with the bakery, landmark to landmark, until the smell of sugar and oil is strong enough to follow. “Do you wanna know something about donuts?” he asks, crushing in behind you as you pass through the heavy wooden door of the bakery and join the line. 

“Sure.” 

“They were first called oily cakes.” 

“I knew that,” you say, “you’ve told me that, Spencer. That’s the first fact anybody thinks of.” 

“Okay, don’t be rude,” he says, giving you a playful poke in the ribs, right into the bruise that isn’t a bruise. 

You look over your shoulder at him, catching his eye. You share a long look that’s daunted on your part and confused on his, brown eyelashes tangling in the corners the longer he looks at you. “What?” he asks, squinting. 

”Nothing.” 

“Okay,” he says, his voice lowering, quiet to match the hush of the bakery and its humming fridges, “don’t tell me. I’ll work it out eventually.” 

“Dude!” 

“What?” he asks with a laugh. 

“Boundaries!” you laugh back. “Stop trying to figure me out.” 

“But there’s something to figure out?” 

He’s evil when he smiles like that. His pride is adorable, giving his sweet face an even fresher look. You’d pinch his cheeks if they weren’t already pinking in the October cold. His scarf hasn’t saved him, his coat buttoned tightly no match for the winds. Not to say it’s a bad day. The weather is fine if you keep your fingers in your pockets and your nose in the depths of your coat. 

“What do we want?” you ask rather than answer. 

They have white icing, chocolate with sprinkles, jelly middles, smiley faces. They have donut holes by the bag. “Hazelnut spread,” you say, pointing at the side of the case. “That looks good.” 

He enters in conspiratorial whispers with you. “Apple cider doughnuts with cinnamon sugar,” he says, pointing at the row below. “What about a double chocolate chunk cookie? They look good. Hey, there’s cake in the fridge.” 

You let him lean into your side. His hair kisses your cheek.  

“Pick whatever you want, okay?” he asks, offering a smaller smile than before. “I’m buying.”

“You can’t, Spencer Reid, I want so many things.” 

“It’s fine, I missed you, I dragged you out when you wanted to stay in bed.” He stares at you. “Let me,” he mouths. 

You ignore the hot twist of your stomach and nod. Okay. 

Spencer buys the baked goods you’d admitted to wanting and the three others you’d eyed, as well as a cookie and two fat slices of red velvet cake. He asks you to carry the box while he pays. The woman behind the counter gives you a knowing look and a flick of her head, as if to say, Lucky you. You can’t quite smile back, distracted by the insinuation. You haven’t thought of it before, but you and Spencer, naturally, look like a couple. You could easily be one. And the idea that she thinks so fills you with a shocking amount of smugness. 

You and Spencer head home before dinner. On the walk back, he pulls the cookie apart and offers you half. 

—

What if, when you fall asleep tonight, you dream of Spencer again? 

You lay on your back with your hand on your chest, drawing circles. The cold of the evening is explained by the rain lashing your window, distant winds coming forceful now. A thunderstorm. You tap the middle of your chest in an attempt to be idle, rather than restless. 

It isn’t a dream you’d like to have again, you decide. Spencer had been soft. You’d been familiar with each other. 

What would it really feel like to have him touch you like that? Is Spencer confident, when he’s comfortable? Is he imposing? 

My stomach, you think slowly, is never going to stop spinning. 

“Y/N?” Spencer asks. 

You can hear him all the way from the kitchen. 

“Yeah?” you ask, raising your voice so it carries. 

“Can I come and sit with you?”

It’s an odd request. You know Spencer’s like you, no social butterfly, quiet and content to spend time by oneself because being with others hasn’t always been an option. He isn’t timid, however, and his asking shouldn’t shock you, but it does. “Sure,” you say, shifting onto one side of the bed. 

Spencer arrives at the ajar door and lets himself in. He carries two bottles of water and a heat pack, which he likes to use when the weather allows it. A creature comfort, you assume. Something soothing and constant, like the sound of a fan at night, or rain on a window. 

“I can’t sleep,” he says, “which doesn’t make much sense.” Spencer sits on the empty side of the bed, his lips pulled into a grimace. “I like the rain.” 

He’s more handsome when he’s smiling, but there’s a charm to him as he passes you a bottle of water and crosses his legs. The plaid slacks he’s wearing are rough with age, dark blues that seem black in the low lighting. 

“Maybe it’s because of work,” you say. 

“Maybe, but I’m pretty used to getting woken up.” 

“Right. It’s not easy, though, the stuff you do. It would keep me up at night if I did your job.” 

“I think sometimes doing my job is the only reason I can sleep.” 

“It's hard. Sounds hard, Spence.” You relax into your pillow, turning to see him. Spencer’s eyes run along your hip for a millisecond, just long enough to remind you that he’s a boy, that he could see you in a different light. 

“It’s okay,” he says. 

“Was it hard, this time?” you ask. 

“No,” he whispers. “I don’t know, it was bad when Emily got hurt, but she’s so stubborn. If Morgan didn’t strap her down she would’ve kept going like nothing happened.” 

You and Spencer have lived together for so long that you remember a time before he even knew Emily. You answered his ad in the paper —you hadn’t realised people still put ads in the paper— looking for a roommate. His apartment was already furnished and he didn’t want to change much, but the second bedroom was spacious and the bathroom could be monopolised. As a girl, you’d been a little dubious reading about a single male looking for any gender, but his self-description was inviting. Twenty-two, just finished a doctorate, working for the FBI and expected to be away from the state at least once a month. 

You’d met Spencer and felt even less intimidated. He was awkward and dorky but friendly, too, with his glasses he apparently didn’t want to wear, but would eventually give in (before choosing contacts), and his big red sweater fit for a grandpa. “I can make more room for you but I can’t get rid of the books,” he said, “so I don’t expect you to pay a neat half.” 

How could you pass it up? 

“I can’t believe I’ve never met them,” you say. 

“Do you want to?” 

He sounds so surprised. “They’re your friends. I’m your… friend.” 

“You’re my best friend. I’ll arrange something, or try to. It’s hard to get us all in one room when that room isn’t the conference room,” he says. 

“You look nice in a t-shirt,” you say, not thinking as the words come out. 

Spencer leans in to whisper, “Thanks. You like this one?” 

His t-shirt says, I may be NErDy, but only periodically. The NErDy is made up of elements from the periodic table. It’s a bad pun. 

“I love it.” 

He reaches for you. Tentative, he squeezes your elbow. “Is there something wrong? All day it’s like… I don’t know, did something happen when I was gone?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“But…” 

“Please,” you say, as he catches the last bit of light from the hallway, every eyelash illuminated for the counting. “I don’t wanna talk about it, Spencer. But thank you.” 

He, in a move that’s almost uncharacteristic, pushes your arm into the mattress and leans over you. “I wanna be the first one to know when you do wanna talk,” he says firmly, holding your gaze. 

How’s your bruise? 

You nod mechanically. Spencer recedes. “Okay, good,” he says, grinning. 

“Good,” you echo, thinking of Spencer in the dream, his hand on your hip and climbing up your sore ribs. “Let’s watch TV.” 

—

iii. scared of snow 

“You’re being weird.” 

“I’m not,” you refute. 

“You are.” 

Spencer frowns at you, a show full downturn of the lips. A dusting of snow lands in his hair and you both look up to catch it, a drift of it from the marquee as you pass. You don’t remember when it started snowing, but it feels like it’s been coming down for days. It’s in his eyelashes. Your sleeves are wet with it. 

“The snow’s making you strange.”

You hold out your hand with fingers parted, feeling his laugh travelling down his arm and into yours as he takes it, intertwining your fingers tightly. He doesn’t feel cold. 

“It’s making you strange,” you mumble. 

You and Spencer walk down a cobbled road. Snow crunches under your shoes, turned to slush in the high traffic spots by vendors booths left curiously empty of shopkeepers, though their festive wares still line the insides, carved cuckoo birds and metal ornaments, glass balls made to be personalised for mantles. You can smell orange oil and chocolate fudge, crepe carts and churros and cinnamon, and then suddenly any hint of your olfactory sense is gone. 

“It’s so quiet.” 

“It’s the snow,” he says, pulling your arm against his chest as you walk and walk, your footsteps the only sound. “It acts as a sound absorber when it’s fluffy like this. The sound waves get caught.” 

Caught. You think, or say, not sure if it makes it out of your mouth. 

“Like you,” he says, stopping in the middle of the road. 

“What?” you ask. 

Snow lands in his eyelashes. “You’re caught,” he says. 

You wake up thinking his hand is on your cheek. Like a nightmare, you start, still picturing his lips moving around the words. Caught, you think again, heart a hummingbird in your chest. Your mouth is dry. The heat is up —Spencer must be home again. 

You suck in a deep breath and sit up, curling over yourself protectively. 

You dream about Spencer more often than ever, and half the time they’re normal dreams, which is to say, they follow no rhyme or reason, with no discernible plot. Spencer loses all his teeth, or he takes you to the movies to see one of his long Swedish films, or he’s an afterthought, a bystander. The main plot of your dream doesn’t involve him at all. 

But the other half of the time is ruining your life. You dream of Spencer holding your hand like you had been, or touching your shoulder. Never again do you dream of that tender bruise, but Spencer lifts your shirt in other scenarios. He pulls your pyjamas off, his hand inching between your legs but never touching, or he helps you out of your bra. And every time you think, why is this happening to me? Perhaps a sex dream could be explained away by want and Spencer’s proximity, but all these constant intimacies weigh heavy in your head. 

You head to the shower and picture Spencer helping you out of your bra, and all of you goes hot, so you turn the water to lukewarm and stand until you’re cold to the point of misery. You clamber out and shiver into a towel, then your robe. 

Spencer’s humming in the kitchen. 

You honestly wish that the dreams made you like him less, that the sound of him might send you running back into your room, but you poke your head out of the bathroom and wait until he enters the living room. He sees you waiting, his face splitting into a smile. “Hey, good morning, did you sleep better?” 

You can’t explain the discombobulation of your dreams. Spencer had become convinced you have insomnia. You may have let him assume. 

“Slept fine,” you croak. 

“Okay, well get dressed and I’ll make you some coffee.” 

“‘Kay.” Your stomach pangs with nerves seeing him, reminded of tonight’s big event. “Are we still, uh, on, for tonight?” 

“Nervous?” he asks. 

You feel like you're about to be a fish in a pool of sharks. “Of course not.” 

 “Yeah, still on, even JJ.” 

Awesome. Spencer turns around to make you your cup of coffee and you go to your room, dressing quickly, two pairs of socks. You tone your face and moisturise, fanning yourself slowly. You don’t hurry to the living room, but you aren’t slow, and it’s not Spencer, you tell yourself. Not Spencer. You’re just craving the warmth of a cup of coffee. 

You spend the morning together on the couch. Spencer reads and occasionally chats to you about whatever tome it is that specific half an hour. You make sandwiches at lunch time, he showers in the early evening. You get dressed and primped while he’s gone, and at 6PM, Spencer knocks your bedroom door to ask if you’re ready to go. 

“Could I fake an illness?” you joke nervously. 

Spencer’s hand falls on your handle. The door is ajar as usual, but he doesn’t tread any further inside. 

“Come in,” you say. 

Spencer takes a single step inside before stopping. He looks you up and down without the hunger you crave from him, a more clement, familiar appreciation to him as he says, “You look pretty.” He traces your arm, leaving the skin tingly in his wake. “Really pretty.” 

“Thank you. I didn’t want to overdress.” 

“It’s perfect, don’t worry. And no, you couldn’t fake an illness. They all know when I’m lying, especially Hotch. And Emily, actually.” 

You squeeze your hands together tightly at your stomach. “I don’t know why I’m sooo nervous.” You lick your lips. “I feel like I can’t stop fidgeting.” 

“They’re used to it, I promise. They know that they’re gonna make you nervous, but they’ve sworn to be on their best behaviour, and besides, you’re not the only plus one. JJ’s bringing Will, and Morgan’s bringing his sister, I’ve only met her once. The focus won’t be all on you.” He lowers his voice. “After two drinks they forget they’re supposed to be scary.” 

“What if I say something extremely stupid to your boss and get you in trouble?” 

“What are you going to get me in trouble for?” 

“I don’t know. What if I accidentally tell him that that sick day you took a few weeks ago was to help me make brownies?”

“Everyone lies about sick days.” He deliberates. “Maybe not Hotch. But I’m pretty sure he knew I was lying, and it’s explainable. I felt… irate.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “What?” 

“Staying home with you made me feel better. Which made me a better worker the next day, it’s fine.” His phone rings from somewhere in the apartment. “That’ll be JJ. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay. You’re wearing a coat, right? It’s cold. The forecast says snow. It’s thirty degrees out.” 

You layer a coat onto your jacket and a scarf to make him happy. You and Spencer get a taxi, black leather gritless under your hands, though you squeeze the seat like it’s gonna stop the car the whole time. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he looks at you unapologetically, and he smiles, and the quiet is as severe as it was in your dream that morning. If this were a dream he’d be leaning over to cradle your ear. He’d ask in whispers if you were alright, and he’d let his hand rest kindly on your knee. 

“What?” you whisper. 

His lips part like he might answer. The car comes to a crunching stop outside the bar, and whatever it was he was going to say is kept for later. “I’ll tell you after,” he says. 

He pays for the taxi before you can work it out and you say thank you to the driver. The sidewalk is clean, broad, and glowing with the last bit of light. The sun sets behind you. The bar beckons in front. 

Your fear is daunting. 

You have years of practice fooling Spencer. You know that he knows your tells, so you’ve changed them, and Spencer cares about you enough to ignore obvious truths if he thinks you might not want to share. His colleagues, FBI agents trained to detect deception, are going to take one good look at you and know you’re lying about… this. 

You’re plagued by dreams of Spencer, but nothing can touch the real thing. 

You feel the space between you like it’s aflame. Spencer checks you’re with him and opens the door. 

The bar is busy even for a Saturday. You aren’t expecting the volume, the boisterousness of the patrons already slumped together over tables and waiting at the bar to get their drinks. It’s smaller than you’d pictured too, but its size is made up for with a patio at the back, smokers haunting the door, wary of the cold.��

You know what his friends look like already, yet seeing them in person is odd. Hotch is taller than you’d thought, Emily more startlingly pretty. JJ’s frowning, and her partner Will looks like he’s about to fall asleep despite a lazy grin. 

Hotch notices you first. He taps Emily on the elbow, who pauses in a thought to follow his gaze. Her face breaks into a smile, and if you weren’t in love with Spencer Reid, you might take a tumble for his pale coworker. 

“Hello,” Spencer says, ushering you to the table with an arm behind your back. 

“Hi,” you say. 

“He-llo,” Emily says, leaning into the table, a strand of her hair dangerously close to a short glass of juice. “I can’t believe we’re finally seeing you in person. I’m Emily.” 

“Y/N,” you say. 

“Aaron,” Hotch adds. (Aaron! He’s far more intimidating casually than as a boss, it seems.)

“Derek was just here,” JJ says in way of greeting, while Will drawls from over her shoulder, “I’m Will, it’s nice to meet you.” 

Spencer pulls out a chair for you and promptly sits in the one beside Emily. “Sorry we’re late. I forgot my wallet and we had to go back up to the apartment and the cab I called got so angry about it that he left.” 

You slide between the table and your chair, looking to Spencer for guidance, but he’s distracted taking his coat off and you have to look at Aaron instead. 

His smile is immediately knowing. Read for filth in seconds. “We don't bite.”

“Not so early in the evening,” Emily says. 

You take a shuddering breath, thankful they can’t hear it over the sounds of the bar. 

—

“I’m caught!” you exclaim. 

Spencer hugs you under the arms. “I know,” he says gently. 

“Caught!” 

He holds back a laugh as your arms react, practically flung behind his head in a hug that threatens to cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. “I think you’ve caught me, instead,” he says. 

You laugh in his ear. There’s gin on your breath and the sweeter smell of orange juice. It’s not bad, but weird to know it’s from your mouth. Or not weird. It gives Spencer a feeling like seeing the soft curve of your hip when you’re lying on your side. Like watching you bite your bottom lip when you’re distracted by the TV and worrying to yourself, which you do more often than not lately. They’re private things that Spencer shouldn’t know about. 

“I’m not trying to,” you say, and Spencer can smell the shot of vodka you did too, which is less pleasant. “Not trying to catch you. Not… I’m sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“It’s hard to explain.” 

Over your shoulder, Spencer spots Hotch’s entertained gaze. All the team has done since you sat down together was pick on Spencer and his obviousness. Boyfriend? they’d asked you. Looking? Sights set on someone? All while JJ nudged him under the table. 

Things are falling apart now. JJ’d departed to hold Emily’s hair back, and Will with her. Hotch caught the eye of a woman across the way, and they sit chatting amicably at the bar with more peanuts than drinks. Derek, when he did appear, stayed for an hour with Desiree, recounting to you his most embarrassing stories of which Spencer had taken care to shield you from, and laughed at his subsequent blush. 

He never wanted you to know about his run in with anthrax, and he especially didn’t want you to know he’d been stripped nude afterwards and hosed off like a muddy dog. 

You’d turned to him with wide, worried eyes. “You were poisoned?” you’d asked. 

It’s stuff like that that makes this difficult. 

“I don’t know if you know this,” he says now, rubbing your back, “but I’m good with difficult concepts.”

“I did not mean to be like this.” 

“You didn’t eat much.” Spencer helps you stand on your own two feet. “They kitchen’s still open. I can get you food, how about a burger? Or we can go find you something.“

“What kind of burger?” you ask, poorly concealing your excitement. 

Spencer gets you back to the table. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Wait, don’t go.” 

“I’m gonna get food. Do you want fries?” 

“Spencer, what if I throw up?” 

Spencer shrugs. “I can rub your back?” 

“I don’t want to throw up.” 

“Then drink that,” he says, sliding his glass of coke toward you. “Alcohol irritates the lining of your stomach and increases the production of stomach acid. If you drink,” —he flinches as you knock the cup back— “slowly you can dilute your stomach contents without upsetting it. Slowly,” he says, squeezing your hand, “I’ll order food.”

“No, wait.” You drop the glass and grab him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to throw up by myself.” 

“You won’t throw up.”

“Please,” you say, holding his wrist in both hands, your eyes shiny. “Spencer, don’t go.” 

“I won’t.” He doesn’t know how true it is and then suddenly he’s sat down. He won’t go. He wouldn’t leave your side ever again if that’s what you asked of him. 

He puts your chairs together, entertaining your tipsy thoughts with light conversation and the occasional slight of hand. You have an aura about you, like Spencer’s doing more than close-up magic, hanging on his every word. Your nervousness had you gasping like a fish, not so subtly downing one drink, then another, but now that you’re feeling the effects of them (and a few extras), the tightness you’d held in your fingers is gone. You’re leaning against the back of the chair with all the ease of you on the couch at home, but the easy fondness you’d usually wear while he speaks is replaced by a bright and shining awe. A sweetness like he’s remarkable. The soft line of your lips and your widened eyes. 

You’re not the sort of drunk that leaves you listless and ready for bed. This is giggly and fun, and so long as you don’t push it you’ll be alright. It wasn’t enough alcohol to leave you inebriated all night, anyhow. In a few hours the giddiness will wear away, leaving you with a headache and a deep longing for your missed dinner. 

“I’m glad you didn’t let me fake food poisoning,” you say. 

“Is that what you were thinking? That’s a terrible excuse. You need something with sudden onset symptoms, like an asthma attack, or pneumonia. An acute illness.” 

You take his hand. “I love that you know that stuff.”

Feeling as in love with you as ever, and sorry for you drunken state —he could’ve stopped you, he just didn’t think— he folds your hands together, both of his, rubbing the hills of your knuckles with his thumb. Your hands look right together. 

That’s what Spencer likes to think, anyway. 

You slow like you’re tired, hand lax in his grips. Your mouth opens but nothing follows, no sigh or gripe or conversation. 

“You okay?” he asks softly. 

“I think I’m having one of those dreams again.” 

“You’re awake,” he says. 

“I don’t know about that. They’re all like this.” 

He hums, smoothing his thumb down the back of your hand. “If this were a dream, you wouldn't have control over what you’re doing. Why don’t you do something you wouldn’t do in a dream?” 

“Like what?” you ask. 

“There’s a ton of stuff you can’t do in dreams. People find they have a poor memory, but I can’t ask you to recall anything. You might not remember regardless. How about temperature?” he suggests. “Most people can’t feel warm or cold in their dreams. Do you want to feel something cold?”

You watch him for a few seconds, your eyebrows pulled together unhappily. “Your hands are warm,” you say. 

“Right.” He suspects they’ll feel warmer in just a few seconds when the hot flush in his face manages to work its way down. “I’m warm. So are you.” 

“Sometimes I feel like you’re warm in the dream, though. You make me feel warm.” 

“It’s remembered, maybe.” 

You don’t look any happier. “Sometimes I wish I could stop having them, but…” You duck your head. “Sorry, Spencer.” 

“What are you sorry for?” 

Your head ducks lower. With a start to his chest, your shoulders shake, like you're inhaling the first half of a sob. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching for your cheek, ducking his own head to see you, “what’s wrong? It’s okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry for!” he whispers emphatically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, why would you think that?” 

“I keep having these dreams, all the time, and– and I– I’ll mess everything up. Everything we have, I’m going to–” You hiccup, eyes turned glassy, imploring him to forgive you for something you haven’t done. “I don’t feel good.” 

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says, his hand sliding back to your ear, down to your neck, “you’re just drunk. You’re confused.” 

“But the dreams–”

“What dreams?” he asks gently. 

You blow out a daunted breath. “Where you love me.” 

“I do love you.” 

“But more than this. You love me more than this,” you say, shaking your head. “I really don’t feel okay… Do you think we could go home?” 

You’re so sorry and frowny that Spencer would attempt, in all his unfitness, to climb Mount Everest for you should you ask. “Yeah, we can go home,” he says, rubbing your arm up and down and up again, a line of affection from shoulder to wrist. “I’ll take you home. It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to be upset, I shouldn’t have asked.” 

He’s not sure what he asked, really, but the answer upset you. His heart’s racing like he just sprinted the length of the bar and you’re close to tears, this strange weepy sullenness about you as you say, “It’s okay. Let’s just go.” 

—

It’s cold to be sitting out by yourself, though the snow stayed its hand another night while the temperature fell again. Your coat poses a weak defence against the chill, nipping at your nose, burning the insides of every breath, and your feet are stiff like ice in your shoes. Yet, the idea of returning to the apartment is a leaden stone in your stomach. 

Spencer could barely look at you that morning. You hadn’t given him much of a chance, slipping out of the apartment with little more than a call to say you’d be back later. Your groceries freeze in a paper bag by your feet. 

You’re not too embarrassed about getting tipsy. It was drinks with Spencer and his friends, not dinner. Emily had been twice as drunk, and Derek had encouraged you to drink with a round on him. You’re mortified, however, by what you’d said. Your memory is clear enough to know you’d told Spencer about your dreams. 

He’d been confused at the time, but he’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out. 

“This headache,” you mumble, tipping your head into your hand morosely. You rub your brow, fingers against the ache, the cold getting worse. 

Why did it take a dream for you to realise you had feelings for Spencer? And why did you have to realise at all? If you’d never had that dream, never had that phantom bruise, his hands careful and caring and touching up to the band of your bra, you wouldn’t know now what it is to want him. The dream gave you a bruise, and Spencer presses against it real or otherwise every time he looks at you. You were wrong thinking that it never happened; it’s still there, a purple lash against your ribs. 

Every time he makes you breakfast, or he texts you from a different state, or he sits down on the couch just to talk to you. Every time he says something smart, or he tilts his head back as he laughs, or he draws a smiley face on the mirror by the door–

“About those dreams?” 

You rub your eyes hard. Of course he’d come to find you. “Please don’t.” 

“Please,” he says. You see him through your fingers. His thick scarf is unravelled at his neck, his hair ragged around his face like he’s been raking it repeatedly behind his ears. 

You straighten. 

“I don’t get it,” he says, “you’ve been dreaming about me? Why is that such a big deal?” 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

“I dream about you all the time,” he says. “We’re in each other's lives, we live together, it makes sense that your hippocampus would use me. You have a lot of memories with me.” Spencer crosses his arms in front of you. “It’s freezing.” 

“I’ll be home in a bit.”

“I’m not gonna go back without you,” he says, like that’s a given. 

You move across the bench to make room for him. Spencer sits. 

You settle. The occasional bus trundles past, a limited rota for an early Sunday morning. Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. His lips are already turning blue. 

“I know you know what I mean,” you say. 

Spencer presses his knees together. “Even romantic dreams where I’m… where we’re together, it’s all easily explained away by brain science. You can’t control what you dream, and I’m not going to hold you to it.” 

Silence, silence. You tip your head back to see a horrible grey cloud closing in on you both, the sun a white and gauzy memory behind it. Spencer’s right about control, but he doesn’t get that you like them. It’s not fair to him that you’ve somehow rallied a second life when you’re sleeping, where he’s your mind’s puppet, hugging and holding you, pressing his cheek to the side of your face. Saying things you wish he’d tell you now. 

“Well, I like you.” 

“What?” you ask, coughing. 

“Not to make things awkward or anything, but I like you. Romantically.” Spencer’s voice takes a sharp veer into high-pitched freneticism. “Does that help at all?” 

“What?” 

“It’s far more embarrassing that I like you on purpose than your accidental dreams, right?” He thumbs at the inside of his wrist. “You don’t have to say anything, or think anything, and I’m not going to change, but I have feelings for you.”  

You feel like you’re standing at the top of a very tall building. “Oh?” 

“I kind of thought you knew.” 

“How could I know that?” you ask, cringing as a cold gust of air bites at your face. 

Spencer takes his scarf off and pushes it into your hands. “I don’t know. I guess we know less about each other than we thought.”

The way he says it. 

Spencer wraps his scarf around you when it’s clear you aren’t going to do it yourself, and he touches your cheek briefly, a brush of his fingers like he thinks he’s doing something he shouldn’t be allowed to. 

“I dream about you all the time,” he says quietly. 

A bus passes by and shines headlights at your feet. The wind blows, your ears roar, and just above you, in a cold front to mark the season, snow begins to fall. 

You look up simultaneously. A snowflake gets caught in Spencer’s eyelashes. 

Just one. 

“This is so weird,” you mumble. 

Spencer wipes at his eye. “Could you tell me why?” 

“I had a dream just like this.” 

He laughs warmly. “Of course you did. Forget all reason, then. You’re prophetic.” 

“I don’t think I could’ve predicted this.” 

“Why? It’s only snow. Virginia gets an inch of snow most Decembers.” 

You laugh. In a dream, this is where you and Spencer would kiss or hold hands, or rest your cheek on the other’s shoulder, but neither of you are brave enough. And, as the snow turns to a sleet below freezing, you can’t ignore the cold. 

—

iv. the end 

The longest anyone has ever slept in recorded human history is eleven days. Two hundred and sixty four hours, or nearly sixteen thousand minutes, just shy of one million seconds of sleep. 

The first pillow was invented in Mesopotamia more than nine thousand years ago, in a time where the amount of pillows a person had directly correlated their personal riches. The history of pillows is tumultuous and eclectic. Headrests made of wood, stone, or jade. Curved neck holders worn soft with use. 

And, of all Spencer’s gifted facts, you find yourself circling back to the same one as you wait for him to wake: most dreams are no longer than twenty minutes. However, it’s important to note that the longest dream ever officially observed was in 1994, when a man managed to be in REM for just over three hours. You’ve had dreams that felt like they lasted for hours, but likely took place for just twenty minutes. If you could dream for three hours a night, you could live an entire life of longing in a pocket of time. 

Thankfully, you have no need to hide from reality anymore. Spencer sleeps beside you and you don’t want to sleep, you just want him to wake up. 

“Good morning,” you whisper, drawing your fingertip across his cheek to encourage the hair that’s fallen there back in line. 

He doesn’t stir. It’s alright, you hadn’t meant to wake him. 

“I love you,” you whisper, shuffling across the sheets to feel the heat and weight of his body against your own. He doesn’t move for a while, snoring gently, his breath kissing the top of your head as you burrow into the slip of space under his chin. Then, as if he were awake, he wraps his arm around you and drags you in further. His face angles down and his nose finds your forehead, and a hum of what you’d personally say is content kisses your brow. 

You tuck your hand behind his back and rub a circle. 

Spencer didn’t last long after the initial realisation of requited feelings. In a day he’d asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend (vaguely apologetic, still worried about scaring you, though you’d already come clean about wanting him as you’d warmed your cold hands by the stove). A week later he kissed you on a date outside of the cosiest Indian restaurant in Washington, D.C, and things have been nothing but smooth sailing from there. 

Now, when he’s feeling romantic, he brings home butter chicken and turns your face up for kissing, fork in hand. Every night before bed, he tells you to have good dreams, a self-satisfaction in his eyes that you dearly love. 

You knew he was a dork and you liked him because of it, but the sheer increase in him is amazing. Yesterday he sent you Close to You by Carpenters over text claiming they wrote it about you. When he got home, he tried to make you dance with him in the living room. After two or three kisses, you’d let him pull you to your feet. 

Spencer has turned loving one another into an everyday spectacularity, and not some mystical dream you ached for. 

He squeezes the skin of your shoulder as he wakes. Heavy in the hands of sleep, Spencer rubs the tip of his nose to yours, nudging your face up, and waiting there with your lips a few millimetres apart as he finds his bearings. You don’t open your eyes. There’s no need. 

“Time?” he mumbles.

“I don’t,” —you clear your hoarse voice, his hand flattening protectively behind you— “know, um. Maybe seven. The sun was rising…” 

“You could have woken me up,” he says, and kisses you slowly. It’s almost gluttonous, how he does it. Not chaste at all. His hair falls into your face and tickles your cheeks, his nose smushes your own with his easy depth. 

You hold his face and kiss him twice, following a line under his chin, where you pause, smelling yesterday's cologne on his skin. “I was hoping I’d fall asleep again,” you confess. 

“Oh, no, don’t do that.” He scoops you against him and turns onto his back as you laugh. “Angel. Let’s stay up now. Let’s just… stay here.” 

If you stay here he’s going to waylay you with a smattering of his voracious kisses, and he’s going to turn you on your back and kiss your neck. He’ll touch that place on your ribs where you’d once dreamt a bruise. It’s a secret you couldn’t keep. He likes to kiss you there when he remembers, but most of the time his hands run along it without mention. A slow caressing. 

You push your face against his shoulder and sigh as his arms close in around you. With a little effort, you get your arms around him in turn, and you hug him for as long as you can stand the pins and needles in your fingers. 

“You smell so good,” you mumble.

He pats your back absentmindedly. 

Today, you’re going to make Spencer oatmeal with banana and chocolate. You’re going to shower, maybe together if the small space can handle it, laughing at the soap in his eyebrows and the way he squeals when you touch his hips. You’re going to drape yourself across his lap as he reads, and he’ll lean down to kiss the tip of your nose or some other strange part of you unused to affection. The top of your ear, the palm of your hand, maybe the crook of your elbow. He’ll ramble through dinner or creep up behind you to sniff your shoulder, and it’ll all be choices you’ve made. Nothing left to want or wanting, but being in love while wide awake. 

“Are you tired?” you ask him. 

He takes a deep breath of your hair. “No,” he says, drawing a light line up your side, “I’m okay. There are worse faces to wake up to.”

You try not to fluster noticeably. He’s always been a good roommate. You’re still getting used to the boyfriend part, the intimacy of being complimented, but Spencer seems to have slipped into the part easily.

“Sorry, that was mean. There’s nothing I’d rather wake up to.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble. 

You’re tired, suddenly. The minutes pass in heavy blinks —you don’t want to sleep now that he’s awake, but being here with him is warming you from the inside out.  You doze and wake and Spencer doesn’t say a word. His breaths come evenly against your cheek. 

Eventually, he clears his throat, asksing, “Did you dream at all?” His voice is hewn. He rubs your chest, right over your heart.

”I’m not so sure that this isn’t one,” you say, your heartbeat a crawl under his touch.

“That’s corny.” 

“Mm, the Spencer in my dreams is usually kinder.” 

“Does he ever get to hold you like this?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your chest to wrap it back around you again. 

You take a sleepy breath in. “No,” you say slowly, “he doesn’t.”

｡𖦹°‧⭑.

thank youuuu for reading!! please like comment or reblog if you enjoyed!! thank you❤️

this fic was requested! I usually link to the request I was sent at the top, but I lost the post for this one, but this is what the request said: 

“hi angel! i have a request for roommate!spencer where r has a very romantic dream about him and starts avoiding him because she's really embarrassed but spencer is so confused as to why his roommate suddenly can't even look him in the eye. maybe one of them realizes their feelings aren't entirely platonic in the end? love you!!!”

thank you original requester! 

[sun-kissy]

light | bucky barnes

bucky barnes x sunshine!reader; neighbour au — ★ 1k words

summary: bucky meets you, his bright, new neighbour, and is instantly endeared

tw: nothing, tooth-rotting fluff <3

a/n: first time writing for bucky… please be nice 🥲 consider this my official letter of intent into the mcu fandom on tumblr LOL

Ding dong! Bucky is quick to get to the door, abandoning his attempts at brewing coffee. The espresso machine Sam had gotten him sits sadly on the kitchen platform, likely broken from the looks of the dented knob and crooked buttons. Some things he could get a hang of easily — appliances were not one of them, and neither was using his metal arm with gentleness. He’d have to try and fix it back up later.

He pulls the door open, pleasantly surprised to see you standing there, with your twinkling eyes and sweet smile. Bucky hadn’t known what love felt like in a long, long time. But he thought the ache in his heart when he first saw you came dangerously close to it.

His first encounter with you was a couple of days ago, when he was just moving in. Dr. Raynor had told him that a move would be good for him, giving him a chance to have a fresh start. Bullshit. The only thing he’d gotten out of the new neighbourhood so far was a headache because of the sweltering heat, and a pulled muscle in his arm — the non-metal one — from hauling boxes up the stairs to his apartment.

He was busy cursing his therapist under his breath when you showed up, like some sort of angel in his plight. You jogged over to him brightly, hand wrapped around the leash of a fluffy brown dog. Bucky’s first instinct was to push you away when you offered to help. But you were persistent, and he gave in on account of shutting you up.

Your smile had widened immediately, and he remembered wondering how anyone could be so happy to help a stranger.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. Your enthusiasm only grew with each minute you spent together. It was like you couldn’t stop chattering — asking him where he was from, how long he was going to stay, and everything else under the sun. He hadn’t asked, but he got to know a lot about you too. He now knew you worked in a clinic near the neighbourhood, you lived alone with your dog (whose name was Milo), and that you weren’t particularly close to any family.

Bucky couldn’t help but soften more and more by the second. You were incredibly endearing, all soft smiles and loud laughter. It was like catching the first glimpses of morning light after being locked up in darkness for a lifetime, and frankly, he was smitten. You told him that you lived a few floors up and that you’d be back to visit soon. When you held Milo’s paw in your hand, the dog all bundled up in your arms, and waved him the most adorable little goodbye, he knew he was gone.

He was more than happy to see you on his front door today. You were all dolled up, pink tube top with a frilly white skirt. He couldn’t help the smile that quirked his lips. “Hey.”

“Hi!” you chirp, already digging into your bag for something. Bucky eyes you with an arched eyebrow as you pull out a Tupperware box, handing it to him excitedly. “Brownies.”

“For me?” He hesitantly takes it from you, surprised. There’s a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

You step into the house as he pulls the door open wider, confirming it with a nod. “Yeah, for you. Baked them myself.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, closing the door behind you. No one’s ever done something like this for him before, niceness for the hell of it. It makes him want to pull you into a hug. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all,” you brush him off, flashing him a small smile before turning your attention to his living room. He watches as you peruse the place curiously, eyes darting all over before landing on the espresso machine. “So, James…” you start unsteadily as you walk towards the kitchen.

Bucky lets out a huff of laughter. “James? Where’d you get that?”

“I asked the security guard downstairs about you, didn’t let him off till he told me your name,” you smile sheepishly, twirling your curls around your finger. “He said it was James Buka… Bucha…”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he interrupts with a fond sort of amusement. “Bucky for short.”

“Bucky,” you repeat with a giggle. “Cute. I like it. Also, do you need help with this?” You gesture at the smoking coffee machine, spilt puddles of the liquid dotting the kitchen platform.

“Oh, um,” he shrugs, a light pinkness dusting his cheeks. “Sure.” He watches as you grab a new mug and pour some milk into the machine. Your tongue juts out adorably as you click the buttons concentratedly. “What’s yours?”

“Y/n,” you mutter, straightening up proudly as the brown liquid starts to spout into the mug. You turn to him with an accomplished grin. “It’s working.”

“Thank you,” he chuckles, heart squeezing in his chest when you give him a wink. “Y/n. That’s a pretty name.”

Bucky swears he can see the blush on your cheeks, but it’s hard to make out with your back turned to him. You busy yourself with wiping the spilt coffee, but he hears the smile in your voice when you thank him.

You hand him his coffee before grabbing one yourself, making yourself comfortable on his couch. He leans against the platform as he talks to you.

Surprisingly, you’re not as chatty today. Perhaps you were more comfortable around him, feeling less of a need to fill the silence. He tells you about the war when you point to a picture on the wall, one from the 40s, in which his arm is slung around Steve’s shoulder. He’s glad you don’t ask about Steve.

Soon, you make to leave. “I have an appointment with a friend,” you smile apologetically as you stand, dusting yourself off. “This was fun, though.”

Bucky nods and walks you to the front door, pulling it open. “It was.”

“See you around sometime?” you ask hopefully as you pull your heels on.

He softens, voice tinged with affection. “Sure. Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow, if you’re free?”

“Really?” you beam. “Great. I’ll be here.”

You call out to Bucky as you make your way to the stairs, vigorously waving your hand in farewell. He gives you a small wave in return, trying his best not to smile.

[connorsui]

"Talking about ...you"

“Do you see ...her?” he begins, his voice low, almost reverent, as if afraid his words might shatter the moment he gestures toward her, where she stands with her back to him, the soft curve of her shoulder catching the light. “Look at her. Everything she does—it’s not just living; it’s art.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head as if the weight of his feelings is too much to hold inside. “You don’t get it. It’s not just about the way she looks, though God knows she’s breathtaking. It’s… everything. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, the way her laughter sounds like it was made just to pull me out of the darkest corners of myself. Every time she smiles, it’s like the world pauses—just for her.”

He glances at him then, his eyes bright, his tone more insistent. “I’ve memorized her, you know. Every little thing. The way she brushes her hair behind her ear, the way her hands move when she talks, the way she says my name. She doesn’t even realize the power she has over me. I crave her, not just physically, but... spiritually. Her existence—it’s everything. She could be across the room, or on the other side of the world, and I’d still feel her. Like she’s tethered to me, like every breath I take is because she’s somewhere out there, breathing too.”

He looks back at her, his expression softening, his voice quieter now. “You think I’m exaggerating? That I’ve just romanticized her into some unreachable thing? You’re wrong. She’s as real as it gets. Flawed, messy, and human—but that’s what makes her perfect. She’s not just someone I love. She’s the reason I believe love exists at all.”

He pauses, his jaw tightening slightly, his words filled with an almost desperate honesty. “I know it sounds like too much. Like no one could be that important. But when you find someone like her—someone whose very existence makes you feel like the luckiest man alive—how could you ever let that go? She’s everything I never knew I needed. And I’ll never stop craving her. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.”

The man: Sylus, Ekko, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Nikto, Keegan, Nanami Kento, Higuruma Hiromi, Gojo Satoru, Erwin, Levi Ackerman, Zayne, Xavier, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Dabi, Katsuki, Halsin, Aemond Targaryen

[poguehearted77]

Just Another Cliché

Summary: Rafe has been asking to take you out for years and you always shoot him down, but after a particularly bad day, you decide things can't get much worse.

<<Here's some fluffy angst for those who need it>>

Shitty was an understatement for the day you had. This day will go down in history as the worst day any soul has ever lived through.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." The murmur is bitter on your tongue as you stuff your hands deeper into your warm pockets. The breath of your words were visible in the crisp winter air as you were about to pass by Rafe Cameron who waited patiently outside of your apartment building with a single rose just like he always did.

Since your senior year of high school, every year on the fourteenth of February, he would wait outside your complex, asking you out, then you say no, then he goes home. That's the tradition.

Well, technically you never said no. You'd always make up some excuse. 'I don't have time for a relationship right now' or 'Now's a bad time' are just a few of the examples you've used over the last five years.

It's not that there was anything wrong with him. You actually did find him attractive. Aside from the sketchy reputation he had going for him back in high school, he was still a relatively nice guy.

You just didn't have the time for a relationship, or at least you didn't before.

A small smile forms on his face as he sees you, already knowing what to expect. Another excuse like "Fine," yup, just as he thought- Wait.

"Say that again?" His head shakes in disbelief, blue eyes bulging slightly. Your shoulders shrug under your heavy-duty winter jacket. "My car was towed, then I lost my job, so why not lose my dignity too? Let's go out." You say and his heart begins to bounce off the confines of his ribs.

Not sure if it was the frosty air nipping at his cheeks or his lifetime wish finally unwrapping before his eyes, his cheeks flushed and he blinked a few times. "You won't regret this, I promise." he holds out the rose for you to take, and you finally do. For the first time in five years. You bite back a scoff, not in the mood for empty promises.

"Why haven't you given up yet?" You ask and now he places his hands in his pockets as a chilling breeze sweeps past you. He's rocking back on his heels slightly, "Life's too short to give up." The tiny smile on his face does make you scoff this time but he moves past it, "I'll text you later," is the last thing he says before he walks off.

You look down at the rose, then at his shrinking figure as he heads for the distance. A little pep in his step and you shook your head, immediately regretting your decision.

Great, this is exactly what you needed, another cliché.

-

Just another cliché is exactly what it was. On the lowest day of your life, you finally gave Rafe a chance. Of course, he changes your life in ways you couldn't imagine and leaves you with a dead weight of regret for not giving in sooner.

Your first date wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but it was fun. The two of you were inexperienced skaters failing to skate in the middle of the town square during the heart of winter. With festive lights outlining the rink where you laughed every time one of you fell.

There was even a point in time when you'd both embraced the cold connection with the ice floor and had a deep conversation on the sidelines, watching the other skaters circle the rink.

"Why me?" The question slips out before you can catch it and he licks his lips. He anticipated the query would arise eventually. "You remember that party Hailey Vanderbilt threw back in senior year?"

You hum with a nod, that was a party you'll never forget. Pool toys ended up in the trees, broken windows, jello in the hot tub, fights in the front yard and gambling in the back. "You and a few of the girls were playing truth or dare and they had dared you to start a rumour that I'd shaved my head because my family had joined some cult or some shit."

It took you a second, but the memory came back to you. "You don't know this, but I was fucking wasted behind the couch, but I'll never forget the way you stood up for me to them and refused to do it, and I dunno, I jus' think that was really cool of you." His head turns to you, his gaze softening when he looks at you.

At that moment, you felt the butterflies flap around in your stomach for the first time. He clears his throat, expression becoming more sombre as he continues. "My mom," He starts, taking a difficult swallow to get the words out.

"She was really sick. I got caught up with the wrong crowd to deal with it. Doing anything people said would get me distracted, even for a little, but she got worse and me being high every day didn't help so I quit. Her chemo was taking everything from her and eventually, she just shaved it off, she hated looking in the mirror and it killed me."

Your chest tightened at the story, having a sneaking suspicion of where this was going, "So when you shaved your head..." You trail off and Rafe nods along, turning away from you as a stray tear falls. "It was for her. You sticking up for me meant so much more than you know."

So there you both sat, on the ice with your backs against the wall in silence while the faint Christmas music chimed in the background. The date had taken a sad turn but you're glad it did, it sparked the beginning of your forever-evolving bond.

That was only the first date of many. Dozens and dozens of dates had flown past you and with each one you hated yourself a little more for letting him stand outside of your complex for five years rather than invite him inside.

"This is a nice place." He compliments as he takes a look around before settling himself on the couch with you beside him. "Thanks, it used to be a lot nicer when I could afford it. Had to sell some stuff to keep it after I lost my job."

He chuckles, "That explains why we're facing a blank wall and no television." and you pinch him. "Sacrifices had to be made. Who needs a TV anyways when there's so many other things we could do to keep ourselves busy." Your wandering hand gently runs down his firm thigh and you can feel the muscles in his leg tighten.

This was unchartered territory for you. You'd been dating for almost three months now and have never been intimate in that way, but Rafe knew the kind of person you were. A perfectionist, you need to be sure of everything before you try it.

Based on how fervently you were currently kissing along the length of his neck he could assume he had a pretty good idea of where your head was at. "Baby, baby--" He struggles to keep you at bay so he can lock eyes with you. "Are you sure about this? We don't have-" You silence him with the passionate attack of your lips against his.

Nearly tackling him onto his back, your hips straddling his as you demonstrated your certainty to him.

-

The months went on and sleepovers became more frequent. Even when Rafe had that tired look in his eye which was more often these days, you kept him up with your bright eyes and wide smile as you explained to him the newest conspiracy that intrigued you.

He tried his best to listen to what you were saying but he'd often lose himself in the labyrinth of his own mind. You were just so cute when you were talking about what you were passionate about. Especially when you wore the glasses you cursed so much, opting for contacts during the day.

"Why don't you wear your glasses more often?" He asks and you frown, "Rafee, did you hear anything I just said?" He nods, "Of course I did. I heard every last word.... up until about five minutes ago." You whine and he hugs you tight as an apology, placing a sweet kiss on your forehead.

You couldn't stay mad at him. That was proven time and time again when even your biggest fights would be resolved within 24 hours. Rafe insisted on talking things out, no matter how hurt the both of you may feel. He never wanted to go to sleep without making things right. "Life's too short," He would say.

You both had your shortcomings, but that goes without saying. Rafe was short-tempered and you were stubborn, a bad combination for an opinionated conversation. Things can quickly spiral out of control but when it came to apologies, Rafe outdid you every time. Flowers, or a small gift to show his feelings.

Even now, as Rafe leant against your kitchen island as you transferred the flowers he'd gifted you 'just because'. A weak smile graced his lips as he noted the way you did everything with such intensity, putting your all into everything you did.

Leaning forward onto his crossed forearms he watches you. "You're staring, babe." You say and he can only hum. "Can't help it. I like what I see," His words elicit a soft warmth to radiate in your chest.

"I love you, y'know that?" You're startled as you feel his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. "You tell me only every day, Rafe." He comes down to peck your cheek before you're rotating in his hold to face him. "But I love you too." You're unable to contain your smile as you say it.

It wasn't the first time but every time the words left your mouth, it gave you a little bubbly feeling. Security blossomed within you anytime your eyes grazed over his features.

"Let's go out tonight, yeah? Let's go dancing." Rafe declares without thinking and you laugh, tilting your head to look at the time over the stove. "It's almost midnight, nothing's open at this hour." You reason, but he doesn't back down.

Holding you by the hand, he twirls you. "Not a problem, we'll just do it here." That night your apartment was filled with laughter and soft jazz. Rafe hardly ever had this much energy so late but you loved it.

Two days after that night of dancing, you woke up to an eerie silence that felt too heavy for the morning. You went about your routine, still buoyed by the memory of Rafe's laughter filling your apartment. You checked your phone—just the usual notifications, a missed call from an unknown number, and a message from Sarah that simply said, "Call me."

You barely had time to press dial before she picked up, her voice trembling. She tried to speak, but only the sound of soft, choked sobs came through. Finally, she managed, "I’m so sorry…"

The words hit you, but you didn’t understand them. You wanted her to stop, to say something else—anything else. She kept speaking, her words blurred and distant, as though you were underwater, drowning. Somewhere in her explanation, you heard the words, "peacefully… in his sleep." But it didn’t feel peaceful. Your mind raced, demanding answers. Why hadn’t he told you? How long had he known?

Over the days that followed, Rafe's family gently filled in the pieces: he’d been sick for years, silently enduring, doing everything he could to hide it. Every date, every moment spent laughing with you, was a deliberate choice he made to live his last days fully, in love and joy, with you.

He hadn’t wanted you to know because he couldn't bear to see you suffer for him the same way he was once familiar with in his senior year. Even in the end, he kept the truth locked away, shielding you from the loss he knew was coming.

The weight of his choice tore you apart. You wanted to be angry, to hate him for leaving you out, but in his silence, there was also a strange kind of love. A love that had given you a few precious, unburdened moments together. Still, the pain settled deep within you, refusing to ease.

The anger, hurt, and ache became constant companions in the days that followed. But in his absence, you began to understand just how much he’d given for you.

He'd shared with you how hard it was for him to deal with that eerie state of loss. The stage where the person isn't gone but you know you'll lose them. It alters you in a messed up kind of way and he wanted you as far from that reality as possible. He was protecting you from his own condition till the very end.

Helping his family to clear out his apartment was easily the hardest thing you'd ever done. You couldn't do it without tearing up with every belonging of his you touched.

His favourite hoodie that he never let you wear but loved when you did. The polaroids in his drawer that you took from your first date, taken from the floor of the ice rink.

You noticed he'd scribbled writing on the back of the photo.

She finally said yes.

That was all it took. The last bits of your composure were stolen from you and you wept on his bedroom floor. Everyone always told you it would get easier but it never did. How could things get easier when the other half of your heart was buried six feet below the ground?

You learned to live with the loss, forcing a smile when in the company of others and taking deep breaths every morning when you woke up. Mildly disappointed the realm beyond the living hadn't reaped you during your slumber.

Very slowly, you begin to adjust to this new reality. It’s not the life you imagined, but you learn to live with the loss, carrying him with you in the smallest, most tender ways. His favourite hoodie becomes your comfort on cold nights, wrapping you in his memory and his scent.

Just because he was gone doesn't mean you'd end all of your traditions. Each year on the fourteenth of February, you visit his grave, placing a single red rose on the stone as a quiet tribute.

Though the ache remains, you hold his spirit close, carrying him forward into every milestone and memory yet to come, honouring the love you shared while finding the strength to continue onward.

In some ways, your love story turned out to be just another cliché—until it ripped your heart out from your chest, leaving you with the unbearable ache of everything he left unsaid, every unfulfilled promise, and the haunting silence of a future that will always belong to him.

Somehow, even in the quietest, most heart-wrenching moments, you never gave up on finding the silver lining, because life’s too short.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hiiii

Can you do something about the batboys (specially Tim and Damian cuz they are my fav)?

With a reader who loves hugs, like A LOT

And it is simply spontaneous to want to hug.

Dick

He loves your spontaneity and your hugs.

He finally has someone who can eagerly accept his out of nowhere hugs by reciprocating with your own hugs.

You have a hug off to see who can hug the other the most as it never fails to make both of your days better, and it acts like a really good pick me up when you both need it most.

Dick could stay in your arms forever if he could and hopes that you feel the same as it acts as a way of communicating without the usage of words. Dick can convey how he felt to you in certain situations throughout all types of hugs possible.

Tight hugs for when he thought he wasn’t going to come back home to you, or when he fears that you wouldn’t love him anymore or for times where he just needed to feel you against him.

Soft, gently, comforting hugs for when he feels like being more affectionate with you, maybe even playful and or wanting to just show you that he cares about you as while he’s a charmer, meaningful words tend to fail him on multiple occasions.

Protective, ‘don’t touch them or else’ hugs where he keeps a tight and firm grip on you as he pushes your head into his neck while he poetically cocoons you in his arms as to keep you out of sight of anyone he thinks is no good for you.

Other then them, dick will always await for you with open arms almost instinctively, knowing he’s going to get the best hug of a lifetime as thought you haven’t seen each other in a long time and not five minutes. Dick just loves you and your spontaneous hugs.

Damian

Fight instincts are strong in Damian.

So when you first try to hug him, his sword was drawn within inches of your face as fast as you could blink. He’d never hurt you, no. It’s just that his body was tuned to react within seconds to any potential danger against him, and unfortunately his mind made him think that your hugs were threats.

So once he realises what he had done on impulse, he apologise and sheathed his sword and tells you that he’s not yet use to your kind of affection due to his upbringing and that he’ll try to become accustomed to it eventually; Which he does but his response to your hugs is rather stiff and almost robotic but you were more then happy to take what you get, and if this is the most he can do right now then you’ll accept it.

However when he does start to get use to your hugs and doesn’t feel like he has to draw his sword every time, but he tends to melt into your touch like a stray cat being shown love for the first time. He closes his eyes and burrows his head into your neck as he tightened his grip on you, as though you’d vanish if he were to ever let up his hold.

He doesn’t want you to hug him in public, he’s not comfortable with it as he would when you’re hugging him in private, but he couldn’t fault you if you were to hug him after an highly emotional moment where you thought you’d loose him, Damian understands but he just prefers to have you hug him in private overall.

It also lessens the teasing potential for his brothers and he gets the alone time with you like he so wished for.

Tim

Finds comfort and reassurance in your hugs.

Seriously your hugs are what Tim needs after a long and arduous mission alongside his brothers and sisters.

He doesn’t even flinch at how out of the blue your hugs are, he just accepts your hugs no matter what and will sigh heavily as he practically falls asleep in your arms.

Please help this man get some proper sleep for once in his life, the detective stuff can wait, it’s not going to go anywhere anytime soon just please take a break.

He’s more then reciprocal of your hugs and appreciates the love you pour into them as they help ease the worries within his head as he rests his head against yours, allowing himself to slow down and appreciate what was in front of him.

Your hugs -despite their spontaneity- have a calming affect on him and they worked wonders for when he needs sleep as his mind tends to keep him up at night. So now with you it’s a bit more bearable as you would cradle his head to your chest, letting him focus in on your breathing and your heart until that’s all the last thing he remembered before drifting off to sleep.

Jason

It takes Jason some time to get use to your spontaneous hug feasts. At first he flinches and almost shies away from your hugs as he doesn’t acquaint any physical contact as soft, or warm or comforting like you did. In fact he viewed it as the opposite.

So it takes time for Jason to become comfortable with your spontaneous hugs and once he stops flinching and shying away from them, he grows addicted to your hugs and awaits each and every time that you decided he looked like he needed a little hug or cuddle.

He -much like Damian- would melt into your hugs, tighten his grip on you and would find that everything fades away the moment he’s in your arms; His mind clears of all stress and all he can think about was how perfect each and every one of your hugs were every single time.

He also never wants to leave your embrace, ever, he just refuses and claims he needs five more minutes in your arms and would groan in annoyance if you were to attempt to pull away.

‘Stop moving away from me.’ He’d groan. ‘You wanted to hug me so hug me!’

You chuckle at him whenever he got like this but oblige to his wishes regardless as you didn’t have to heart to stop hugging Jason when he’s practically clinging onto you like a koala bear. So you just remain where you are until five minutes become a full day and you and Jason are shuffling towards the bedroom together to cuddle until you feel asleep.

Needles to say Jason grows to love your hugs however they come and when they come, for they help him get through the day.

Bruce

He’s not use to your hugs yet either and it takes him just as long-if not longer- as Jason to get use to them overtime.

His muscles would tense and that’s about it.

He’s use to being hugged by the likes of Jason and Damian and Dick when he got older but your hugs were different then theirs, and sooner or later Bruce had developed a sixth sense for whenever you’re going to hug him, and would smile to himself whenever he heard your footsteps and little giggles before bracing himself for you hug.

‘You heard me didn’t you.’ You’d always ask and without hesitation Bruce replied with in a playful manner; ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about my dear.’ Which only made you pout as you tightened your grip on him while burrowing your face into his broad back.

There would even be times where you’re about to hug him, but Bruce moves just in times as you were going to hug his waist and stares at you for a bit before opening his arms and letting you run into his chest. He doesn’t mind your hugs now and then when he’s not busy as he doesn’t like neglecting you for his work; So he tries to at least let you get all your hugs out while you could before he had to indulge in his work that takes up a huge amount of his time.

Like Damian he likes to have you hug him in private, he’s a well know public figure and Gotham isn’t exactly safe and so he prioritised your safety above all else. So while he’ll interlock his pinky with yours or have your arm locked in his in public, he’ll let you hang off of him as reward in private while he rests his hands over your own in means of keeping you there.

Alfred finds it sweet seeing Bruce be affectionate with you and probably has a picture where Bruce is embracing you fully, his head resting atop of yours while your face was smothered against his chest, your face bearing the widest smile possible in comparison to Bruce’s face of calm serenity.

[xo100]

Airport - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary: Lando Norris offers a woman, who missed her flight, a ride on his private jet to Monaco. They bond over light conversation and flirting, leaving with the possibility of seeing each other again.

*:･ﾟ Word count: 1323

୨ৎ

The race weekend had been long, grueling, and filled with adrenaline. Lando Norris was ready to head back to Monaco, to the comfort of his own home where the sound of engines could be swapped for the quiet of the Mediterranean breeze. As he made his way through the airport, sunglasses perched on his nose and his cap pulled low, he weaved his way through the flow of people without drawing too much attention to himself.

It wasn’t until he neared the private terminal that he noticed something out of the ordinary: a young woman standing near the gate of a commercial flight to Monaco, her expression a mix of frustration and panic. Lando slowed his steps, curiosity piqued. She stood there, gazing hopelessly at the closed gate, gripping her passport tightly. Her bags were tossed haphazardly by her feet as though she’d raced through the airport only to fall seconds short of making it to her flight.

The sharpness of disappointment etched on her face was all too familiar. He’d been in similar situations before, dashing through airports, missing flights by mere moments. Only, she didn’t seem to have the luxury of a private jet waiting just down the hall like he did.

Lando hesitated. He didn’t know her story, but something about the way she stood there, looking so defeated, tugged at him. He glanced at his watch. His jet was leaving soon, but he still had time. And, well, maybe this wouldn’t be the worst idea. What was the harm in offering a bit of help?

He pulled his cap down a little further and crossed the distance between them, moving casually as though he were just another traveler making his way to his flight.

“Missed your flight?” he asked, his voice light but laced with concern.

She turned to look at him, startled at first, then quickly took him in—cap, sunglasses, and all. Recognition flickered in her eyes, but it wasn’t overwhelming. Just a flicker.

“Yeah,” she breathed out with a weak chuckle. “By about three minutes. They wouldn’t let me through even though the plane is still sitting there.”

“That’s tough,” Lando said, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Where you heading?”

“Monaco,” she said with a shrug, though it seemed like a more resigned gesture. “Guess I’ll have to wait for the next one.”

Lando nodded, glancing around the terminal. The airport was buzzing with the usual chaos, and he could see the stress rolling off her shoulders. He thought for a second, then made a split decision. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I’m heading there too,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a private jet leaving soon. If you want, you can take the flight with me.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and her lips parted slightly, a mixture of surprise and hesitation crossing her features.

“A private jet?” she asked, a little skeptical. “Isn’t that...a bit much?”

Lando laughed softly. “Maybe, but I’ve got plenty of room. Plus, you look like you could use a break from airport stress. I promise it’s less chaotic than commercial flights.”

She blinked, clearly processing his offer. The idea of getting onto a private jet with a guy she just met—even if he was Lando Norris—probably wasn’t something she had expected when she woke up that morning.

“That’s...really kind of you,” she said after a moment, her voice soft. “But I couldn’t—“

“Sure you can,” he interrupted, his tone teasing but warm. “Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You miss your flight, and instead of waiting around, you get to fly in style. How often does that happen?”

She laughed at that, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “When you put it like that…”

Lando grinned, taking her hesitation as a positive sign. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? You get to Monaco an hour earlier, and we both get some company for the flight. No need to sit around waiting for the next one.”

She looked at him again, weighing her options. He could see the internal debate playing out in her eyes—logic versus the sheer spontaneity of his offer. Finally, she sighed, her lips curling into a tentative smile.

“Alright,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “Why not? But I’ll warn you, I might be a terrible conversationalist after the day I’ve had.”

“That’s okay,” Lando replied with a wink. “I’m known to talk enough for two.”

With that, he grabbed one of her bags effortlessly, motioning for her to follow him toward the private terminal. She trailed behind, still looking a little shell-shocked, but there was something about the ease of his manner that made her feel less anxious about the whole thing.

As they walked, Lando kept the conversation light, asking her about her trip and how she ended up almost missing her flight. She shared a story about how her taxi had gotten stuck in traffic, the minutes ticking away as she helplessly watched the airport get closer and closer. Lando laughed, offering a few of his own travel horror stories in return. By the time they reached the sleek jet waiting on the tarmac, the mood between them was light and comfortable.

-

“You weren’t kidding,” she muttered as they approached the aircraft, eyes wide as she took it all in. “This is...wow.”

Lando chuckled and waved a hand. “It’s not bad, right?”

They climbed aboard, and soon enough, they were airborne. The hum of the engines was soothing, and the view of the clouds stretching out below them was a peaceful contrast to the chaos of the airport they’d left behind.

“You know,” she said after a while, leaning back in her plush seat, “I still can’t believe I’m on a private jet with you. This feels surreal.”

Lando smirked, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Trust me, I’ve been in a lot of surreal situations lately. This one’s pretty tame.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I guess that’s fair. Monaco, huh? Do you live there?”

“Yeah, for a while now,” he replied, glancing out the window. “It’s a nice place to unwind after the craziness of race weekends.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve been through a few times, but never really had a chance to stay.”

“Well, maybe this is your chance,” he said, eyes twinkling. “What’s your plan once we get there?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend,” she said with a sigh. “But it’s not set in stone. What about you?”

“Just heading home,” Lando said, then added with a teasing grin, “But if you need a tour guide while you’re there, I might be available.”

She raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Are you offering to show me around Monaco, Lando?”

“Maybe,” he said, his grin widening. “Depends if you’re up for it.”

She laughed softly, glancing out the window again. “I might take you up on that.”

For the rest of the flight, the conversation flowed easily, peppered with light flirtation and comfortable silences. There was something so natural about it—like they’d known each other for longer than just a chance meeting in an airport.

As the jet began its descent toward Monaco, Lando glanced over at her, feeling a strange sense of contentment.

“Guess we’re almost there,” he said.

”Yeah,” she replied, though her tone held a hint of reluctance. “Thanks again for this, Lando. You really saved my day.”

He flashed her a playful grin. “Anytime. Maybe I’ll see you around Monaco.”

“Maybe,” she said with a smirk of her own. “But next time, let’s hope it’s under more normal circumstances.”

“Deal,” he replied with a wink.

As they stepped off the jet and into the warm Monaco air, Lando couldn’t help but think that maybe missing her flight had been the best thing that could’ve happened to either of them that day.

୨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, I hope y’all enjoyed! Remember requests are open if you would like to request something. Also question for you guys, is there someone who can help me with the link of the requests so I could put it in my masterlist? I don’t know where to find that link, DM me if you know.

[imaginesbymonika]

Not a violent dog | Part 1

Pairing: Logan x fem!Reader

Plot: Back in Wade‘s world Logan meets someone he thought he would never ever see again.

Warnings: slight spoilers for Deadpool 3!!!! mentions of death, angst, cursing, and fluff at the end if you squeeze your eyes at the screen, I haven’t written in A WHILE so bear with me

Masterlist

Wade met you in 2016, while he was staying at the X-Men mansion. You didn’t look up from your spot behind the counter when he came into the kitchen, your eyes were observing how the colorful cereal chunks were floating in the brownish milk. It didn’t take long for him to ultimately recognize you. “You’re Y/N!”, he exclaimed loudly, as if he made the discovery of a lifetime:” Cat Claw, was it, right?” You didn’t respond, instead, your y/e/colored eyes solely looked up. At the sight of his face, you slightly tilted your head. He immediately began ranting about how he truly believed that you could have had your own franchise if Sony cared enough about women before he made a shiver run down your spine.

“You’re Logan’s girl, right?”, he asked innocently, however, the next thing Wade knew, was how the bowl of cereal slammed against the wall right next to his face. He didn’t flinch, instead, he merely ran his finger down the milk stains before putting them into his mouth:” Oat milk, how responsible of you. We should all take better care of Mother-Earth, con-.” But before he had the chance to end his sentence, you made a few long steps toward him until your faces were only a couple of centimeters apart from one another. “That is so hot.”, Wade whispered while you studied his burned features.

“Don’t you ever take his name into your mouth again, or I’ll cut your tongue out!”

“That’s even hotter!”

Wade very quickly learned that despite your powers, your inability to die, and your unbelievably harsh persona you carried a lot of heartbreak inside. Things between you and Logan didn’t end well. You heard about his death through Charles Xavier, a couple of months after he mysteriously disappeared. And never getting any actual explanation or closure had turned you into a person no one could recognize anymore. You were always angry, short-tempered, and mean like a nervous dog. Because let’s call it by its name: you were beyond hurt. There was no term in the dictionary that could fully define how you felt about the whole situation.

So when Wade came across the other Logan, he eventually brought you up. “You’re a hero in my world, you know. Everyone idolizes you.”, Wade explained, looking down at the canned food and taking it into his hands:” No wait, scratch that- almost everyone loves you.”

Logan, who was sitting with his back turned to Wade only scoffed:” Whoever that person is, they’re probably smarter than the rest.” “Yeah, maybe.”, he simply replied, looking out of the window:” I mean, she doesn’t talk about it. Except for this one time where she was really, really drunk and we sang karaoke together…it was terrific.”

“She?”

Wade turned his head:” Yeah, Y/N.” He observed how Logan abruptly tensed up, almost as if the name alone switched on something inside of him:” Say it again.” And for one short second one could've argued that Logan was begging. The sound of his voice was almost vulnerable.

The man in the red outfit blinked a couple of times before he gazed into the open air:” We are about to find out something significant for the plot, guys!”, he whispered excitedly before clearing his throat and turning back to Logan: “Y/N, you know- the X-Man. Wasted potential if you ask me, Sony could’ve made so much money off of her. She’s really popular with women and girls above the age of 14, I-.”

“Cut the bullshit!”, he turned in his chair, eyebrows furrowed:” You are telling me that in your world, she is still alive?”

“What a plot twist!”

Turns out, Logan lost his version of you years ago on a mission. “It was supposed to be an easy one.”, Logan explained, while the two men wandered through the desert-looking realm:” Get into the lab, eliminate the mutant killing weapons, and then leave again-.” He took a deep breath, while his eyes roamed over the uninhabited land. His angry eyes suddenly much softer and sadder:” We thought we killed every guard. The bullet came out of nowhere, and hit her right in the chest.”

Only the sound of the wind cut through the stillness. „ We were supposed to get married. Charles had already promised that we would be able to build a home in the woods next to the School. So she could become a teacher… she always adored the mutant children that lived there. Said she wanted some of her own one day, with me…”

Wade stared at the ground:” I am sorry.” But Logan shook his head in comeback:” It’s all good. That’s how life is.“

“That’s what she always says as well.”, Wade muttered under his breath, as the two continued walking:” But I know she's always lying to me.”

[entitled-fangirl]

In time.

Cregan Stark x reader

Summary: Cregan learns to be a father.

Warnings: childbirth, pain, talk of blood, mentions of sex

A/n: This one is so short and sweet!

Masterlist

........................................................

Cregan couldn't take the sounds of her screams anymore, so he thanked the gods when the door to their chambers opened.

"How is she?" He immediately asked the maester.

"She's doing well, my lord-"

"Is she?" He smiled, focused on the man as he spoke every word.

"Yes, and congratulations. It's a girl."

His eyes widened and his hand came up to his forehead, "A g… a girl?" 

The maester nodded, "And quite healthy."

"Thank the gods," he smiled. "Can I…?"

"Of course, my lord. She's still weak, but awake."

Creagn wasted no time, moving into the room and searching for her.

She laid on the bed in her own sweat, still panting as a midwife took the bloody sheets away.

Cregan moved to her with a smile. 

She smiled as well when she saw him, "Cregan."

"Hello, my love." He sat on the bed, taking her hand in his.

"I did it, Cregan."

"You fought hard. Like a northerner." he cooed at her. He reached up and brushed a sweaty strand of hair from her head.

She relaxed at his touch, "A girl."

"So I've heard. Probably beautiful like her mum."

"Why don't you find out?"

Cregan followed her gaze to the small bundle of blankets in the midwife's arms. He held out his arms hesitantly. 

The midwife corrected his arms and placed the baby in his grasp.

He let out a soft breath at the sight of the girl's eyes. A deep blue like his.

"Let me see, please."

Cregan moved back to her side, light tears falling down his cheeks.

She cooed at him, wiping a tear from his face.

"You did so well, my girl." He cried. "Thank you."

…

The days passed, but Cregan stayed as excited two weeks later as he had on the first day. 

He spent his days either at his wife's side, or by the cradle, putting every other worry of the north on hold.

He held his wife close in bed deep into the night when a cry woke the two.

He murmured groggily, "Keep sleeping. I'll get her."

He neared the crib, pulling the babe up and against his broad chest.

The babe relaxed at the warm feeling of Cregan, forgetting why she had begun to cry in the first place. 

He rocked her slowly, cooing into the babe's ear.

She wife got up quietly, pulling her arms around the man's waist and resting against his back.

He grinned, "Sleep. It's only the hour of the wolf."

"Can't sleep when you do that."

He tilted his head, "Do what?"

She hummed, "When you're so natural with her."

"That keeps you awake?"

"Keeps my thoughts going."

He smirked as he turned to look at her, "To where?"

"Places they should not go."

He let out a light chuckle, "It's only been two weeks."

"There are more ways than one to find pleasure, is there not?"

"You're playing with fire."

She teased, "Then I hope to get burned."

A low growl sounded from him, "Oh, you will."

The growl caused the babe to wail out.

She reached forward instinctively, taking the babe from his arms and into her own. She rocked the girl back and forth. 

Cregan watched with a light fascination. So natural. 

She shifted uncomfortably, "She must need fed. Perhaps we'll have to reschedule that, Cregan."

He smiled, "That's alright."

"I'm sorry."

He leaned forward to brush a kiss to the crown of her head, "Don't be. I have a lifetime with you, and only a small amount with the babe this small."

She nodded. "In time."

"In time, my girl."

..............................................

I'm making a Cregan Stark tag list! Comment if you want on it!

Cregan Stark taglist: @nyxbranwenn

[the-tarot-witch22]

Your future spouse late night thoughts about you 18+ - Pick a pile

Pile 1/ Pile 2/ Pile 3

Liked my blog or readings? Tip me! | My Paid Readings | My insta

Hello everyone ! This is my another pick a pile or pac reading so please be kind and leave comment or reblog, and let me know if it resonated with you!

Note : This is a general reading or collective reading. It may or may not resonate with you. Please take what resonates and leave what doesn't. And it's totally okay if our energies aren't aligned!

How to pick : Take a deep breath and choose a pile which you feel most connected to! You can choose more than one pile, it just means both pile have messages for you!

Note : This reading is based on my intuition and channeled messages from tarot cards.

I worked really hard on this pile please show some love by leaving comments, likes and reblogs!

Pile 1:

(The cards I got for you guys - The magician, 6 of cups, wheel of fortune and 4 of swords)

Their thoughts about you is quite solemn or like emotional, they are quite a softie when it comes to you honestly, i wanted to give something 18+ for you guys but the energy here is so pure honestly or atleast that's how they wanna start with, i feel they don't want to scare you away just yet, like not much r rated haha, but i will channel everything i can, okay so i feel they are quite in awe or in love, like they want to meet you a hopeless romantic energy, looking at moon asking universe or upper power if they will meet you soon, they want to hurry honestly, I heard "you're mine baby" "no matter whatever you are doing right now, whoever is with you", "i am the one for you hope you know that", they want to kiss you a lot, like every part of you, want you to feel loved and you belong with them, like your body, soul has a name of their engraved on it, that's how much they want you to feel at home, at first they were being quite secretive not opening everything or feelings they have for you but I feel they are trying now, I also feel or heard that they want to push you on bed, tie you up, watch you while they fuck every part of you, they are sweet as hell and as well as horny for you, they want you to watch while you suck them, they want to fuck you deeper so you forget everything but them, They definitely want to put you on pedestal in every way they can, they wanna give you after care, touch every part of you they crave your soul and body, they feel they have knownn you for lifetimes, a literal past life connection here, yet they don't have you, they miss you, your time with them , i heard it's honestly funny "how someone can never meet and yet crave for each other", they wanna lay in your arms relax with you, watch silly rom coms, horror anything you desire, but they want you very badly, "when we meet i will tie you up till you get bored of me" in a very teasing tone, he is quite balanced individual in both his sexual desires and emotional desires.

WoW pile they are quite a romantic, huh? you guys deserve it! they are waiting for you too I feel you will meet them very soon.

Pile 2:

(The cards I got for you guys - 5 of swords, 8 of wands, 4 of wands and 6 of swords)

Okay so first thing i feel is very passionate, like they just want to fuck the soul out of you, holy shit, starting with big words and love for you, they are definitely not feel like themselves when they are with you, like they are different person "i cant control my feelings, my desires i have for you" how my body reacts when it sees you, it needs you as much as i do, I also heard i am quite jealous that you are not with me right now, is it because it's a payback for me to meet you late?, i hear them sighing a lot, they want to compete with everyone who has ever been with you even your fictional crushes like they can't make you feel like i do, they are definitely very competitive, their thoughts about you at night is quite filled with lust and desire, i see a scene where they are letting off their steam jerking off with the desire and spark they feel within themselves how they just want you, and only you I also feel they want to be very rough with you like just show you who you belong to, for some of you, you both are into hardcore sex, and they wanna make you cum with their mouth, they want you to sit on them, show that little pretty thing which is wet just for them, they want to tease you a lot too, like not letting you come at first, i feel they want to hear you say "please let me come", i see them smirk a lot, satisfied how much you react to them, "keep running away from me, but you can't go far because our souls are intertwined, my darling" gosh pile 2 they are quite very hungry for you, they want to fuck you all day or night touch you in a way no one ever has, they want you to fuck in the mirror they might want to record these moments for you both so you have special memory of it, more than their pleasure , they want YOU to feel pleasure in a way that no one ever had, they want to use dildo on you such foreign objects, i also feel they want you to wear vibrator while you go out with them, and when they feel jealous they will turn it on, i heard "my dirty little slut".

Wow pile 2 they are quite fiery aren't they, they just had so much to say to you their thought about you is so deep and filled with love and lust. Love it for you guys!

Pile 3:

(The cards I got for you guys - 10 of pentacles, 7 of wands, 6 of wands, 5 of cups, ace of swords and 8 of wands)

Okay so first thing I feel is they are missing you like a lot, when i started doing your reading and cards my heart felt sad for some reason they could be yearning you and they definitely want me to tell you "how much your absence in their life is impacting them", they are quite turned on by thought of you, your body is their temple, they want to worship you, they want to feel comfortable with them sexually or non sexually, they just want you to feel at home with them, they are feeling quite lonely without you, i heard "i love her laugh", their thoughts about you is quite desperate, but okay let me channel something 18+ for you, they are quite needy for your body, they want you to touch yourself or you to touch them or their intimate parts, they want to gently fuck you, I feel they are quite sensible or have gentleman thoughts for you. They are quite respectful, i also feel they wanna put efforts while they fuck you, politely touch you like you will break in their arms, they are quite caring, and soft for you and with you. i also feel they would want to or love to suck on you breasts to make you feel very good. They want to hear you scream their name, They think of you as their biggest achievement their prize, that they got for good or past deeds, they also want to be sneaky with you like I see a place where you are both only and emotions are so overflowing that you end up having sex their, a beach at night, or some abandoned or deserted place, their energy is quite calming they even calmed me down, they want everyone to see you belong to them, As I said they could be very sad for you like they miss you, "needing you by their side energy", they want you to know that sex isn't only two people having orgasm its more than that, its filled with love spark, connection, when they think of you all they want is to rest by your side, just be their while you do your own thing, they want you to know they have much more to show you when you guys actually meet! You guys can check out pile 1 too!

Good luck pile 3 xD! Their thoughts weren't much 18+ but more sweet. And I feel it's because they take sex much more seriously or not much openly, so that could be why this pile ended up being sweet lol.

Thank you for stopping by! Take care and remember you are loved <3

[flowersforbucky]

claw kink drabble ♡

logan howlett x reader (worst!logan)

warnings: claw kink!!! smut smut smut, literally just smut, minor scratching and bleeding, langauge, oral (female receiving), reader is afab, 18+ only

word count: 1.2k

Most of the time, you feel as though Logan believes you are made of glass. Antique, priceless porcelain that a great grandmother keeps on display in a China cabinet - to be admired but never used, for fear it could break into a thousand pieces.

You have witnessed firsthand the level of lethality and voraciousness that he possesses when fighting, protecting the ones that he loves. Protecting you.

You just wish that he didn't feel the need to protect you from himself.

“Do you think you could do something for me?” You murmur, out of breath as you pull your mouth away from his. He hovers above you, the weight of his body pinning you to the mattress. He looks down at you with furrowed brows and kiss-swollen lips.

“You don't have to ask,” he says with a breathy laugh. He brings a hand to cup your jawline, rubbing a calloused thumb over your bottom lip. “You just say the word and consider it done.”

You hesitate, your breath catching in your throat. He continues to stare down at you - equally patient and intrigued.

“There's something that I want to try,” you whisper after a pregnant pause, your voice shaking on the last word.

“And what would that be, darlin’?” He cradles your face like he's holding the entire world in the palm of his hand.

“Do you remember when we were all sparring last week, and Wade teased me for looking a little too excited when you put your claws up to my neck?”

He grimaces, a flash of embarrassment shooting across his face at the memory.

“If Wade hadn't been acting like such a jack–”

You place your index finger over his lips, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence. You had no doubt he was working up to his hundredth apology.

“I know,” you assure him, resisting the urge to laugh at the incident. “Wade is a jackass,” you continue, suddenly feeling a whole flight of butterflies in the pit of your stomach. “But he wasn't wrong.”

You force yourself to maintain eye contact with him - there was no taking back the confession now. He pulls his head back by a few inches, dropping his hand from your face. His features contort in confusion, his mouth downturning into a frown and his eyes narrowing to a squint.

“It did excite me,” you clarify, your cheeks warming in embarrassment. “Maybe more than it should have.” You pause, giving him a chance to consider your admission.

There's a shift in his expression. Uncertainty disappears, something akin to amusement taking its place. You can see the faintest hint of a smirk threatening to bloom on his face.

You don't know whether to feel relieved, or infinitely more nervous.

“Just so we are on the same page here,” he begins after what feels like a lifetime. He holds his hand up, forming a fist a few inches in front of your face. The tiniest sliver of spikes begin to poke through the slots between his knuckles - no more than a few inches each. “You're saying that you'd like me to use my claws on you?”

For a moment, you forget how to speak. Instead of a verbal response, you grab his hand in your own, pulling it closer to your face. Intertwining his fingers with yours, you hold his hand directly in front of your mouth.

He watches you, curiously awaiting your next move. Keeping your eyes locked on his, your tongue slips between your parted lips and to the base of his knuckles where adamantium breaks the surface. Your tongue trails from the base of his claw, up the shaft and to the sharp tip.

His eyes squint shut and a growl escapes from his chest.

“Yes,” you answer at last - sounding as confident as you now feel. “That's exactly what I want you to do.”

He lets out a low snicker, opening his eyes for you to see dilated, lust blown pupils. He pulls his hand out of your grasp and begins trailing the tips of the cool metal softly down your neck, over your collarbone, and down your chest - until he lands just above your breast, your pebbled nipples visible through the thin material of the old t-shirt that you wear.

You go deathly still as you watch him extend the length of his claws - still not to their full height, but long enough to send a rush of heat to your core at the sight. Wetness begins to pool on the fabric of your panties.

He hooks a single talon into the fabric of your shirt and gives it one swift pull, ripping it from just above your breast all the way down to your waist.

The point of the middle claw begins to draw delicate circles around your nipple, igniting goosebumps across your flesh. Your eyes snap shut and your back arches off the bed at the sensation.

“Like this?” He questions rhetorically. You hum in response, melting into his touch. He proceeds to trace all three claws from your breast and down your stomach, gradually applying more pressure until he reaches the waistband of your underwear. Not rough enough to break the skin, but enough to leave three defined pink marks down your abdomen.

It makes you realize that you would be okay with that - bleeding for him.

“Or like this?” His claws hook into your underwear before snipping through the satin material a second later, giving him access to your pussy.

All of it - every bit of it has you wanting to flip him over onto the mattress and sink yourself onto his cock.

He lowers himself so that he's belly down on the bed, nestled between your legs with his face inches from your center. He hitches your thighs over his arms, splaying his palms and claws across your stomach and tits.

At the same that he lowers his mouth to your cunt and licks a strip from your hole to your clit, his hands apply pressure to your chest. The points of his claws begin to form indentations in your skin - three above each breast. The sensation of his lips wrapped around your clit and the sharp stinging that radiates from your skin is a damn near euphoric combination.

“Oh my god, Logan,” you moan, grinding down on his face. He adds more pressure with his claws at the sound of his name in your breathy voice.

He licks you, sucks you, kisses you until you're coming around his tongue. He gets lost in it - so lost that he doesn't realize there's now six small flesh wounds all dripping red down your tits.

“Fuck, darlin, I'm so–”

“Shhhh,” you stop him, still coming down from your orgasm. He was not about to take this bliss with his unnecessary apologies. “Don’t. That was fucking incredible.” You pull him up to you, crashing your mouth against his. Maybe it was the possessive part of you that usually lies dormant - but you fucking loved tasting yourself on him as much as you loved being marked by him.

He pulls back when you're both breathless, peppering kisses down your neck and chest until he reaches the scratch marks on the tops of your breasts. He cleans each one, licking the blood right off your skin until it's spotless once more.

“Any other fantasies that you need me to fulfill while I'm at it?”

--------

straight to my head - most recent logan fic ♡