#like. sometimes you like feeling the weight of it in your stomach. that it's in there

[ilovedwardfpe]

Hiya! Could we do a Gasharpoon x reader comfort?

I struggle with eating due to underlying medical issues, and sometimes I cannot finish full meals due to feeling sick.

TYSM ^_^

( ◠ ◠ ｡ Oh look a request!

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HELLO!

i feel so bad bc I couldn’t do 2 requests this person asked🥀

BUT YES YES I CAN DO THIS ONE!

Warnings:,Throwing up

Pairing: Gasharpoon (JohnDoe) x Reader

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You looked down at the meal Gasharpoon gave you a plate of golden fried shrimp and crispy, well-seasoned French fries, the kind that practically glistened with flavor, with two lemon wedges tucked neatly to the side like they were waiting for their moment to shine. Were you going to eat it? Hell yeah. It looked amazing, smelled even better, and honestly, you were kind of starving. But were you going to finish it? Not a chance. You already knew your stomach was going to tap out early, but that didn’t stop you from going in. You picked up a shrimp, warm and crunchy, and took a satisfying bite, then grabbed a single fry and popped it into your mouth like you were proving something to someone��� and you kind of were. When you looked up, your boyfriend was sitting across from you, eyes fixed on you with that curious, half-amused look he got whenever you ate something with dramatic intensity and zero follow-through. You paused, mouth half full, and with a little shrug and a faint grin, you said:

“The food is lovely,” you say softly, and he knows you mean it, the warmth in your voice, the way your eyes flicker briefly toward the plate and then back to him, makes it obvious. But still, he doesn’t look away. He keeps watching you, quiet and attentive, as if the simple act of you eating shrimp and fries is the most important thing in the world. You begin taking slower bites, not just to savor the taste, but because you can feel it creeping in the inevitable moment when your appetite, once so eager, decides to peace out entirely. Each bite feels more deliberate, like you’re stalling for time, pretending that if you chew slowly enough, maybe your stomach won’t betray you just yet. You glance at him again. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression says enough,he knows what’s coming too.

Nothing but a few minutes later, you feel that pitch in your stomach, and it’s rising — fast, sharp, undeniable. You reach out to your boyfriend, your hand finding his with quiet urgency, signaling what’s about to happen without saying a word. He’s up in an instant, his chair barely scraping back before he’s at your side. With practiced ease, he picks you up, cradling you gently but with purpose, and without missing a beat, he carries you to the bathroom — no panic, no confusion, just steady, certain care, like he’s done it before and would do it again, a hundred times over if you needed.

He sets you down softly, guiding you to your knees in front of the toilet, his movements calm and sure. You hunch forward, barely able to hold yourself steady as the nausea crests, and then it hits — sharp and quick. He holds your hair and bangs back gently, fingers brushing against your scalp as you throw up a bit, not much but enough to feel the sudden weight of it leave your body. He stays quiet, not flinching, not rushing, just there — a steady presence behind you, grounding you while the worst of it passes.

Eventually, you finish. The tension in your body starts to ease as the wave finally recedes. He gently passes your hair into your own hand, wordlessly motioning for you to hold it yourself for a moment. Then he stands, grabs a towel hanging nearby — the one with little fishes printed on it, something sweet and oddly fitting — and crouches again, using it to softly wipe your mouth. There’s something so careful in the way he does it, like he’s tending to something fragile, not out of pity, but love — quiet, familiar, and unwavering.

He cares so much and you know it.

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This is long,uhm….but good I hope!

ANYWAYS ENJOY AND REQUEST MORE! (That I’ll hope I understand)

[fbfh]

Sjjememdj

Leo eating a sleepy reader out 💔💔

PLEAse I'm ovulating for this man 😔

I. BABES. You know that trend where someone will say all their dog’s favorite words or boyfriend’s favorite words to see how they react??? You got me with Leo, sleep, and eating out reader. Truly. 

In the words of luv note by chloe moriondo, for Leo sleeping has never been so easy. Not since he met you. Since he started sleeping in the same bed as you. Leo was genuinely surprised when he fell asleep like a goddamn log with his head on your chest, or with you pulled snug and close in his warm arms cuddled into his warm chest while he spoons you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. I’m getting distracted by (in the most literal sense) sleeping with Leo. He’s so warm and it’s always in a way that makes you feel so cozy. His breath is so warm on your neck, his hands are all over you. Leo also does do cricket feet right before he falls asleep. He is not aware of this but you are. He goes from tapping out messages in morse code on your skin (he will ALWAYS find a way to wiggle his hands under your clothes. Mans is KING of skin to skin contact. Despite how cold he gets he will never toss an opportunity to sleep as stripped down and close to nakey with you as possible, just to feel your body heat against him. You are his weighted blanket, you just… quiet his mind. And you know each other so, so intimately. You know him, you know each little cue. You know how he lets out a big sigh when he starts to fall asleep, you know how his hands will eventually still and be briefly replaced by his feet rubbing against each other for a few minutes before he falls asleep. If you’re cool with it he also will do cricket feet against your feet too. Might feel weird at first but it’s so goddamn cute that he subconsciously does self soothing stuff to you too. It’s like how animals will groom each other on instinct. On some deep base primal level of caveman monkey amoeba brain, his instincts go oh this is relaxing and soothing, let’s soothe our mate too. If we need comforting and soothing we’re gonna comfort and soothe our mate too. Duh. obviously. And it’s so fucking sweet and you could never put into words how deeply and profoundly those mundane little moments are. How much they affect you, how deeply and vastly they really mean to you. 

And the thing is your EXISTENCE soothes Leo. It really does. He just thinks you’re so goddamn cute. Like he actually gets occasional cuteness aggression because of you. He can and will bite you. Leo was NOT a biter before he met you. But then again you didn’t scream laugh until you met him. Really a sign of true love. So sometimes in the morning when you’re all sleepy and soft, all flushed and warm and mushy he just. Can’t help himself. It’s like a dream of a playground all for him. He kisses you and touches you so you don’t wake up too fast. He mumbles little sweet things into your ear. He pulls you sideways so you’re at an angle on your bed. You’re both probably close to being naked to begin with since we established how much this man LOVES skin to skin contact. Needs it even. He never slept in his underwear or naked before you. He does it BECAUSE of you. So he adjusts you and he adjusts himself until he’s kissing your stomach, your hips, your thighs. You’re probably just in undies and one of his big old MIT shirts (he got a few in the biggest sizes they had before he graduated so you’d have extras as big loose sleep shirts. He was successful.) so he pushes your shirt up enough to kiss your tummy, all soft and relaxed since you’re still mostly asleep. Or at least pretending to be. If he’s feeling particularly playful he might stick his tongue in your belly button, just to see if you’re awake by if you start giggling or not. Regardless, soon he gets down to the real meat and potatoes of it all. He holds your legs, he kisses your thighs, he just… takes his time. He revels in you, in touching and feeling and smelling every inch of you. He nibbles at that fleshy little part of your upper inner thigh that he just loves to bite and suck on so much, he’ll leave a few hickeys on those spots (leo obsessed with hickeys anon you are SO RIGHT I didn’t forget about you dw <3) and he won’t say this out loud because he always worries he’ll sound like some kind of psychotic cannibal or something, but he loves the taste of your skin in his mouth. He never, ever felt that before you. He didn’t know you COULD feel that before you. You’re both just so compatible on a chemical, primal level that it’s really mind blowing. He loves the way your skin kind of sticks to his a little when you’re both warm and cozy and a little clammy from sleep. He eats that shit up. Would it make him want to peel his fucking skin off when it happens with anyone else? Sure! But he LOVES that shit with you.

He’s just reeeeally gonna take his time with this. He just rubs his face into your mound or bulge, nuzzles in and takes a big deep breath of that raw, warm, sleepy you smell. He hums contently, kissing and languidly mouthing at you through your underwear until they’re nice and wet with his spit and your juice. If he’s feeling extra cheeky he will remove them with his mouth and teeth too. And lemme just say this one very concise statement. Leo Valdez eats you out for his pleasure. The thing is he knows EXACTLY what to do and how to do it to make you sing like a goddamn canary. He knows your body so well, so intimately that it’s freaky at times if you think about it too much. So on mornings like this, he can really just slow down and appreciate you. Each and every little drip and twitch, every ridge, every bump, every soft little wet achy squishy part of your insides. He eats that shit up.

Literally and figuratively. It’s sensory fucking heaven for him, and by the time you finally wake up, dripping and blissed out from the countless orgasms he’s coaxed right into his waiting mouth, you seriously think this is another wet dream for several minutes. Also he’s doing all of this with no hands. He loves using his hands on you a lot, but on slow mornings when he’s trying to keep his thoughts from going too fast right out the gate, while he’s waiting for his adderall to kick in and needs something to focus on, what he focuses on is you. How you taste in his mouth, how you make his whole body feel tingly and fuzzy and crackly, how he can feel ripples of pleasure working steadily through him as he ruts and grinds into the mattress a little, too distracted by how you feel and taste and smell, by the sound of his mouth expertly vacuum sealing onto your hole while he tongue fucks you to think about anything else. Anything at all. His nose is rubbing and bumping against your sensitive spot while his tongue rolls and rubs and flicks like he was born to do it. His hair, a little frizzy from sleep and smushed flat on one side, tickles your stomach. 

By the time you DO eventually wake up, you might as well stay in bed. Hell, you’re already soaking wet (and he’s about to bust a nut at any moment) and you know you won’t be able to walk anyway. Besides, who could function after waking up to something like that? No one. There will NEVER be a better opportunity to let him go down on you while you play with his hair, just so you can turn the tables and overstimulate him right back than mornings like this. It’s really a perfect moment in a string of perfect moments, all because they’re spent together. 

[joelmillers-wife]

take my hand (joel miller x f!reader) chapter eleven

18+, MDNI series masterlist: here | please check this for complete series warnings and tags | 🎵series playlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader chapter summary: after your night together, joel has special plans for the both of you he’s been preparing wc: 13.8k rating: this story is 18+ (minors, do not interact), there will be explicit smut in later chapters  chapter warnings and tags: cursing and tlou lore accurate outbreak content below, reader has no description besides she has hair and can be lifted, jackson!joel, age difference: reader is in her 30s and joel is in his 50s, slow burn BUT NOT ANYMORE, tons of fluff, explicit smut, kissing, praise kink, dirty talk, oral (f!receiving), face riding, unprotected piv sex (USE PROTECTION), soft!joel, joel talks you through it, begging, creampie, aftercare, lmk if i missed anything!! ao3 | follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for chapters! dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

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XI. THE AIR THAT I BREATHE

Making love with you Has left me peaceful, warm, and tired What more could I ask There's nothing left to be desired Peace came upon me and it leaves me weak So sleep, silent angel Go to sleep Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe And to love you

Something that’s always irked you about your room was your window. With the way your house was facing, the sun always rose on the side of your bedroom window. This means that if you didn’t remember to tuck your curtains behind your dresser, the sunlight would peak through the space and angle the brightness directly on your face. It’s such a small detail that really only annoyed you on days when you wanted to sleep in. Days like today.

You squint your eyes as you blink them open, the light hitting them directly and making you screw your face up and shift to stare up at your ceiling. Looking up, you notice something… no, someone in your peripheral, momentarily making you freeze.

Faint sounds of snoring make you remember who’s beside you—remember what happened last night. As your body becomes more alert, the foggy feeling of sleep leaves your brain and you begin to focus on your surroundings. The feeling of a warm body pressed against your back, the weight of an arm slung across your waist, a thick leg slotted loosely between your own, feet tangled underneath your sheets. The snores you hear leave a mouth you feel inches from the back of your neck, warm air hitting your skin with every slow exhale.

Your body sags back into the mattress and you tuck your hand underneath your pillow as a smile graces your face, so wide that it strains your cheeks. Memories flip through your mind like film—snapshots of breathy moans and the feeling of heavy weight on you has you pressing your thighs together to soothe a slight ache. Although, the movement makes you aware of the soreness you felt between your legs that serves as a physical reminder of the events from the previous night.

You register the dry feeling in your throat, prompting you to want to get up and drink the water that sits on your bedside table before using the restroom. You bite your lip, holding your breath as you slowly and quietly try to slip from Joel’s hold to sit up.

You’re able to get his arm off you enough until only his fingertips graze your waist, and push yourself up onto your elbow to sit up more. You shuffle your legs to slide them off the side of your bed before you feel Joel’s arm reach back around your waist to grab a firm grip on your stomach and pull you back into his chest, closer than you two were a moment ago.

You wince, feeling bad for having woken him up, but that feeling melts away as he mumbles into your hair. “The hell you think you’re goin’, darlin’?”

Your breath catches in your throat as he speaks, sleep making him sound raspier than usual—a deeper voice that vibrates through his chest and against your body, making your heart stutter as you instinctively press your thighs together again. You hear and feel him let out a sigh behind you as he nuzzles his face into the back of your neck, inhaling your scent.

“I was gonna get up and–”

“Mm… No you’re not,” he says, tightening his hold around you. His southern drawl coats his voice even more in his sleepy state, something you think you could hear for the rest of your life.

You bite back a smile at his words, raising an eyebrow before turning your head to try and look back at him. “Oh really?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “You’re too warm. Need you to stay.”

His pouting tone has you lose your fight to stifle a laugh.

“Joel…” you draw out in a whisper. “I really have to pee.”

He lets out a stubborn whine that grows in volume as he stretches his body, ending in a loud groan as he moves himself to lay on his back, freeing you from his hold. You sit up in bed and look back at him lying there with the covers bunched at his waist, one arm slung over his eyes while the other spreads out over the pillow you just had your head on, lips swollen and downturned in a small pout. You wish you could take a picture of this moment—his soft, sleepy features mixed with thick, toned arms… 

Why did you have to get up again? 

“Hurry up and go pee. Need you back ‘ere ‘fore I start gettin’ frustrated.”

Right. That’s what you were getting up for.

Playfully rolling your eyes, you dig your palms into your comforter and carefully push yourself to a standing position, legs wobbling slightly as you feel your muscles throb from the soreness.

Reaching down to take a drink of water, you feel eyes on you and shift your gaze to find Joel squinting one eye open underneath his arm, watching you with a smirk at the weakened state of balance he caused. 

“Don’t even fucking start,” you lightheartedly warn. His smirk widens into a full grin, chest moving as he lets out a deep laugh before he leans his head further back into your pillow and shuts his eyes.

Cocky motherfucker.

You walk over to your bathroom, closing the door before you go to pee. Moving to stand in front of your mirror to wash your hands after, you see marks from the previous night—light bruises littering your neck where Joel had sucked on the skin. You lift your shirt up to see very faint finger-shaped bruising at your side, reminders of the grip he had on you in an act of passion and need. You trace your fingers gently over them, not feeling any pain, but rather pride that something was left on you to show you it was real.

A ghost of a smile grows on your face before you open the door and find Joel in the same position you had left him, chest rising and falling steady as if he fell back asleep. You take a moment to stare at him, your heart aching. 

You walk around to his side of the bed, bending down to pick up and put away some of the clothing that had been hastily thrown across your room. Straightening back up, you feel a hand grab yours to pull you down, a yelp escaping you as the fabric you hold slips from your grasp.

Joel shifts his body to lay on the opposite side he woke up on, pulling you down to lie on your side and facing him. Your mind catches up with the movement and you sigh longingly. Your face sags into your pillow as he places one arm around your waist, palm spread across your back as he pulls you closer to him, the other arm bent underneath the shared pillow.

His face is mere inches from yours, so close you can feel soft air that he exhales from his nose, chest moving slowly against yours. You take the moment to admire his face—eyes shut and features softened into a tranquil state. Face free of any harsh lines, a contrast from the scowl and frown he tends to have permanently on his face. You’re stunned by how beautiful and perfect he looks. This is what he deserves, you think. This feeling, free of any worry and struggle. You wish you could pocket the serenity of this moment and be able to give it to him again and again.

Feeling your stare, Joel slowly blinks his eyes open, eyelashes fluttering against the tops of his cheeks. The moment his eyes meet yours, a sleepy smile causes his lips to quirk up.

“Hi, pretty girl.”

Your throat feels tight as his words overwhelm you. 

“Hi.” 

The memory of the similar greeting from last night hits you both, Joel urgently leaning his face into yours to slot his lips against yours like a puzzle. You sigh into his mouth, body melting at his touch until he pulls away far too soon for your liking. “How you feelin’, darlin’?” 

You nod. “Good… really good,” you finish, feeling shy at your admittance.

Joel’s smile grows. “Me too, baby.”

His honesty without hesitation makes your head spin, relishing in his touch and his closeness to you. You never thought of yourself as a touchy person. The opposite, if you were being honest. Touch was always scarce to you, not having anyone close to you to provide a loving touch. Almost every touch you can remember was harsh, whether you were being grabbed by infected or human threats. The only other touch beside Joel’s that wasn’t threatening was from Tommy and Eugene the day they found you and brought you to Jackson, and the occasional hug from Ellie. Over the past year of being Joel’s friend, being touched by him became a common occurrence for you, realizing that he always seemed to have a hand on or hovering over you any time he was close.

“Want me to go downstairs and make some coffee?” You offer, your thoughts returning to the present.

“Oh, I thought you only drank tea,” he teases you.

You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to make a sarcastic comment back, when you hear the sound of your front door opening followed by footsteps. The noise makes you both freeze in fear, before you hear your name being called. “You home, honey?”

Maria.

You both widen your eyes as if caught, hearing her say, “I tried knocking and got no response, and your front door wasn’t locked… Just wanted to check in on you.” Her footsteps sound closer as you realize she was heading to walk up your steps.

The realization makes you both jump up, quickly scrambling to throw on clothes in a panic, thanking whatever higher being there was that you at least remembered to close your bedroom door before you had gone to sleep. 

Maria calls your name out again in concern, before you call out in response in a high-pitched voice. “Ye– yes! I’m home, sorry, I…”

You trail off as you search through your drawers trying to find pants to throw on. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you knock. I slept in, but I’ll be downstairs in a second!”

Voice a mix of worry and confusion from your tone, she responds, “Okay, no worries. I’ll wait for you in your kitchen.”

Hearing her footsteps retreat, you whip around to see Joel struggling to put his leg through his jeans, hopping on one foot slightly. You whisper yell at him, “You forgot to lock my fucking door?!”

He looks around at the floor, trying to remember the moment last night where he was meant to leave but turned around and kissed you. “I… I mean I was kinda fuckin’ distracted, sweetheart!”

Your panic doesn’t falter, looking around your room for some form of escape while waving your arms out. “Okay, okay just… just stay up here and I’ll go reassure her I’m fine.”

He nods in agreement before you turn and reach for your bedroom door knob, being cut off when he hisses out a whispered, “Wait!”

You turn, confused until he points to your shirt. “You're still wearing my shirt.”

You look down before muttering a curse. As quick as possible, you dig through your sweater draw before you throw on a random one after removing Joel’s shirt.

You take one last look at him before he gives you a quick once-over, offering a thumbs up before you open your door.

Quickly jogging down the stairs, neck reaching to look into your kitchen entrance to see a sign of her in there, you speed walk into your kitchen to see Maria leaning against your island. You give her a big smile, voice cracking as you say, “Hi!”

Her eyebrows twitch into a furrow as she gives you a small, confused smile. “Hi… you’re oddly chipper?”

You take a gulp, settling your nerves. “Oh, just… Ellie was over yesterday to show me some comic books, so… I’m in a good mood I suppose.” You hope that sounds convincing. 

Seeming to believe you, she nods, her expression settling into a warm expression. “I’m really glad, honey. Sorry to stop by unannounced, I wanted to see how you were holding up today and got worried when your door wasn’t locked.”

You nod in false knowing. “Yeah… yeah I was super tired last night so I guess I forgot to lock it before I went to bed,” you end with a shrug and a soft laugh.

A soft clatter is heard from upstairs, Maria looking up there confused as you tense up. 

“My towel rack keeps falling,” you rush out. She gives you a quizzical look as you add, “Damn screws loose—been forgetting to get that fixed.”

Looking slightly amused, Maria says, “Maybe Joel can get that fixed for you–know he’s been working on a lot of things here.” You give her a firm smile before she continues, “Well, I wasn’t going to keep you long. Had time to stop by before I have to head for a town meeting.” She begins walking out of the kitchen and towards your front door with you following in tow. “Happy to see you’re feeling alright.”

Walking past your couch, she stops short. You follow her gaze to see Joel’s guitar leaning against the back of your couch.

For fuck’s sake.

“Ellie brought that over here yesterday. She’s been wanting to teach me, so… showed me a few notes. Guess she left it here before she went to Jesse’s place.”

Maria nods and looks over her shoulder at you, giving you a smile. “Guitar playing and comic books. It makes sense you were so tired.”

You try to return her smile as genuine as possible, your nerves coursing through you like crazy as you anticipate her leaving to prevent an awkward encounter.

You open the door for her, the two of you saying your goodbyes as she walks down the steps. As you start to shut your door, she calls your name, turning around like she remembered something. Raising your eyebrows, you wait for her to speak.

“By the way, you might want to wear a different sweater if you go into town today… maybe something with a turtleneck,” she says, eyes dropping to your neck and pointing to her own.

You freeze, slowly looking down to realize the top you hastily grabbed happened to be one of the only scoop-neck sweaters you own, currently showcasing the purple and red splotches that span your chest and neck.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

You reach your hand up to your neck, holding the base before you look back up at her with a tight-lipped smile, cheeks red from being caught as you notice the smirk on her face. “Also, there’s some clothes on your stairs. Could be a tripping hazard.”

Oh… she knew the whole time.

“Thanks, Maria…” you quietly mutter. 

She laughs with a shake of her head, making her way down your walkway onto the street.

You close the door, leaning both your palms against the door and lightly bang your forehead against it. Behind you, you hear the sound of footsteps hesitantly walking down your stairs. You turn to see Joel standing at the base of the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest, now dressed in his jeans from yesterday and the shirt you went to sleep in, leaning against the railing with a similar smirk that Maria had a moment ago.

“Heard ya got a towel rack that needs fixin’.”

You watch as he tries to suppress a laugh while you give him a warning look. You point up in the air, spinning your finger around before moving to point it at him while saying, “This was all your fault.”

No longer able to hold back, he barks out a loud laugh at that, shifting into a small chuckle when you try to march past him and into the kitchen. He stops you by reaching out for your hand with his, your face pouting as you let out a whine.

“Hey,” he says with a wide smile on his face. “It’s okay, darlin’, she doesn’t care.”

You fight the urge to stomp your foot as you place your palms on his chest. “I know, just… that’s so awkward. What if she tells Tommy?”

Joel’s expression doesn’t falter. “So?”

At his nonchalant response, you realize how stupid you sound. You suppose a part of you thought Joel wouldn’t want people knowing about you two, if there even was a “you two”. 

His calm demeanor transfers onto you, causing you to huff out in response, the anxiety of the awkward experience leaving you as you drop your forehead onto his chest. Joel laughs, soothingly rubbing your back with his hands before he pushes you back by your shoulders. “Why don’t we keep things just between us for now? Savor the moment and all that. Would that make you feel better?”

“Us and Maria,” you correct, grumbling slightly. Your response only makes Joel’s grin widen. “That’s right. Us and Maria.”

You nod because in truth, you don’t mind Maria knowing. It’s more the embarrassment of being caught before you can even figure out what you and Joel are now—before you can even enjoy yourselves without others knowing.

Cutting you out of your thoughts, Joel offers, “How ‘bout I cook us up some breakfast? Promise there will be both tea and coffee.”

It annoys you, almost. How easy he’s able to calm you. How he has the ability to ease your worries in an instant. 

You nod and let him take your hand to lead you into the kitchen where you watch in comfortable silence as he moves so effortlessly around the space, having been in your home often enough that it’s like he was made to be here. Finishing cooking up some eggs and toast for you two, with tea and coffee, he informs you of his plans for the day.

“Promised Ellie I’d fix Dina’s family’s mailbox today, so I gotta go home to change before I do that. Then I might get some late lunch with Tommy down at the Tipsy Bison. You wanna join?”

Having finished your meal, you listen to him with your head propped in the palm of your hand, leaning your elbows on the table. “No, that’s okay,” you say. “I have some shopping to do. I need some new winter clothes—lots of mine are all tattered from last year so I wanna get ahead of that before fall starts. Plus, apparently I have to pick up some more coffee grounds on the way home.”

Joel smiles at you, nodding in understanding before he clears his throat and you watch his expression shift to uncertainty. He sets his fork down, grabbing his coffee cup before looking at you. “These next couple days I got some supply runs to make with Tommy, but I was wonderin’ if you were free over the weekend?”

You think about it briefly before nodding. “Yeah, I’ll be free. You got something in mind?”

“Was just thinking… Would you, um… would you wanna come over for dinner?”

Your eyebrows go up a bit at his question. “Dinner?”

His words come out more sure this time. “Yeah, I want you over for dinner. Make ya a proper meal and what not. Like… a date.” At the last part of the sentence, he shifts his eyes down to his now empty coffee mug.

The sentiment of the offer, along with his shyness that comes with it, makes your heart pound. A smile grows on your face as you try not to seem too excited while letting your voice slip into a soft and teasing tone. “You wanna take me on a date, Miller?”

His cheeks burn red at your words and teasing tone. “Yeah… I really do, darlin’.” He looks back up at you with a shy smile, relief coursing over him as he sees your smile. 

“I’d love that.”

His smile grows as he stands up, taking your plates before washing them in your sink. You both fall into easy conversation as you help dry the clean dishes—Joel only giving you grief for helping him once, muttering an, “I got it, darlin’, don’t worry.”

Progress.

Needing to get to Dina’s, you walk him to your door where he grabs his coat that lies on your stairs from last night, taking his guitar with him before stopping at your door. He leans down to plant a slow, long kiss to your lips. Your body melts into him on instinct, head tilting back as Joel lets out a hum of approval at the feeling. 

He pulls away, kissing the tip of your nose before smiling at you. “Shouldn’t be too busy this week, so I’ll see you ‘round ‘til Saturday night, yeah?”

You nod, your brain feeling fuzzy. “You got it, Miller.”

His smile grows at your agreeance, hand twisting your doorknob to open it, you watch him as he walks across the street and into his own home. You close your door and turn around, body alight with anticipation for the weekend.

The date never came. 

It wasn’t Joel’s fault, at all. In fact, he was getting increasingly frustrated as the days went on, which only amused you.

Those couple day supply runs with Tommy turned into finding a few abandoned posts out west, which led to more groups needing to go over there and collect everything to bring back home—Joel included. 

When they came back to gather more crew members to take on the journey, he was able to stop by your house for a few hours. You softly scolded him, saying he should spend the little time he had to rest. “This is restin’,” he’d said as he sprawled on your couch next to you, propping his face on his hand as the other played with your hair. He said he wanted to hear about your days, so you did as he watched you attentively. 

Boring, you told him, because it was. Usual stable work, helping out around town, getting some food from the markets and spending some time with Ellie whenever she got out of school.

You didn’t include the many hours you spent sitting in your house looking out the window and eyeing the clock, as if it would make time go by any faster and bring him back to Jackson any sooner.

So, Joel had to move the date to the following week when they got back. The same week that just so happened to be when the mess hall’s plumbing system broke. 

You remember that Monday morning when Joel had come to your door with some pastries Ellie brought home from Dina’s. He was all warm smiles with tired eyes—his body sagging a bit from the weight of the previous week’s labor. Regardless, he still had made time to see you that morning. The first time he’d seen you in days ever since they came back the second time, and he spent all of twenty minutes in your kitchen before there was knocking at your front door. 

You opened it to find Tommy, who said he was looking for Joel and couldn’t find him in his own home. The younger Miller looked disheveled and panicked, but annoyed. Hearing the noise, Joel had walked to your door and immediately rolled his eyes at the sight of his brother.

Tommy started mentioning something about busted pipes, the cooks not being able to get everything out on time due to the lack of water, and that Joel’s help was needed and urgent.

“I know, man. Last thing I want today is to have to deal with this after we just got back but it’s urgent,” Tommy said, pleading with his eyes.

Joel sighed deeply, looking at you with remorse which you quickly brushed off. “Don’t worry about me. You go be the town’s Bob the Builder and when it’s all done you can finally rest.”

He softly scoffed at your comment and promised he’d see you that night. Except, there ended up being more problems with the pipes than was originally thought, so he got home late and stopped at your house to tell you it was going to be a three day job. 

You could see the frustration in his tone and body language, mixed with the longing in his eyes—similar to how you were feeling on the inside. More than anything you wanted to be alone with him, and you could see he wanted the same thing, but you didn’t want to rush him or make him feel bad. Things happen, and you reassured you would see him when you see him.

The next couple days passed by slower. You would stop by at the mess hall to catch a glimpse of him—bringing him lunch or coffee as an excuse to be close to him, even if briefly. 

You two were in public, though, and neither of you wanted to share what you had just yet. Because you hadn’t had a proper moment together since that night, it was agreed that for right now, you wanted to keep it between you two.

Plus, Maria. Maria, who, while quiet about it, couldn’t help but send you a knowing smile when she saw you come in each day to bring something for Joel. 

The first time you did it, she made a remark about having nothing for the others. Thankfully, she whispered it to you so no one else had heard, but that didn’t stop your face from growing warm. You would look at her and see the teasing nature in her features, but there was also a softness to them.

It was her who you had gone to about your conflicting feelings for Joel. She was the one who you had confided in. And, despite her own worries about Joel, she was honest in what she thought he felt for you—something you’d be forever grateful for.

So you returned her smirks, and you tried to ignore the way she’d watch when you spoke with Joel, only to look over and see her with that same suppressed excitement on her face. The look of, I told you so.

Joel was subtle about things when he saw you. A lingering hold on your hand as you gave him a coffee mug. His body would stand just inches closer than it needed to be. Stopping out back to get some fresh air, when really he just wanted to kiss you without eyes watching. It was killing you, really. The burning itch to feel him and be close to him only grew each passing day.

When the job was done, and everything was fixed, Joel came to your house first. He trudged through your doors and fell onto your couch, throwing his head back and sighing deeply with his eyes closed and the heels of his palms digging into his shut eyes. You made him a plate of the dinner you were preparing for yourself, wishing you had made more, but you thought the project wouldn’t be done for another day.

The two of you spent that night talking and watching some movie in your living room as you ate, but his eyes grew heavy and you forced him to go to sleep. He only argued a couple times before he asked, with his brown eyes round and big, if he could stay here with you. You could’ve rolled your eyes at his dramatic puppy dog look, but really there was nothing you wanted more either. 

When he washed up and got dressed for bed, he sank deep into your mattress and in your arms before sleep took him swiftly with you following suit not long after—feeling like you could breathe better with him there.

The next day, Joel woke up practically bouncing on his feet. You squinted at him, wondering what he was so excited about, when he mentioned the date. That’s when your eyes fell shut and you cursed. “I promised Ellie I’d help her with her art project today. She has to do a portrait of someone in town by tomorrow.”

His face flickered with sadness for a moment before he smiled. “That’s alright, darlin’. Can’t say I’m mad at the idea of a portrait of you being made.” You smiled at him when he finished his sentence with a wink. “How’s tomorrow night sound?”

“Perfect,” you replied, relief flooding you.

Clean, warm clothes are a luxury that you’ve quickly gotten used to during your time in Jackson. Having a closet and drawers filled with different colors and fabrics was something so rare in this world. 

Most times you only had the clothes on your body—the material stained and torn from blood and dirt. Over your time here, you had begun to pick out different articles of clothing that felt more suited to you, yet the simplicity stuck with you, keeping your choices to a minimum.

You’ve never regretted that more until now.

You look over at the clock on your bedside table for the hundredth time, reading 6:17 p.m., only two minutes from when you last looked. Turning back to your drawers, you begin to dig through them again, a frustrated groan ripping from your throat at the fact that you didn’t magically have more clothes appear.

You had finished all your plans for the day, coming back home around five in the evening to shower and get dressed for your dinner with Joel. Washing up didn’t take long. What’s taking so long is trying to find something somewhat nice, something that isn’t just a neutral colored shirt and a pair of jeans. Would’ve been nice if you thought of this problem while out shopping for clothes for the upcoming winter, you think.

You slam your drawer shut, marching over to your small closet door to flip through the hangers in there. God, how did you have nothing nice? People here had dress shirts and dresses, why the hell did you not have any? 

You know why—because you’ve never cared. Your appearance never bothered you in the slightest, seeing yourself and your clothing as only ever something that either helped or hurt your chances of survival. 

Tapping your foot and biting the inside of your cheek, your eyes quickly scan for something that looks somewhat decent, like you put thought and effort behind it. Your best option right now seems to be some deep burgundy long-sleeve top and the nicest pair of dark jeans you can find paired with some combat boots.

Finished dressing, you walk yourself over to your mirror, looking over yourself with hypercriticism—uneasiness consuming you. You let out a sigh before deciding to stop overthinking it. For almost two weeks, you had been anticipating the evening that kept needing to get pushed off. It’s just dinner, you tell yourself. A date. You can do a date.

Stopping at your bathroom mirror to try and fix your hair, you make your way back to your dresser to find some necklaces Maria had given you for your birthday. Looking at your clock, you see you have about twenty minutes still before Joel shows up, so you decide to wait by fixing some stuff up around your house.

… Or pace in your kitchen, biting your nails nervously. Both options seemed productive.

Time seemed to move slower as you kept walking in circles around your kitchen island, eyes flicking to your clock hung on a wall here. Two minutes before seven, you hear three knocks on your door. The sound immediately puts you into action, walking quickly to your door before pausing with your hand hovering over the handle. You try and force yourself to relax, taking a composing deep breath in before slowly opening the door.

You were met with Joel standing on your door mat, shifting on his feet with his left hand in his pocket and the other placed behind his back. Taking in his form, you see his attire of his typical combat boots on, faded dark wash jeans, and a black buttoned-up collared shirt—noticing on the arm that was exposed that he had the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, making you focus on his toned forearms, your throat going dry at the skin.

You lift your eyes to see his hair slightly damp, the waves pushed back with a few stray curls dipping in front of his forehead, and a freshly trimmed beard. He smelled of sandalwood and vanilla and whiskey and… you needed to calm down.

Eyes meeting his own, you find him looking over you as well as his Adam's apple bobs in his throat.

“Hi, darlin’.”

The sound of his honey-coated voice makes you feel like your knees could give out. Whatever nerves you had immediately dissipates at the sight of him. At hearing his voice. You aren’t given a chance to respond when he moves the arm placed behind his back to showcase what looks like a hand-picked bunch of flowers tied with a white ribbon—red roses, asters, and poppies organized neatly.

You stare at the flowers, lips parting open slightly as you feel your throat constrict with emotion. “You got me flowers?”

A sheepish smile grows on his face. “It’s silly, I know, but… what can I say? I’m an old-fashioned kinda guy.”

You shake your head as you try to prevent yourself from tearing up. “It’s not silly. They’re beautiful, Joel… thank you.”

Hearing your reassurance that you like them, Joel’s smile transforms into a more confident one and he gently hands you the hand-made bouquet. You take them and bring them to your nose. “Where did you get these?”

Joel shrugs with one shoulder. “Jackson’s greenhouses have roses sometimes, so I stopped there. Luckily they had ‘em, and the poppies I had seen on a trail outside Jackson—went with Tommy earlier to pick ‘em.”

You find yourself unable to speak and Joel just takes over. “You wanna put ‘em in your place or bring ‘em with us?” He trails off, frowning to himself. “Shit… I should’ve had some set up for dinner too.”

You smile at his nervousness and offer, “How about I put them in a vase in my kitchen, and take a couple to bring to yours?”

“Sounds good to me, darlin’,” he says with a bright smile.

You quickly rush in to fill a vase with water and put the flowers in them before taking out five or so to bring with you, and walk back to meet Joel outside. He gives you a soft smile when you turn back from closing your door, and places his hand at the small of your back to guide you both across the street to his home.

He ushers you inside first and the smell of food coming from the kitchen hits you instantly. You peer into his dining room, which is almost never used, to find one of the seats on the longer side of the rectangular table has been moved over to sit close to the chair at the head of the table. Placed on the table in front of the seats are pairs of utensils, napkins, and empty wine glasses. Candles are set around the table to add light to the room along with the tall lamp that sits in the corner. 

You look back to him, stunned, and find him eyeing your reaction for reassurance. With a soft laugh he leads you over to the seat at the head of the table, pulling out your chair for you before pushing you in gently.

“Let me go put these up and then I’ll set up the plates,” he says, before taking the small bunch of flowers into the kitchen and soon comes back with them in a tall mason jar filled with water. After placing them in front of your two seats, he kisses the top of your head and disappears into the kitchen behind you. 

You take the moment to look around, taking in the details that surround you that he clearly put thought into. You can’t recall a time where anyone had put in so much effort to prepare something special for you, even from when you were a child before the outbreak.

Behind you, you hear the sounds of plates clanging and pots banging before Joel’s footsteps appear. Rounding the table, he places a dish in front of yours and his seat, filled with what looks like steak, roasted potatoes, and carrots prepared on the plate. He walks over to his wine rack in the corner of the room, pulling what he knows is your favorite red wine, and pouring them into the glasses set before you both

You take a deep breath, looking at Joel as he sits into the seat on your left. “Joel…”

He looks up at you with nervous but kind eyes as you try to find the proper words. “This is… this is all so nice I–” You have to swallow before adding, “I just… thank you.”

A smile graces his face, eyes glittering in the warm lighting. “‘Course, darlin’,” he says softly, and like it was the simplest gesture ever. “Now I ain’t the best cook, but I tried to make somethin’ that seemed simple enough,” he ends with a laugh.

You pick up your utensils and begin cutting into the food. “I’m sure it tastes as good as it looks.”

You were right. The meal was delicious with the wine pairing amazingly. As the two of you continue to eat your meals, you dive into conversations about yourselves, things happening in town, properly talking about how your days have been in between your previous rushed interactions. Joel goes into the workings of the plumbing crisis—complaining about some of the other workers who had attempted to fix the issue before Joel and Tommy got involved.

After sharing a bit about the topic, Joel sets his fork and knife down onto his plate before speaking. “So… Tommy knows.”

Your silence as you freeze when bringing your glass to your mouth is the only response Joel gets for a moment. “Yeah,” he says. “Looks like Maria told him.”

“What did he say about it?”

At your question, he rolls his eyes when recalling the memory. “Nothin’ bad. Mainly just got on my ass about, ‘It took you long enough’,” he ends in a scoff before frowning. “Started sayin’ some shit about me gettin’ somethin’ called… eject… ejection dis…”

You choke on your wine, looking up at Joel with wide eyes to see him holding back a snicker as his expression sits between amusement and concern at your reaction. “Erectile dysfunction?!” You blurt out after you catch your breath.

Joel looks up at you confused, nodding. “Yeah, that. The fuck is that?”

You wipe away the bits of wine that are sliding down the sides of your mouth and swallow before looking down at the tablecloth. “Um… it’s like, when you’re older…” you trail off at the end with a wince, feeling bad for the words. “And, like, your… penis struggles to… ya know.”

Joel’s eyes widen and flash with anger before bringing his fist down on the table and pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, muttering, “Fuckin’ dickhead.” A second later, he looks up at you with his brows furrowed. “Wait, how the hell you know ‘bout that?”

You shrug. “Health class, I guess?”

He looks off and sighs. “Well shit. Guess that’s what I get for droppin’ out.” Another thought seems to come to his mind, shaking his head in confusion. “Wait, wait… darlin’, how the hell you know about this… ‘erection malfunction’ shit, but looked confused when I wanted my mouth on ya?”

The crassness throws you off guard a moment before you reply, “I don’t know… they didn’t really teach us about that stuff, I suppose. It was mainly just periods for the girls and erections for the guys.”

Joel shakes his head in disbelief at that. “Shit’s fuckin’ stupid. Ain’t nothin’ valuable came from those damn classes.” 

He focuses back on your meals, placing his hands on the table and standing up when he notices you both have finished. Grabbing your plates, Joel begins to walk into the kitchen which prompts you to get up with the intention of following him. He turns sharply back at you, giving you a look of disapproval. “Hey, uh-uh, sit your ass back down,” he says playfully.

You give him a deadpan look. “What, so you always have to wash my dishes yet I can’t help you with yours?”

Joel looks at you like the answer is obvious, nodding his head to tell you to sit back down. “I don’t have to wash your own dishes, I just want to. What I have to do is take care of your properly tonight by makin’ you dinner and putin’ away my own damn dishes,” he says with exaggeration. “Now, sit, I have a surprise for you.” You roll your eyes playfully, sitting down and waiting for him to come back.

After a few minutes, you hear him returning behind you telling you to close your eyes. “Is this where you kill me?” You ask, eyes already shutting.

You hear him laugh before placing something in front of you. “Don’t have any immediate plans for that yet, darlin’,” he teases.

You smirk and feel him sit back in his seat, telling you to open your eyes. It takes you a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, but when you do, you notice a plate of about ten pieces of…

You gasp in disbelief, snapping your head up to Joel with your jaw dropped and eyes wide. At your reaction, his cheeks flush and he gives a small smirk, looking proud of himself.

“Is that… Joel, are those chocolate-covered strawberries?” You ask incredulously.

He nods. “They sure are, baby.”

You begin looking between him and the fruits placed in front of you that are drizzled with ropes of chocolate, trying to figure out how. 

Noticing your stunned silence, he speaks up. “I remember you sayin’ your favorite dessert from before was chocolate-covered strawberries… Now, the strawberries were easy to get from the farmer’s corner, obviously. But–”

“But the chocolate?!” You half screech out.

Laughing at your reaction, Joel continues. “Yes, the chocolate… Eugene somehow had some cacao beans. He showed Maria, Tommy, and me how to make some chocolate a few weeks back and, well…” He trails off and gestures to the plate. “S’why I was real annoyed with our date gettin’ pushed back. Wanted to make sure I had the proper chance to get these made for ya.”

Joel grows more nervous at your expression and silence. Trying to minimize the effort, he says, “M’sure it’s not as sweet as it could be, but–”

“Joel,” you interrupt firmly, looking at him with big eyes. “You. Made. Chocolate.”

Joel takes your tone for happiness, his nerves calming a bit. “I did,” he softly says.

You keep looking back and forth between him and the strawberries, mouth fluttering open and closed, wishing you knew enough words in the English language to express how you feel inside. 

Feeling Joel reach out to take your hand in his gently, he speaks your name to grab your attention. “Was this okay?”

You look at him like he’s crazy. “What the fuck kind of question is that, Joel? This is…” 

Unsure what to say, you lurch yourself forward, bunching up the front of his shirt as you grip the fabric there, pulling him into you for a kiss. You hear a surprised sound in the back of his throat, body freezing for a moment at the unexpected act before leaning into you and meeting you with the same amount of force.

You linger on him before pulling away, the two of you breathing rapidly as you stare at each other’s lips, the space between your faces small. You feel warm all over as you realize how flushed your cheeks feel, having a feeling it wasn’t just because of the couple of glasses of wine you had been nursing.

Swallowing the saliva that has accumulated in your throat, you slowly lean back into your seat and notice Joel’s own flushed appearance—how dilated his pupils are, even in the dim light. 

Joel matches your own gulp, clearing his throat before gesturing to the dessert. “Help yourself, darlin’.”

You reach to grab a piece, staring at it in awe before wrapping your lips around the fruit and biting down, a moan leaving you instinctively as the sweetness fills your mouth, eyes falling shut. He was right—it wasn’t as sweet as standard chocolate might’ve been years ago. But you didn’t care. It was still the best thing you’ve ever tasted in decades.

You peer up at Joel and find him staring at the dessert being held up to your lips, his mouth parted open slightly as he holds a clenched fist on the table beside his wine glass.

“Good?” He asks, voice thick and hoarse. You eagerly nod. “Very good. Joel this is… God, I can’t believe you made this.”

He seems to steady his thoughts a bit more, chuckling before taking his own strawberry as the two of you continue to finish the plate.

A short while later, strawberries finished and the wine bottle empty, Joel takes your hand before leading you upstairs. “Don’t think I’ve ever properly showed you the upstairs.”

He was right—all your time spent here was either in the kitchen or living room, and almost, if not always, with Ellie present. The most you recall is when you had come up here drunk one night, taking back your sweater when you saw Joel’s guitar.

Making your way to a door, you notice the small tables along the open space at the top of the stairs—photos of Joel and Tommy placed on them along with pictures of wildlife hung on the walls. Details that you hadn’t noticed in your drunken state before.

He pushes open the door to his office revealing desks along the walls, a makeshift workshop, you realize. On the desks lay carvings of wood—really beautiful wood carvings in all sorts of shapes. Reference photos that seem to be ripped out from books showcase different animals and are pinned above the desk. Wolves, deer, moose, horses… all meticulously carved to unbelievable accuracy, the art leaving you in awe. On another table lay pieces of guitars and guitar strings as well as cleaning equipment, paintbrushes, and different tools for them.

“Do you make guitars?” You ask with a soft gasp, stunned.

“Not quite. I find pieces and refurbish ‘em to make ‘em look and sound more new.”

That bit of information makes your heart swell in size, astounded at how privately talented and creative this man was. 

You look over to see a chair in one corner of the room with a stand placed in front of it—sheet music booklets are opened and propped up there with guitars hung on the wall it sits against.

“Joel… these are… fuck. This is all so beautiful,” you say, turning to him and lifting your brows in emphasis.

His cheeks and the tops of his ear redden even more at your words, bringing a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Guess I should start makin’ ya somethin’. Never really expected people to find interest in this stuff.”

You look at him in disbelief at his doubt. “This is… so fucking cool.”

He smiles bashfully and leads you to a closed door at the end of the hallway—a door you previously thought was his bedroom.

He opens it, making you realize you were right. As you walk into a large entryway, you see a long dresser sitting at the end of the space with paintings propped up on the sides right below a wide window. To your right is a spacious walk-in closet—a quick peek inside showing you the many coats and flannels you have seen him wear everyday, including his classic light brown winter coat with fur lining the collar. 

Past the closet, closer to the dresser, is his bathroom. Glancing inside, you see it’s also fairly big with two sinks and mirrors at the vanity, and a bathtub with a showerhead that matches yours. 

To the left of the entrance to the area is his actual bedroom. A tall and wide open entryway showcases his large bed placed against the left side of the wall, a huge painting of horses in a field hanging over the headboard, and a big carpet laying underneath his bed. Across from his bed is another wide window with a lounge chair sitting in the corner right beside a small desk with a lamp. Other details you notice about the room include the tall bookcase that has a combination of books and wood carvings, a chest at the foot of his bed with a cushion for seating, floating bookshelves with more stacked books, a wood carving of the state of Texas hanging on his wall, and a box of vinyls next to a guitar propped up beside his bookcase.

The main thing that grabs your attention is, back on the dresser directly ahead of you when you first walked in here, two photo frames sitting on either side of a wood carving of an eagle. You walk towards it and hear Joel take in a sharp breath and hold it as he hovers behind you, but makes no move to stop you. 

You pick up the photo on the right of the eagle to see a picture of Ellie and Joel at the stables, Ellie seeming to be around the age she was when you first arrived in Jackson. Smiling at the glimpse of his memories, you set it down before you look over to the photo on the left. 

You feel Joel walk up behind you, wrapping his arms around your stomach and leaning his head onto your shoulder. You frown in confusion as you pick up the other photo, seeing a young man in a grey shirt, arm slung around a young girl wearing a blue and white striped jersey, holding up a trophy and a peace sign, both of them smiling wide on what looks like a school field.

Your expression morphs into realization—the gasp that leaves you making Joel’s grip around you tighten, inhaling deeply behind you.

The man, you realize, is Joel. A younger Joel, but taking a closer look, it’s impossible to not recognize his beautiful brown eyes and charming smile. And the girl…

“Is that…” you trail off, fingers ghosting over her face in the photo.

“... Yeah,” Joel says into your ear, voice cracking. “Was after she won a soccer tournament.”

Your throat tightens and you say the only thing you thought when you first picked up the photo. “She’s beautiful, Joel.”

You feel a shudder from his body against your back, a shaky breath leaving him. “Must’ve gotten it from her mom.” 

You reach your right hand up to the side of his face over your right shoulder and turn your face back to look at him, noticing the glassy look in his eyes that you assume matches your own.

“I see so much of you in her, Joel. She’s as beautiful as you are,” you say, sincerity filling your tone.

Joel stares at you, eyes flickering between both of yours and his lips parted in surprise at your words. He blinks furiously and he clears his throat—the sound of your voice as you say it makes it hard to not believe you.

You look back down to the photo, about to place it back down when you notice what’s on his left wrist in the picture.

“Hey,” you softly say. “That’s your watch, isn’t it?”

You feel Joel nod against your shoulder. “It is. Sarah got it fixed up for me for my… um, as a surprise, I mean. It’s since gotten cracked and don’t work right anymore, but…”

Without needing to finish his thought, you understand what he means—placing the photo down and turning yourself in his arms. You interlock your hands behind his back, leaning your chest into his as you tilt your head back to look up at him. He lifts his hands to hold the sides of your face as you say, “Thank you for this.”

He stands there a moment, silent, looking at you intensely until you speak up again. “Thank you for showing me these parts of your life. For allowing me to see glimpses of your life with these two girls.”

Joel’s eyes flick between yours rapidly, sucking in his breath as his brows push together and form a hard line. He looks down to your mouth, leaning into you to press a slow, sweet kiss on your lips. You instantly reciprocate, matching his movements with your own. 

He pulls away, taking your hand and leading you towards his room, encouraging you to take a deeper look around as he sits on his bed. You walk over to his bookcase, head tilted to read the titles of the books on the spines. You shift your attention to the box of vinyls, bending down to flip through them for a minute.

When you straighten back up, you notice a robe on the back of Joel’s bedroom door that makes you want to smile at the thought of him wearing it. You walk past Joel sitting on his bed, noticing him watching you meticulously as you walk up to the bedside table on the side of the bed he sits on. You reach down to grab a book that lays on the table. An Idiot’s Guide To Space, you read.

Holding it up in the air, you look back at him questionably as he lets out a small laugh. “Ellie’s doin’. The kiddo loves space so much I decided to try to learn more about it.”

It’s moments like these when he says something like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that makes you wonder if he knows how thoughtful of a human being he is.

You lean to place the book back down on the small table and Joel speaks up again. “Speaking of Ellie…”

You walk a few steps over to him when his hand reaches out to grab yours and pull you close to him—stumbling a bit at the tug and placing your hands on his shoulder as you steady yourself. He spreads his legs open to have you standing over him between his thighs as he wraps his arms around the back of your thighs and pulls your body to arch into him, his chin resting on your stomach as he looks up at you. You look down at the sight, feeling your throat go dry from the way he’s looking at you.

“I think we should tell Ellie first before she hears anythin’ from Tommy and Maria,” he says.

You nod your head as your hands move to the back of his head to absentmindedly run your fingers through his soft curls. “Okay,” you respond. “We can try and find some time this week to tell her.”

Joel’s eyes shut at the feeling of your touch, opening them a moment later for you to see more black in them than brown. Your stomach twists in knots at the look on his face that reminds you so much of how he looked at you that night, weeks ago, and you feel his touch around your thighs burning your skin through your jeans.

He moves one hand from the back of your thighs up to the small of your back, pressing enough to cause you to fall forward at the loss of balance. You try to right yourself as your knees fall into the bed on either side of his hips, your hands moving from his hair to his shoulders to try and take some of your weight off him. 

This position causes you to straddle him, a fact that Joel seems more than pleased by based on the smirk that crosses his face. He moves his hands to place one on your hip and the other underneath your chin, your face now level with his as you both sit vertically on the bed. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, the touch making you unconsciously part your mouth ever so slightly, Joel taking the chance to dip the very tip of his thumb between your lips. On instinct, your lips close around his finger, bringing out a deep sound that mimics a cross between a groan and a growl from the back of Joel’s throat.

Swallowing deeply, he whispers in a raspy tone, “Did you wanna spend the night here with me?”

You nod without thinking, mouth opening as he slips his thumb out from between your lips for you to stutter out a response. “Ye–yes…”

He nods, eyes trained on your lips. “Good… I want you here with me. I got plans for us.”

You giggle at that. “What’s with you and all these plans, huh?”

He smirks, face moving even closer to yours until your lips are brushing against each other. The contact makes you lean forward, but he pulls back ever so slightly in a teasing manner, causing an involuntary whine to leave your mouth and Joel’s smirk only grows at the sound.

“I have lots of time wasted with you to catch up on. Plus, I need to do my due diligence as an American citizen to make sure you get the proper education you lacked in health class.”

You snort but his teasing tone and implication behind his words make you press your thighs together. Thankfully, he pushes forward to kiss you hungrily, your mouths opening instantly to let your tongues twist and slide over each other. It’s messy, more desperate—the two of you having broken the barrier of uncertainty, leaving only pure carnal wants and needs.

You take a deep inhale through your nose, pushing yourself further into him as your hands begin to grab and lightly tug strands of his hair at the nape of his neck. His hand that was on your chin slides into your hair, matching your own grip you have in his hair while his other hand roams wildly across your back and to your hip, groping your skin as if he can’t get enough.

At some point, without you realizing, you began to lower and grind your center over his, only now feeling the result of the contact when the hardness under his jeans nudges your core. You gasp at the feeling, face pulling away to drop your jaw to your chin. Joel takes the opportunity to tug gently, but with purpose, at your hair, forcing your head back to expose your throat to him. With access to your neck, he begins to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses to the skin—switching between sucking, biting, and licking the space.

The feeling causes you to moan lightly, your hips moving harder down against him, the friction forcing a whimper to leave your throat.

Hearing your reaction, Joel reaches his hands down to the hem of your shirt, mumbling out a rushed, “This. Off. Now.”

You let him lift the shirt up and over your head, his hands already grabbing at the clasp of your bra and undoing it with ease, sliding the straps down your arms and throwing it somewhere on the floor behind you.

His mouth lowers and latches onto one of your hardening nipples—pleasure washing over you as he continues the movements he made on your neck onto your chest.

Equally desperate to feel him, you fumble to undo the buttons of his shirt. Your struggle catches Joel’s attention and he looks down briefly before ripping the rest of the few buttons of his shirt off, shrugging the material off him quickly. 

You gasp in shock at the action. “Joel! Your buttons just–”

He cuts you off, hands pulling your face back this his, mumbling against your lips. “Don’t fuckin’ care about no damn buttons, darlin’.” You have no chance to respond as his kiss causes your brain to malfunction for a brief moment before kissing him back with the same urgency.

Something comes over you and you reach down to unbuckle his belt, slipping it off and hearing it clatter to the ground with a soft clink, your hands shaking as you unbutton his jeans and slide the zipper down. At the realization of you initiating the act, Joel seems to go feral, his hands moving down to your own jeans before he gestures to you to stand up off him. “Lemme take these off you, baby.”

You swiftly obey, standing so he can unbutton and slide your jeans off, leaving kisses to the tops of your thighs as he reveals the skin. His finger slips into the sides of your underwear before he slides those down and has you step out of your last bits of clothing.

You stand there as he lifts his hips up to take off his own pants and boxers, his hardened cock hitting his stomach. Your heart pounds at the sight as he pulls you onto the bed. “Need you on my mouth, darlin.”

Dizzily, you nod in understanding and move to lay down on the bed before you pause—confused when Joel leans back so his head hits his pillow. Why is he the one lying down right now? Did he mean something else?

He looks up at you, raising an eyebrow in impatience before you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Waitin’ for you to get your next health class lesson,” Joel says with a stifled laugh and a smirk.

Your face scrunches in further confusion. What?

His eyebrows twitch in amusement for a moment before the realization dawns on him—you truly don’t know what he means.

Joel leans up with his face softened, more gentle, and pats his chest. “You’re gonna straddle me, okay?”

Still slightly confused, you crawl your body over him until you hover over his cock. He pats his chest again, taking your hand and tugging you to crawl up. “Need you higher than that, darlin’?”

You feel frustrated at your lack of understanding, before you look between his chest and his mouth, your mind slowly catching up as your eyes widen and your mouth flutters open and shut. “Wha– what? Why? You… I can’t do that.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “You absolutely can, darlin’. In fact, I highly encourage it.”

You shake your head as insecurity takes over you unexpectedly. “You… I– Joel, I’ll suffocate you?” You say with your voice going up in question at the end.

His eyes fall shut in pleasure before he looks back up at you. “And I can’t tell ya how much I want that, pretty girl.”

The name makes your head spin momentarily before you shift nervously above his hips. Seeing your hesitation, Joel drops the teasing nature and rubs his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “Darlin’, if you really don’t want to do this, then you absolutely do not have to, okay? M’not forcin’ ya, I just want you to know that I want this.”

Your eyes scan his face for any sign of a lie but find none. “Are you absolutely sure? What if I hurt you?”

He takes your hand in his, wrapping his pinky finger around yours. “Swear I’m sure, baby. Believe me, you ain’t gonna hurt me.”

You sit there for a moment, debating while Joel lays patiently without judgment. You chew the inside of your cheek before you place your hands on his chest and begin to crawl your body further up his.

A low moan leaves his lips, Joel helping you situate yourself properly until you hover over his chest—his hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs to keep a grip on your hips.

His eyes lock onto your pussy before back to your face, the sight so sinfully beautiful that you let out a gasp. Your anxiety oddly mixes in with the desire you feel—overwhelmed with having a clear view of him below you and his breath feeling hot against your aching center.

“Already so wet for me, darlin’,” he mumbles to himself more than to you. Joel guides you forward, a gentle pressure against your thighs to push you forward. “Just put yourself on my mouth, baby. If you want me to stop at any point just tell me, okay?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut as you lower yourself carefully over him, only hovering until you get close enough to his mouth. The moment he feels you, he pulls you down closer to his mouth and moans as he instantly dips his tongue in you. The sensation makes your jaw drop, moaning as you place your hand on the wall in front of you while trying to keep as much of your weight off of him as possible. 

Meanwhile, Joel sounds like a man starved—completely possessed as you look down to see his eyes shut in bliss, kissing and licking inside you before moving up to suck on your clit.

A few moments pass of you still trying to keep control despite how good it feels, hyper aware of your positioning at all times. Picking up on this, Joel opens his eyes and pulls away from you, a whine leaving your throat from the loss of contact. You look down to see his lips reddened and his face flushed as the area around his mouth glistens from your slick.

“I need you on me, darlin’.”

Feigning confusion, you begin to deny the truth but Joel just shakes his head firmly underneath you. “I can feel you holdin’ back, baby. Please, please believe me. Give me everythin’, okay?”

Hearing desperation in his voice as he borderline begs, you sigh and nod timidly in agreement with his plea.

Seemingly pleased with your response, he brings himself back to his motions a moment ago. You feel yourself weakening from the pleasure before Joel taps the sides of your thighs. You look down at him to find him watching you, pulling himself back enough to say, “Don’t hold back on me.”

The sincerity in his voice, the trust you have with him, and the way his tongue feels so good in you, makes you listen. Slowly, you release your tense state and let yourself lower more of your weight onto him, keeping your eyes on him the whole time to look for a sign to stop. You find none. Instead, you hear and feel his groan of satisfaction—his grip on you tightening as his movements become even more frantic.

Eventually, the combination of him switching back and forth between sucking your clit and moving his tongue perfectly inside you causes your strength to falter. You slip, knees sliding further away as your body fully drops onto Joel’s mouth, your thighs wrapping around his head on instinct as you keep your hand against the wall in front of you, your other hand instinctively falling into his hair—gripping and pulling at the strands.

You feel his smirk before you hear him mumble against your center. “That’s my good girl.”

Finally being free with your movements, your mind at ease that Joel seems to still be breathing, you begin to move your hips subconsciously against his mouth. Once he feels this, Joel moans loudly against you—the added vibration making you grind harder against him as you feel his fingers grip your thighs so hard you’re sure to find bruises in the morning.

“There ya go. Fuckin’ use me. Help yourself come on my mouth, darlin’. Need it so damn bad.”

His filthy words match the wild, hungry movements he makes below you. Feeling your orgasm approaching rapidly, you grip his hair particularly hard before your eyes squeeze shut, head falling forward as you grind down on his mouth harder.

“Fuck… Joel—baby, I,” you words trail off into a string of moans as you feel your orgasm hit you with such intensity. Slamming your hand against the wall harshly, you cry out, “Holy fuck, Joel!”

You let go, your body fully using his face as nothing but support at this point. He moans in approval at your reaction and continues sucking your clit with just enough pressure to help you ride out your high, his fingers gripping you harshly to help hold you steady.

You lean your forehead against your arm that you hold out in front of you with your palm against the wall. Your thighs are shaking as you let go of the grip you hold in Joel’s hair to hold yourself up with the headboard. Joel continues to lick through you and clean the wetness across your inner thighs before he leans his head back against the pillow to look up at you.

You shyly smile at the sight, your insecurity creeping in a little bit at the fact you put so much weight on him. Joel notices and rubs his hands up and down your thighs, breathing out your name before saying, “Don’t get in your head, darlin’. That was the best damn thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Your cheeks go red at his words, moving yourself down his body to sit over his stomach after you come down. 

Looking down at him from your view, something overtakes you. The way he brings his hand up to his mouth to haphazardly wipe away the remnants of you. The soft look in his eyes full of an emotion you can’t name just yet. The lazy smile that dawns his face as he looks up at you, still lightly running his hands over the sides of your thighs… 

It all becomes too much—your reserved and insecure demeanor from moments ago completely disappears and is replaced by pure desire as you place your hands on his chest and raise your hips up. You see Joel’s face twitch in slight confusion at your movements.

Reaching down between the two of you with one hand, you lightly grip his cock and maneuver yourself until you hover yourself over him. The moment he feels your fingers wrap around him, Joel’s entire body jerks as if he’s been zapped.

“Darlin’... what are you doin’?” He says as he pants heavily, his chest moving up and down rapidly as his eyes flick from your face down to where your bodies meet. 

You rest the underside of his cock between your folds, rocking forward slightly, the sensitivity shocking you briefly. His preparation moments ago leaves you absurdly wet and able to easily slide against him. “This.”

At the contact, Joel’s mouth falls open, a loud moan leaving his throat. “Fuck… baby, we don’t have to do–” 

He gets cut when you slide yourself over him again—Joel’s face screwing up as he throws his head back into his pillow, the muscles and veins in his neck straining.

“I want to,” you firmly say, keeping your eyes directly on his face to watch his reactions. “Do you want me?”

His eyes open as he scoffs, shaking his head as if you were crazy. “The fuck kinda question is that, darlin’? Fuckin’ christ—as if I’d ever not want you.”

You smirk as you see him struggling to hold onto his willpower. Wrapping your fingers around his thick and heavy cock and feeling him twitch in your hands as you position yourselves until his head teases your entrance. 

“So… can I, baby?” You ask, the words identical to the first time he asked to put his mouth on you. You aren’t given a verbal response as Joel reaches his hands to grip your waist and begin to help you lower yourself onto him. He pushes the tip of his cock in before pausing as he feels how you grip around him. You brace your hands back onto his chest, digging your nails in slightly as your jaw drops and your head falls forward onto your chest. 

A low groan leaves Joel, his body squirming from the effort of restraint. “Fuck me, darlin’. God… you’re so fuckin’ tight, holy–” 

His words make you clench around him, causing him to pinch his eyes shut and involuntarily jerk his hips. The movement makes him go a little deeper into you until you feel half of him, resulting in a whimper to come out of you. The noise seems to grab Joel’s attention as he looks up at you.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “M’sorry, darlin’. I didn’t mean to–”

You shake your head and open your eyes to look at him. “Don’t be. It doesn’t hurt it… fuck it feels good.”

You weren’t lying—the slight burn and discomfort you had experienced the first time is gone, replaced by shock and ecstasy at the stretch of him inside you. 

He nods, telling you to take your time but you feel too impatient and sink down on him completely until all of him is inside you, your walls pulsing around him. You both let out a loud moan and Joel’s grip on your hips tightens to hold you in place. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, woman.”

His words fuel you with confidence and a sense of pride, laughing softly at the praise. “Come on, Miller,” you breathe out. “You can’t prove Tommy right.”

You don’t know what possessed you to tease him, referring to his brother’s comments about being “too old”. 

Joel’s jaw clenches and his eyes darken, his nostrils flaring as he slowly pulls you off him before bringing you back down sharply, lifting his own hips up to deepen the thrust. The action knocks the breath out of you and weakens your balance, causing your body to fall forward until your forehead hits the pillow next to his face as a sharp cry gets ripped from you.

He moves his hips to make small thrusts inside you as he lets your body settle from the force. You feel one of his hands come up to brush the hair out of your face beside him in delicate motions. Joel turns his head until his lips brush the shell of your ear, whispering with a smirk, “What was that, sweetheart?”

Your whimpering makes a laugh vibrate through his chest until you beg. “Please… Joel, please fucking move.”

You feel childish as you whine and pout, trying to move your hips desperately against Joel’s but he just continues his slow, short thrusts inside of you in a tantalizing manner.

Okay… you’re realizing you were in over your head.

Instead of giving you what you want, Joel teasingly shushes you, petting your hair as he says, “Darlin’... let’s use our words now. What do you need?”

You can’t find the will to speak as your mind is clouded by the full feeling of him essentially just sitting inside you. Only hearing your whimpers, Joel pushes. “C’mon, baby… be a good girl and tell me what you need.”

Fluttering yourself around his cock, your whole body squirming for friction, you rush out, “Fuck, Joel—please just… god, baby, please… Please move.”

He kisses the sides of your face. “Now was that so hard?” He asks before he helps you lift yourself off him and brings you back down, meeting your thrusts with his own.

Finally getting the pleasure you were desperately craving, your upper body goes lax as you sag against him, uncontrollable moans and whimpers slipping from your lips. The sounds coming from Joel match your own as he moves relentlessly inside you. 

He moves one hand to hold the small of your back and uses his other to push his palm into his bed, lifting both you and him up so you were both sitting vertically with him still inside you.

The movement causes a gasp to leave you, your head coming down onto his shoulder as you feel his hands wildly roam across your back and sides. Your gasp turns into a sharp cry and you bite down on his skin the moment he fully sits up. The angle makes him feel impossibly deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that had you grappling to stay in your body.

Finding the strength to lift your head off his shoulder, you look down at him to find his gaze already trained on your face, his eyebrows pushed together and up as his falls open. Moans leaves his lips as you move your hips up and down, and back and forth above him.

The feeling of the head of his cock repeatedly hitting a deep spot inside you has resting your forehead on his, screwing your eyes shut and panting out, “Joel… I’m gonna–”

He lightly growls before he takes a grip on your hips and flips the two of you suddenly until you lay flat on his bed with him over you. He uses his hands to push your knees up on either side of his hips, encouraging you to wrap your legs behind his back in a tight lock. The position has you feeling your orgasm approaching rapidly—Joel leaning down to kiss you hungrily before he rips away. “Gonna help you come, baby, don’t worry.”

He brings one hand up to grip onto his headboard for balance, taking his other hand and bringing his index and middle finger to your parted lips. You feel him ghost his fingers over your bottom lip, the contact making you open your mouth more. Joel then slips the two fingers into your mouth, resting on your tongue as you instinctively close your lips and suck on them—your tongue swirling around his fingers.

Joel groans at the feeling, his hips stuttering before he slowly slips his fingers out of your mouth and guides his hand down between you two. You feel him place his fingers on your clit, making you realize his intention of putting his fingers in your mouth as he rubs circles across your most sensitive spot.

Feral moans leave you in quick succession, your orgasm hitting you suddenly, causing your body to arch up into his and dig your nails into the grip you have on the sides of his arms. “There ya go… my perfect fuckin’ girl.” 

The feeling of you clenching around him over and over as your orgasm washes over you brings his own. Joel’s grip on the headboard slips to slam his closed fist into the pillow beside your head as he keeps his other hand on your clit, fingers still moving in slowing circles to help you come down from your own orgasm. 

“God… baby, I fuckin’ love– love how you feel, darlin’... fuck!”

His body lurches forward and you feel his movements stutter inside you until he slams into you with a harsh thrust, spilling inside you. His mouth falls open beside your ear, your name leaving his lips helplessly as his moans turn into whimpers and his movements begin to slow.

Joel sags on top of you, both of you panting in each other’s ears as his fingers on your clit subside and his thrusts slow to a stop inside you.

You both lay there for a long time with your eyes shut, taking the moment to savor the full feeling of him inside you and feeling his come slowly leaking out of you. His hands soothingly rubbing the sides of your waist make you begin to pepper kisses on his shoulder, moving your kisses up his neck as he lifts his head to hover his face over yours.

Ghosting your lips over his jaw, his eyes briefly fall shut in a look of bliss. You pull your face away slightly to look at him directly, seeing his eyes open and looking from your lips to your eyes.

“Was that okay?” Joel softly whispers, voice turning up at the end in insecurity.

You furrow your brows in confusion before softly laughing. “Are you kidding me? That was fucking amazing.”

His shoulders relax. “I wasn’t too rough on you?”

You spot the genuine concern in his tone and eyes and pull him down for a reassuring kiss. Joel melts into you, one hand coming up to hold the side of your head before you pull away. Giving him a dazed smile, you say, “You weren’t, I promise. It felt perfect, Joel.”

His concern washes away, your words erasing his fears of hurting you. 

“What ‘bout you, huh?” He asks, seeing your confusion before continuing. “The hell has gotten into ya?” He smirks, dipping his head forward to ghost his lips over yours. “This teasin’... you’re gonna send me to an early grave, babygirl.”

You shyly smile and giggle at his words, recalling your teasing words and how shocked you are with yourself. “Are you really complaining?”

He laughs back. “Guess I ain’t. M’gladly willin’ to die by your hands.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What’s with you and wanting to die from sex? Fine with me suffocating you… fine with me teasing you to death…”

“There’s plenty of worse ways to die, baby. Rather go out feelin’ like I’m in heaven before I get sent to hell.”

You playfully roll your eyes and your exhaustion hits you before Joel begins to pull out of you. You watch him sit up on his knees, looking between your legs before he moves his body down to lie between your thighs. The movement makes you gasp, a sensitive whine leaving you as he begins to clean the mess with his tongue—gently licking and kissing away his come.

You squirm from the overstimulation, squeezing your thighs around his face and bringing your hands to grab his hair before he pulls away with a smirk. “Saves water. Good for the planet an’ all.” 

You huff out a laugh. “Now who’s trying to kill who.”

He climbs back up your body to lay beside you, pulling the covers back for you both to lay underneath. Lying on his side, he hugs you close to him, your face pressing into his chest. 

A beat of silence passes, and you think Joel’s gone to sleep, you following in tow, until you hear his voice speak up in a hushed tone. “I missed you.”

The wavering tone in his voice makes you shift your head to look up at him, finding him looking down at his chest but unable to meet your eyes. “You’ve seen me almost everyday?”

When Joel does make eye contact with you, the look in them makes your breath catch in your throat. Your own longing for him over the week comes to you again, and you find yourself no longer wanting to pretend when he offered his own thoughts so willingly.

“I know,” you say. “I missed you, too.”

Joel exhales deeply at your words and you feel tension leave his body. He looks at you for a moment longer, loud thoughts you wish you could hear flipping through his mind before he squeezes your arm and gently presses your head back down.

“Let’s get you to sleep, pretty girl.”

You mumble out a response, the sound muffled by your face against his skin. “I’m not even tired…”

The last thing you feel is Joel placing a kiss to the top of your head before your eyes fall shut, darkness pulling you in.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! i hope you all enjoy <3 follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for updates!

a/n: posting this earlier in the day because i have a dnd session tonight so i will get back to comments and things tomorrow :) hope you guys like this fluffy/smutty chapter

also!! i made my playlist for this story public. the link is at the top of the chapter :) it includes songs that are chapters, future chapters, or songs that fit the vibe! it's not in order by chapters though, they're all just kinda thrown in lol

🏷️: @dendulinka6 @suzysface @koshkaj-blog @orcasoul @emmasveinyahhdih @thatoneperson38747 @silksepia @orodaeh @ithinkimokeei @emnull0 @warriorkarol @luvwanda @pascal-mynightlyobsession @grayandthyme @crlsummer @ashleyfilm @darling-imobsessed @tjohn63 @lizzie-cakes @vanishintoyoubby @keileighr

if anyone else wants to be tagged or removed from the tag list, then please let me know!

[guliexe]

—AFTER CLASS PT.2 18+

2Hollis x Female!Reader — University AU ( read pt.1 here )

warnings/tags: university students, soft dom!hollis, shy!reader, inexperienced!reader, lovey dovey sex, fingering, making out, p in v, unprotected sex, first time, praising, fluff, aftercare

♡ you and your boyfriend have sweet sex together for the first time.

w/c: 3.3k

It had been two weeks since you and Hollis started dating. The change had been quiet but undeniable—soft smiles that lingered longer, fingers brushing together on walks that turned into full handholds, kisses that deepened with every night you spent tucked into his side. You went on cozy little dates, late-night diners, bookstores, even just sitting beneath trees in the park. Nothing extravagant, but everything felt special when it was with him. Most nights, you’d end up at his dorm. The lamp would be dimmed, music low, the two of you curled up on his bed that always felt too small but never in a bad way. You’d make out until your lips were swollen, your legs tangled, his hands under your shirt. Sometimes you’d grind against each other in lazy, slow movements that left you both breathing hard and flushed. He’d kiss down your stomach, take his time between your legs, leave you trembling from the way he worshipped you with just his mouth and patience. But that was as far as it had gone. Not because either of you didn’t want more, but because you were still feeling it out—moving at a pace that felt right. Hollis never rushed. He didn’t even ask. He just held you after, brushing hair from your face, whispering sweet things until your heartbeat calmed. It felt easy with him. Natural. And tonight, it was just the two of you again.

Tonight’s date had started out lighthearted and fun. You and Hollis went bowling with some friends from uni—a small group, just enough for friendly competition and plenty of laughs. Hollis was surprisingly good, but more than that, he was sweetly attentive, always making sure you had your turn, cheering when you knocked down pins, and teasing you gently when you missed. The air was full of easy chatter and playful teasing, your cheeks warm from laughter and the casual closeness. You felt comfortable, happy, like this was exactly where you were supposed to be. After the game, you all headed to a nearby pizza place, still buzzing from the good times. You shared slices, swapped stories, and Hollis sat beside you, stealing quiet glances that made your heart flutter. The night stretched out comfortably, simple and perfect. When it was finally time to say goodnight, Hollis walked you back to your dorm. The streets were quieter now, and your hands brushed shyly as you walked side by side. You kept stealing quick glances at him, feeling your cheeks warm under the streetlights. At your dorm door, nerves bubbled up in your chest, but you found the courage to speak. “You… um, you can come inside if you want,” you murmured, voice soft and hopeful. “Just to chill. And cuddle.” Hollis’s eyes lit up with a quiet smile. “I’d like that,” he said simply, stepping closer.

The two of you had picked the silliest movie you could find, perfect for a chill night in after the long day out with friends. Hollis had the volume low, and you two squeezed together on your bed, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders. You shifted closer, nestling your head against his chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. His heartbeat was steady and soothing beneath his shirt, a quiet drum that somehow steadied your own nervous fluttering. The weight of him there, solid and real, made your nerves settle, washing away the usual shyness you carried. The soft fabric of his shirt rubbed against your cheek as you breathed in the faint, familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely Hollis—something you were beginning to recognize as comfort. Every now and then, you felt his eyes on you, and when you glanced up, you caught a flicker of something gentle and warm in his gaze. His attention dipped to your hand resting lightly on his stomach, fingers brushing over the fabric. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, subtle but genuine. It was like he was memorizing you in that moment.

After a while, the credits started to roll on the screen, and you felt a gentle wave of sleepiness wash over you. Your eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, but then you remembered, you still needed to change into your pyjamas. Softly, you sat up and looked at Hollis with a shy smile. “I’m gonna put my pyjamas on,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. He nodded without a word, still watching you with that quiet warmth in his eyes. You turned your back to him and began peeling off your shirt slowly, careful not to make it seem too obvious how shy you felt. The fabric slipped over your shoulders and down your arms, and soon after, you carefully took your shorts off too, left just in your matching baby pink bra and panties. You could feel Hollis’s gaze resting on you, and you caught yourself holding your breath, cheeks flushing with heat. The vulnerability of being so bare in front of him made your heart beat a little faster, but underneath it was a strange, thrilling comfort. Just as you were about to reach for your pajama shorts, you felt him shift beside you. Hollis sat up and reached out, his hands sliding gently over your hips, fingers tracing soft, slow circles that sent warmth straight through your skin.

His hand slid a little lower on your hip, steady and warm. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you gently closer until your bodies were flush together. His head dipped down, resting in the soft curve of your neck, and you felt the warmth of his breath brush over your skin. The scent of your shampoo—fresh and fruity—mingled with the faint trace of your cologne, and it wrapped around him like a quiet invitation. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and full of something tender that made your chest flutter. Before you could respond, his lips pressed soft, careful kisses along your neck, light, almost hesitant, savoring every second. You closed your eyes, the warmth of his touch and the gentle sound of his voice making your nerves settle into something safe. His hand tightened just a little around your waist, as if anchoring you both here, in this closeness that felt so right.

Every kiss sent a little shiver down your spine, and your heart thudded in your chest—half from surprise, half from the growing pull between you two that neither of you was quite ready to deny anymore. As he held you close, you suddenly became aware of a growing heat pressed against your lower back. His body shifted ever so slightly, pressing into yours from behind, and you felt the undeniable hardness beneath the thin fabric of his pants. Your breath hitched, cheeks warming as you realized just how much he was affected by you. Slowly, you turned around in his arms, your eyes meeting his with a soft, shy smile. You leaned up and gave him a sweet, gentle kiss. His eyes softened as he looked down at you, dark and full of something tender and wanting all at once.

He brushed his thumb lightly over your cheek, then traced the edge of your lower lip carefully. His other hand remained steady on your waist, grounding you both in the moment. You leaned into his touch, resting your head against his thumb, your eyes fluttering closed for a second, savoring the intimacy. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Hollis guided you back onto the bed. Before you could even think, he pulled you down into his lap, and you instinctively straddled him. His hands slid gently over your sides, caressing your skin as he leaned in to kiss the delicate curve of your neck, slow, tender kisses that sent sparks rippling through your body. His touch was everywhere, soft but certain, and you felt yourself melting into him—finally letting go of all the shyness that had held you back. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving soft, warm marks, little hickies blooming on your skin as he kissed and nipped along your collarbones. Each touch sent a delicious shiver through you, and you couldn’t help but lean into him, pressing your body closer. His hands moved with confident tenderness, cupping and squeezing your breasts gently over the thin fabric of your bra. You gasped softly at the warmth and pressure, leaning in. Encouraged by his touch, you began to grind your hips slowly against him, the heat between your bodies growing. Hollis’s mouth found yours again, and the kiss deepened, his tongue sliding into your mouth, exploring with a hunger that made your heart race.

Your hands tangled in his hair as the intensity increased, your body responding to every stroke and caress. His hands slipped lower, moving down your sides before sliding over your tummy and down toward your panties. His fingers circled over the thin fabric, dampened by your growing desire, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. You shivered under his touch, the slow, deliberate pressure making you ache for more. His fingers moved carefully, pulling your panties gently to the side until the soft skin beneath was bare against his touch. He made you shift a little, guiding you to hover above him, and then slowly, he slipped two fingers inside you. A low, soft whimper escaped your lips as you clung to him, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. He moved with careful precision, curling just right inside you while his thumb pressed gently against your clit. The rhythm was slow at first, teasing, then gradually picking up pace. His touch found the perfect balance, firm enough to make your breath hitch, light enough to keep you on edge. A series of soft, high-pitched moans spilled from your lips, each one fueling the fire building between you. You could feel every flick of his thumb, every subtle curl of his fingers, sending shivers racing through your body.

As his movements became faster and more confident, your hips started to move of their own accord, grinding gently against his hand. The need inside you grew overwhelming, a sweet ache that demanded release. Without thinking, your hand reached down, brushing against the bulge pressing hard against his pants. Your palm wrapped around him, fingers squeezing him softly. You felt him twitch under your touch, the heat of him making your cheeks flush deeper. You lean in closer, palm still wrapped around him as you whisper, “Please—need you.” Your voice is soft but desperate, full of honest longing. Hollis freezes for a moment, eyes searching yours carefully. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly, his breath shaky with both surprise and awe. You nod shyly, lifting your gaze to meet his with big, doe eyes. There’s no hesitation in your expression—only raw need. He lets out a low, breathy curse. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice thick with want. Slowly, he pulls off his shirt, revealing skin warm and flushed, muscles tense with anticipation. You reach out instinctively, your fingers grazing the waistband of his pants, helping him ease them down, your touch gentle but eager. He steps out of his pants, and you take a moment to appreciate the way his skin glows softly in the dim light of your dorm room. Your hands explore the familiar contours of his body, tracing the lines of his waist and hips, while his eyes never leave yours—dark, intense, full of desire and care.

He trails messy, desperate kisses down your neck, over your throat, and along your collarbone, his lips warm and breathy against your skin. His hands move skillfully, unclasping your bra with a soft snap, letting it fall away to reveal your bare skin. You shiver under his touch, heart pounding as he cups your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples. Slowly, his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your hips and off your legs, leaving you completely exposed to him. He leans in, pressing a sweet kiss to your flushed cheek, his breath warm and comforting. Then, with a slow deliberate movement, he pulls his length free from his boxers. Your breath catches, and a soft gasp escapes your lips as you take in the size of him for the first time—long, thick and leaking. Your cheeks flush deep red, and you tuck a shy glance away, feeling suddenly very vulnerable but also incredibly wanted. He catches your shy look and smiles softly, his dark eyes warm with care. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “we can stop whenever you want to, okay?” You nod, voice barely a whisper, “O-okay…” Gently, he takes your hand and guides it to rest on his length, warm and hard beneath your palm. He moves your hand up and down slowly, a tender rhythm that makes your breath hitch. Without breaking the kiss, his fingers trail to your nipple, teasing and rolling it just right as you softly pump him, your movements shy but eager. The heat between you builds, slow and sweet, every touch and breath drawing you closer together.

He slips his hand back to his length, wrapping his fingers gently around himself, then glides it softly along your folds, teasing the slickness there. His breath warms your ear as he asks, “Ready?” You swallow hard and nod, heart pounding. With a smile, he presses his lips to yours, kissing you sweetly, soft and slow, before slowly pushing his tip inside you, inch by careful inch. His lips never leave yours as he sinks deeper, moving slowly, giving you time to adjust to the delicious fullness. You cling to him, hands tangling in his hair, breath hitching with every inch he slides inside. When he’s fully seated, he pauses, letting you feel the weight of him, before gently pulling back just a little, then pressing forward again. His slow, steady movements inside you make your breath catch, soft whimpers escaping your lips as waves of pleasure ripple through your body. Each gentle thrust sends a delicious ache building deeper within, and you cling to him tighter, fingers threading through his hair as your knees tremble. One of his hands presses firmly to your waist, holding you close, while the other cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, making your back arch instinctively. His head dips into the crook of your neck, lips pressing featherlight kisses along your skin. His warm breath tickles your ear as he murmurs softly, “You’re doing so good, baby…You take me so well.” His voice, low and full of adoration, wraps around you like a comforting heat, making your body respond even more urgently. You feel yourself growing wetter, the slickness pooling between you two, making every movement feel smoother.

Encouraged by the way you lean into him, eyes half-lidded with need, you begin to bounce gently on his lap—slow, deliberate motions that make you both gasp and moan in unison. With each rise and fall, the pleasure blossoms, spreading and thickening until it feels like it’s running right through your veins. Your soft whining mingles with his low groans, filling the room. You whimper softly, your body trembling as you cling to him tighter, desperate for the warmth and connection between you. His mouth crashes hungrily against yours, his tongue diving in deep, exploring and claiming. The urgency of his kiss sends a shiver down your spine, and you melt against him, lost in the raw, aching need. Gently, he pulls back just enough, his eyes dark with desire. With careful hands, he lays you down on the bed, never breaking contact as he hovers above you. His forehead presses a soft kiss to yours as he slowly slides back inside your gummy walls, making you moan and cling to his arms. He lifts one of your legs, draping it over his shoulder, changing the angle so that every movement hits deeper, hitting your cervix oh so sweetly. The sensation is overwhelming—hot, filled with a delicious ache that pulls tears to the corners of your eyes. The combination of the deep thrusts and the tenderness in his touch makes you cry out softly, raw emotion and pleasure pouring freely. Your body trembles beneath him, and he holds you close.

As Hollis pounds into you, his movements steady but growing more urgent, you feel every inch of him filling you completely. His body presses against yours with an intimate weight, his hips driving deep, slow, then faster, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. Your breaths come out in ragged gasps, skin flushed and senses tingling. Suddenly, he leans in close to your ear, his warm breath hot against your skin. His voice is low, roughened by desire, and he whispers, “You’re so pretty making a mess on my cock.” The sudden confidence in his words catches you off guard. Your cheeks heat instantly, burning bright with both embarrassment and something thrilling. It’s the way he says it—the softness behind the roughness—that makes you melt inside. You can’t help but let out a shaky moan, your body responding to the praise like a live wire. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in lightly as your hips begin to move, matching his rhythm. You feel yourself growing wetter, slicker beneath him, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. The heat pooling deep inside your belly builds faster and faster, your whole body trembling with need. “I—please, Holli,” you manage to whimper, voice barely more than a desperate plea. “I’m so close…” His pace doesn’t falter; if anything, it quickens, his thrusts growing harder and more insistent. His hand slides to cup your cheek gently, thumbs brushing over flushed skin as he kisses your temple softly before biting lightly into the sensitive curve of your neck. “Keep going, baby. Just like that.” he murmurs, voice thick with raw emotion.

The combination of his words, his touch, the way his body moves with yours—everything blends into an overwhelming sensation that makes your vision blur. Your moans turn higher, more frantic, and your entire body tightens as the tight knot in your tummy snaps, cummimg hard. You’re trembling, whining, your pussy pulsing around him. Your breath catches in your throat, high-pitched whimpers spilling from your lips as you ride out the intense, shaking release. Hollis’s steady thrusts don’t falter, they grow softer, more tender as he holds you close, grounding you through the overwhelming sensation. Your hands clutch at his back, fingers digging into his skin as you cry out softly, your body still quivering from the orgasm. You feel so full, so completely his, and the way he moves inside you makes you gasp, your breath shallow and ragged. Then, slowly, he pulls out, his cock slick and glistening as it leaves you. You watch, breathless, as he lets go with a low groan, spilling his warmth across the smooth skin of your tummy. The heat spreads slowly, sticky and warm, and you flush deeper, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment.

Hollis collapses beside you, pulling you close until your bodies press together again. His arms wrap securely around your waist, his fingers tracing lazy circles along your side as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You did so good, baby,” he murmurs softly, voice thick with affection and awe. “I’m so proud of you.” You snuggle into his chest, heart pounding but calm now, feeling safe and cherished in his embrace. His hand moves up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips warm and soothing against your skin. For a long moment, you both stay like that—close, quiet, tangled in each other. The world outside your little room feels far away, like it doesn’t exist at all. Just you, him, and the soft sound of your breathing mingling together.

a/n: got kinda lazy at the end sorry guys!

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[stargrillzz]

THERE YOU ARE

SUMMARY: There were always signs, you just need to pick them up.

NOTE: I don't know if at this point in life, 2025, anyone will still be looking for Zayn fics, but yesterday I started listening to his entire album again and I just love him so much.(Khai here it’s a lil bit grown but still a kid) xoxo

Zayn’s country house was tucked in a quiet fold of the English countryside, hidden away from the world in the most beautiful, stubborn kind of way. The long dirt road leading to it was lined with wild hedges and crooked fences, and the house itself—warm brick and low windows—sat in the middle of a green field that rolled gently toward the horizon. It felt like another world here, like time slowed down just for him.

You loved it more than anywhere else. Even more than your own mansion back in L.A. with its glass walls and sharp, cold views of the Hollywood Hills. This place… this was peace.

You had been here for three days now. The guest room practically had your name on it at this point, and Zayn never made a big deal about it. You didn’t need to text before showing up. Sometimes, he’d just glance up from the kitchen with a smile when he saw you walking in with a duffle bag, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because, well, it was.

You’d met almost ten years ago, back when you were just a scrappy 19-year-old with a voice and some half-finished lyrics, standing in a London recording booth, trying not to freak out because One Direction had just walked in.

Zayn was the one who caught your eye first. Not because he was trying to — he wasn’t like that. But there was something about the quiet way he moved, how he kept glancing at your notebook while pretending not to, and the way he finally leaned over during a break and said, “Those lyrics… they’re actually really good.”

That was it.

That was the start.

Now here you were — both older, more famous, a little more worn out by the industry — yet still exactly like that first day: sitting side by side, talking about music like it was your shared language.

Zayn had set out an old patchwork blanket across the backyard grass while Khai danced around it, twirling with one of her little dolls in hand. His daughter was sunshine personified. She had his eyes, his cheekbones, and somehow, his calm spirit too. She didn’t need to be the loudest kid in the room. She just was, and everyone noticed.

Zayn was sitting with one leg stretched out, his arm lazily propped against a pillow. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off the tattoos that still made your heart stutter sometimes, even though you’d seen them a thousand times.

“She’s obsessed with those daisies,” he murmured, watching Khai pick another one with serious concentration.

“She’s got good taste,” you replied with a soft smile, tucking your knees to your chest.

For a moment, it was just the sound of the wind moving through the trees and Khai’s tiny voice humming something under her breath. You reached over to grab your water bottle, and that’s when he said it — casually, but with a glint of something more in his voice.

“I’ve been thinking we should make a song together.”

Your head turned to him, brow raised. “Really?”

Zayn’s eyes were on you now, steady and warm, the kind of gaze that always made you feel like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s been a while since we sat down and wrote something.”

You leaned your head on your shoulder, smiling. “It has.”

He shifted a little closer, letting the sun catch the edges of his jawline, that slight scruff making your stomach flutter for no good reason.

“That’s true,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the thought together out loud. “But for the album I’m working on, I want that. A song… ours.”

You blinked, feeling the weight of the word settle between you. Ours.

Not just a song with you. A song belonging to both of you.

Zayn always had a way of making even the smallest words feel like poetry.

Your mouth curved into something soft. “Then let’s do it,” you said, voice low and warm. “Let’s make it something real.”

He nodded again, but didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

You both looked out over the backyard, where Khai had now plopped herself onto the grass, muttering to her flowers like they were in on a secret.

You stood and brushed off your jeans, padding barefoot across the lawn. The grass was still warm under your feet, and the air smelled like earth and lavender and a little bit like the cinnamon candle Zayn had left burning on the windowsill earlier.

“Hey, Khai,” you called gently.

She looked up, squinting in the sunlight, and her face lit up the way it always did when she saw you. “Aunty!”

You laughed and dropped beside her onto the grass, landing with an exaggerated oof that made her giggle. She immediately climbed onto your lap, tucking her legs under her like a baby bird settling into a nest.

“What’ve we got here?” you asked, picking up a handful of daisies.

“Bouquet for Daddy,” she said proudly, clutching one in each hand. “But he can’t see yet. It’s a secret.”

“Ohhh,” you whispered dramatically. “Got it. Operation Secret Flowers.”

She giggled again, then leaned her head on your chest, and the peace of the moment wrapped around you like a silk scarf — weightless and delicate.

From a few feet away, Zayn sat back on his elbows, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes. You weren’t looking at him, but you could feel it. That gaze. The one he saved for his most vulnerable thoughts.

He reached for his phone quietly and snapped a picture.

In it, you and Khai are laughing like nothing else exists except this exact second in time.

Zayn stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering just above the screen. He did something he rarely did, post it.

The way Khai won’t let you go, holding you as you were the most incredible thing ever, he was melting.

zaynmalik

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zaynmalik Peace 🪽

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Then he locked the phone again and looked back up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, private smile.

And then, his phone buzzed again.

He glanced down.

From: Management Subject: INTERVIEW CONFIRMED – FRIDAY, 12 PM Podcast format. In-studio. We need you on this. You know why.

His jaw tensed subtly. The warmth of the moment dimmed just slightly, the edges curling in like paper near a flame. He locked the screen and tossed the phone beside him on the grass.

You didn’t notice right away — you were still on the ground with Khai, your laughter floating up into the trees — but something in his face had changed. His expression wasn’t cold exactly, just… far away.

You sat up slowly, brushing grass from your arms. “Z?”

He blinked and looked up, as if pulled from somewhere distant. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

He gave you a quick nod, too quick. “Yeah, just… label stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of label stuff?”

He hesitated. “Interview.”

“Oh.” Your voice dropped slightly. “One of those.”

“Yeah.”

You watched him for a beat. “Do you have to go?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward to pluck a daisy from Khai’s pile and twirled it between his fingers. “Apparently. It’s time I… I talk about some things.”

You knew what he meant. The last few months hadn’t been easy. Headlines. Assumptions. Long silences and constant pressure. Zayn had never been the kind of person to speak just to speak. But when he did open up… he meant every word.

You looked at him, really looked — the shaved head, the tired eyes, the shadows under his cheekbones that somehow made him look even more beautiful, in that tragic artist kind of way.

“Well,” you said softly, “if you go, just remember what you said earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That the next song will be ours.”

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Right.”

You turned back to Khai, who had just tried to fit six daisies into your hair and declared you a “flower monster princess.”

Zayn sat there a moment longer, watching the two girls he loved most — one his daughter, the other something he hadn’t named yet — and knew, deep in his gut, that whatever he said at that interview… wouldn’t matter half as much as the song the three of you had already written together just by being.

The recording studio was nothing too flashy—clean-cut, brick walls, cozy lighting, vintage rugs under the chairs and cables, and the soft hum of a city afternoon outside the windows. A quiet kind of intimacy filled the room, the kind that invited honesty even when it wasn’t planned. It smelled like fresh coffee and worn leather, and the podcast host’s smile was warm and inviting, but Zayn still had his guard up in that low-key way he always did.

He adjusted his mic once, then twice, leaning forward a little, eyes focused on the foam cover like it might bite him. But his shoulders weren’t tense. His hands, ringed and tattooed, stayed folded loosely in his lap. There was a certain calmness in him lately—earned, not faked.

“All right,” the host said, pressing a button with a satisfying click. “We’re live.”

Zayn nodded once.

“Zayn Malik,” she started, with that signature smooth-radio voice, “you’re back with new music. And fans are losing it over this album. Can you tell us what it’s about?”

Zayn exhaled softly, smiling without showing too much. “I can’t say too much just yet…” he paused, glancing sideways like he always did when his mind wandered, “but it’s definitely one of my most personal projects.”

The host leaned in, intrigued. “More personal than Mind of Mine?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Each song reflects something real, y’know? Parts of my life. Things I’ve gone through. Some dark… some really beautiful. It’s weird to say, but after everything, I actually feel proud of where I’m at. And I hope… I hope people connect with it. That’s really all I want.”

There was something in his voice when he said that—like he meant it more than anything.

The host smiled. “That’s beautiful to hear. Now…” she clicked her pen like she was switching lanes, “We’ve seen a lot of photos of you and a certain pop star lately. One of the biggest in the world right now, actually. Can you tell us something about that?”

Zayn laughed—head tilted back, that soft, rough sound escaping his throat as if it genuinely caught him off guard. “She’s my best friend,” he said, brushing his shaved head with one hand, ���my greatest support. We spend a lot of time together, yeah. But it’s more than just that.”

He paused for a second, as if weighing the next words carefully, and then met the host’s eyes again. “She’s helped me through a lot. Like… a lot. Everyone knows I’ve had my dark moments. She never left. Not even at my worst.”

The host put a hand over her chest, visibly moved. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zayn just smiled.

“And the photo you posted,” the host continued, clicking again, “of her and your daughter… those girls looked so close. So warm.”

Zayn’s face softened. His voice did too. “That’s what makes me happiest, honestly. She always made it a priority to make sure I was being a good dad. She encouraged me to be better. She’d show up on days I didn’t even realize I needed someone. She’s been more than emotional support… she’s been like a lighthouse, y’know?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be who you are today without her.”

He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I mean that.”

There was a short, thoughtful silence in the room—like even the mic was soaking it in.

“She’s a huge part of your life,” the host said softly, “and fans are wondering… will she be on the album?”

“Of course,” Zayn said, smiling. “Again, this album is like… a piece of my heart. And she’s one of the most important things in my life. So yeah, she’s in it. Her presence is all over it.”

The host leaned forward again, clearly catching the subtle weight in his tone. “Sounds like a beautiful friendship. She was truly a lifeline for you.”

Zayn nodded, this time slower. “She is. Especially during the lowest points. Times when I couldn’t see a way out. She was always there. Even when I was pushing people away. Even when I didn’t want help… she was just there. Didn’t let go of my hand.”

The host blinked, visibly emotional. “That’s rare.”

Zayn’s smile returned, lopsided and private. “She’s rare.”

There was a small pause before the host switched gears again, flipping through her notes with quiet fingers. “And now she’s featured on your new album, which, for fans, is going to be a huge deal.”

“Super significant,” Zayn agreed. He leaned back a little, shoulders relaxing more. “Also… I mean, it’s kind of mind-blowing when you think about it. We’re both artists. Music’s always been our thing. And that creates something special between us.”

The host tilted her head, eyes glinting. “A special connection?”

Zayn looked up and met her gaze. “It’s a special connection,” he echoed, almost reverently. “Yeah. Actually, we met through her collab with the band I was in. That was the start of everything.”

“And now?”

“Now… we sit together at the piano. We don’t even have to talk sometimes. We just write. We hear things in each other’s lyrics, in the notes. It’s like… we understand each other without needing to explain. That’s rare too.”

Zayn’s eyes lit up as he spoke—really lit up, like a kid describing their favorite storybook.

“She’s really important to me,” he said, quietly, but firmly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that fills a room with its own heartbeat.

The host chuckled suddenly, breaking the moment. “It sounds like the connection is deeper than I thought,” she teased lightly, though her eyebrows said romantic tension alert.

Zayn felt the shift instantly. He ducked his head, his laughter lower this time—quiet, a little shy. He stared at the floor with that familiar smile tugging at his lips.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say anything at all.

And somehow… that silence said everything.

The world outside had dimmed into stillness, the last light of the countryside sun slipping beneath the fields like it didn’t want to intrude. Zayn’s house was quiet in the way that let you hear the small things: the creak of the wood when someone shifted their weight, the soft ticking of the vintage wall clock in the hallway, the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room. No paparazzi. No producers. No demands. Just the two of you and the simple comfort of being where you didn’t have to pretend.

It was Friday night.

Somewhere out there, people were popping champagne bottles and posing for the flash. Your phone buzzed hours ago with invites to industry parties in the city—ones you’d never respond to. Because here, in the cozy little studio of Zayn’s country house, barefoot and wrapped in the hoodie he’d tossed you earlier, was exactly where you wanted to be.

The space itself wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t have the sleek walls of your L.A. label’s studio or the soundproof velvet panels of Zayn’s London one. But it was warm. It was full of him. Guitar stands leaned gently in corners, unused strings coiled on tabletops, and handwritten lyrics stuck to the wall with old tape. There was a small upright piano in the corner, a little scratched but beloved, with a mug of cold chamomile tea resting on top.

You were curled sideways on one of the overstuffed sofas, knees drawn to your chest, a pencil tucked behind your ear. Zayn sat cross-legged on the floor, one of his notebooks balanced on his thigh. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, tattoos soft and inked against the glow of the warm studio light. The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was alive. It crackled with unspoken understanding, laced with comfort that only came from years of friendship.

You watched him for a moment. He had that look again—brows drawn in soft concentration, lip caught between his teeth, pencil tapping against the corner of the page. Every so often, he glanced up at you. You tried not to smile when you caught him, but you always did. And each time, Zayn just smiled back like it wasn’t even something to be embarrassed about.

That’s when you said it. Barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re the lullaby the universe wrote to silence every ache I ever carried.”

He didn’t look up right away. But when he did, his eyes were already warm, already smiling. It was one of those smiles that started in his eyes, slow and soft, like it took its time reaching his lips.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, his voice low and full of something gentle. “Seriously. That’s a lyric I’d tattoo on my arm.”

You shrugged a little, looking down at your notebook like it didn’t matter. “Maybe we could slow it down,” you murmured. “Like... take it down a couple notches. I think a slow song would really breathe on this album. Something stripped.”

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said. “R&B, maybe. Something quiet, like... like two people talking in the dark.”

You looked at him again. He was already looking at you. Neither of you looked away.

Then he stood, brushing his palms on his joggers. “Come here,” he said, motioning toward the piano.

You blinked. “You sure?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just walked to the piano, lifted the lid, and slid across the bench with an inviting tilt of his head. You padded across the studio, your socked feet making no sound, and sat beside him, your legs folding neatly under the bench, shoulders brushing just faintly.

The space on the bench wasn’t exactly generous, but neither of you made a fuss about it. Your thighs touched, just barely, and his arm brushed yours as he adjusted himself to find the right key. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

He started first, letting his fingers trail softly over the keys, finding chords like muscle memory. It was a slow, dreamy progression, like rain tapping on windows at midnight. You watched his hands, fascinated by how natural it looked—the way he knew just where to go, just how long to hold.

After a moment, you placed your fingers on the keys too, joining in. A higher melody, floating softly above his chords.

You felt his eyes flick over to you, not in a way that interrupted the moment. Just... noticing. Appreciating.

“This is nice,” you said softly, barely louder than the piano.

He nodded. “Feels like a conversation.”

You smiled. “A musical one?”

“Yeah. Like the lyrics haven’t come yet but... the feelings already know what they want to say.”

You both laughed gently at that, but the truth hung in the air between you.

A few minutes passed in that peaceful, fluttery stillness. No pressure. No studio heads watching from behind the glass. Just four hands, two hearts, one quiet night. He started humming under his breath, a soft little melody that hadn’t found its words yet, and without thinking, you matched it, your voices blending softly in the glow of the old table lamp.

You turned slightly, looking at him. “What if that’s the chorus?” you said. “We layer both our voices? Like... overlapping harmonies.”

He looked at you like you’d just solved the universe’s riddle. “That’s exactly what I want,” he said. “Like a dream and a memory singing to each other.”

Your heart squeezed a little.

Then he nudged you with his shoulder. “Play the chorus again. I’ll follow.”

You laughed, cheeks warming, and played the melody a little louder this time. He caught on quickly, joining with a low harmony that gave you goosebumps. Your hands bumped once on the keys and you both froze—then looked at each other and broke into quiet giggles.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t move his hand.

“No, that was my fault,” you murmured, smiling down at the keys.

He glanced sideways at you, his voice even softer now. “I like this. Being close like this.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded, still smiling, still playing.

“Me too,” you said after a beat. “Feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Zayn looked at you like he wanted to say something else—something maybe bigger than the moment allowed—but instead, he just bumped your shoulder again, and said, “Alright then, let’s write something that'll make the world cry.”

You both laughed, and the music kept flowing. The notes between you melted into lyrics. His hand stayed close to yours on the keys. Your head dipped toward his shoulder more than once. There was no tension. No awkwardness.

Just music. Just closeness. Just two hearts quietly, unknowingly leaning into something far deeper than friendship.

And neither of you had to say a word.

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yourusername nights like this

You had never thought you’d actually say yes to a movie role, but there you were—starring in a full-blown, romantic drama with an emotional arc that dug deep, just like the classics. It was the kind of film that gave people goosebumps, that made strangers fall in love all over again just by watching the characters breathe around each other. And tonight? Tonight was the big premiere.

Outside the theater, the evening air was brisk but gentle, carrying with it the scent of perfume, pavement, and red carpet anticipation. Flashbulbs sparked in every direction, music thrummed quietly under the noise of gathered voices, and every movement felt ten times more important under the lenses of dozens of paparazzi.

You stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in a creamy, oversized faux-fur coat that spilled elegance and warmth around your body like a blanket of snow. Underneath it, your dress glowed like candlelight—silky, backless, hugging your figure like it was made just for you. A soft golden sheen shimmered every time you turned, and your hair was pulled up in a graceful twist, a few tendrils loose around your face.

Zayn had agreed to come with you.

That alone had already made your heart flip three times before you even stepped out of the car. He wasn’t one for crowds, and certainly not for red carpets. But when you’d asked him—quietly, with a small smile and hopefulness in your voice—he didn’t hesitate. He had simply said, “Yeah, of course I’ll go. Just tell me what time to pick you up.”

And he had. He’d shown up, clean-shaven, hair buzzed short the way he wore it lately, dressed in an all-black tailored suit that clung to him like it had been stitched to his bones. His sharp jawline was even more prominent beneath the warm lights, and his tattoos peeked out from under his cuffs and collar like little secrets he wasn’t hiding, just not showing off. He looked—well, he looked breathtaking. But you didn’t tell him that. Not yet.

Now you stood smiling for photos, your co-star beside you, tall and broad and dripping with charisma. He leaned in every now and then to whisper something cheeky—maybe about the way you almost tripped, maybe about the woman in the third row flashing too many teeth. Whatever it was, it made you laugh, and you didn’t notice it, but Zayn had.

He was watching you from a few feet away, hands in his pockets, brows subtly furrowed.

He didn’t know what the feeling was exactly. It wasn’t rage, not at all. Just… tightness in his chest. Like a string had been tugged. A quiet alarm in his ribs that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was protective instinct. Or maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you laughed with someone else. Either way, before he could second guess it, he moved toward you.

You were just turning to face another camera when you felt it—Zayn’s hand brushing yours, then gently taking it. You blinked in surprise, your co-star pausing mid-smile.

Then Zayn brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

Soft. Simple. But the message behind it? Crystal clear.

Your co-star laughed nervously and took a step back, suddenly remembering he had more photos to take elsewhere.

And Zayn stepped in beside you, his palm sliding with natural ease around your waist, fitting there like it belonged. Like it had always belonged. You barely had time to process it, but your body leaned toward him instinctively, your shoulder brushing his chest.

He looked down at you, eyes warm beneath his lashes.

"You look beautiful,” he said, low enough that it didn’t make the cameras click. “You always do, but... wow.”

You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched just slightly, or the way your heart fluttered inside your chest like a wild thing trying to break free. His gaze was soft but intent, like he meant it, like he saw you in this sea of glitz and wanted to pull you out and into his world.

“Thank you,” you whispered, cheeks warm despite the breeze. “It means a lot to me that you’re here. Even more so knowing you're not a very public person.”

He smiled, lips curving slow and familiar. “I’d do anything for you.”

You wanted to say something back, but the cameras flashed again, and the moment was frozen in time—your arm around Zayn’s, your laugh half-caught in the air, his hand settled protectively at your back.

“Guess I’m stealing all your press tonight,” he murmured teasingly in your ear, drawing out another soft laugh from you.

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “Let them write whatever they want.”

Zayn pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let them.”

For the rest of the night, he stayed by your side—through interviews, through press lines, even during the screening when you cried a little watching your own movie and he subtly slid his pinky against yours in the dark. And the whole time, his arm returned to your waist again and again, like he needed the confirmation that you were still there, and that you were his to hold—if not completely yet, then maybe someday soon.

And you? You let him. Because whatever that feeling was blooming in your chest—it didn’t feel like acting anymore.

zaynmalik

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zaynmalik proud of you, in every aspect.

The afterparty lights blurred behind the tinted windows of the black car as it pulled away from the theater, tires humming softly against the pavement. You didn’t go. You’d smiled and thanked everyone, posed for a few more pictures, waved politely to co-stars and directors, but once you saw Zayn waiting quietly by the car—with one hand on the open door and that look in his eyes like he didn’t care for crowds or cameras or flashing lights unless they were dancing across your skin—you knew you weren’t staying another second.

The moment the door closed behind you, the silence wrapped around you both like a blanket, and you let out a long breath. You didn’t even realize how tense your shoulders were until they dropped, and the quiet hum of the car made everything feel slower, softer.

Zayn sat beside you in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers toying absently with a ring on his hand. His jacket was open now, and he smelled like cologne and something warm and clean—like cedarwood and coffee and maybe the lavender laundry detergent you told him to start using months ago and he never admitted he liked.

You looked down at your heels, unstrapping them slowly and tossing them gently to the floor of the car. Your bare feet curled against the leather seats.

“God,” you exhaled, leaning your head back. “Why do I always forget how exhausting red carpets are?”

Zayn chuckled under his breath, turning slightly to face you. “Because you make it look easy.”

You smirked at him without lifting your head. “Flatterer.”

He shrugged. “Just saying facts.”

The city lights flickered through the window, dancing on his face as he looked at you. You felt his gaze but didn’t look yet. Not just yet.

You could feel the static between you both. That soft buzz. The one that always came after long days or intense moments. Like your souls had synced up again without words, without effort. It had always been like that. Since the very first time you met. You’d chalked it up to creative chemistry. But lately, it felt like something deeper. Quieter. And stronger.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “In the movie.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes meeting his.

“Really?” you asked, voice soft. “You liked it?”

He nodded, his expression gentle. “It felt… real. Like you weren’t acting. Like you were just… feeling.”

“I was,” you admitted. “It was harder than I thought it would be. That kind of love story—it’s rare. You want to do it justice, you know?”

He nodded, his gaze lingering. “You did.”

There was a pause. A long, easy one. The kind that only happened between two people who didn’t need to fill the silence. You reached over and took his hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers curled around yours immediately.

“You looked good tonight,” you murmured without looking at him. “Really good.”

You felt his thumb brush softly across your knuckles. “I felt like a bodyguard in a suit.”

You laughed, tilting your head toward him. “You were more like a prince.”

Zayn’s mouth twitched. “A prince who nearly elbowed a photographer for getting too close.”

“I saw that,” you said with a knowing smile. “You really didn’t like my co-star, huh?”

He looked out the window, playing it cool. “He was fine.”

“Zayn.”

His jaw twitched. Then finally, he turned back toward you. “Okay, maybe I didn’t love the whispering and the leaning in and the smirking.”

You tried to hold back your smile, but it crept in anyway. “You jealous?”

He looked at you for a long beat, then shrugged with an honesty so simple it cracked something open in your chest. “Yeah. I think I was.”

Your smile faded, replaced by something softer. Something slower.

“Why?” you asked gently, still holding his hand.

He didn’t look away this time. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the most important person in my life and watching someone else make you laugh like that made me want to…” he trailed off, lips curving faintly. “Be closer.”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering. “You’re already close.”

Zayn leaned in then, not enough to scare you, not enough to blur any lines you weren’t ready to blur, but just enough to feel his warmth move closer, enough to smell the sweet hint of mint gum and whatever soft cologne clung to his shirt collar.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in the dimness of the car, “but sometimes I wonder if I could be closer.”

You didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure your voice would come out steady. So instead, you slid your hand up, tracing the line of his wrist, the smooth skin just under the cuff of his sleeve. His pulse beat strong and steady under your fingertips.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” you whispered.

“Me neither,” he said. “But I don’t think we would.”

You looked at him then. Fully. The way you did when you were writing music together and you were on the edge of a breakthrough. The way you did when he was speaking about something important and you wanted to catch every word.

His eyes were the same ones you’d seen in a hundred different moods. But tonight, there was something in them you hadn’t let yourself name until now.

“I’m not saying anything has to change,” he added quickly, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hand again. “Just… I’m here. However you want me. I’m here.”

Your lips parted, the words trapped just behind them. And then—

The car pulled to a gentle stop in front of his countryside house, the porch light glowing in the distance like a lighthouse calling you both home. The driver didn't turn around, just nodded once through the mirror and stepped out to open the door.

But neither of you moved.

Zayn looked at you again. “Want to stay over?”

You looked down, smiling faintly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I do.”

He helped you out of the car, his hand steady in yours. The night air wrapped around you both as you walked up the steps. And somewhere behind you, the last of the city lights flickered and faded.

But in front of you, something new was beginning. Quiet. Gentle. But real.

And this time, neither of you was afraid of it.

When you walked in, you let out a slow breath. His house was warm, quiet, still holding onto the smell of sage from earlier in the week. A faint trail of incense. Everything familiar. Comfortable. Like home, but not yours — his. Still, your shoes came off by the door like instinct. Zayn did the same. You slipped your coat off and hung it over the arm of the couch.

You caught him looking.

“What?”

His voice was soft. “You just looked so good tonight. And now you’re here like this… it’s just kind of messing with my head.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “You looked good tonight too. All serious and handsome and broody for the cameras.”

He rolled his eyes and took a step toward you too. “I was brooding.”

“And then you kissed my hand like we were in a black and white movie,” you teased, your voice light, but your heart beating just a little harder as he stepped even closer.

“I saw that guy whispering in your ear,” he admitted, voice low now.

Your lips twitched. “He was telling me he couldn’t believe how good my highlighter looked.”

Zayn grinned, eyes dropping to your cheeks. “He wasn’t wrong.”

You were standing inches apart now, in the soft light of his hallway. Neither of you moved. Not really. You just looked at each other for a long second. The buzz of the premiere still clung to you, but it was muted now, replaced by something far more real. Quiet. Intimate. Unspoken.

“You want to change?” he asked. “Get more comfortable?”

You nodded slowly, eyes not leaving his. “Can I steal one of your shirts?”

Zayn’s smile deepened, like it was something private he didn’t want to show the world — only you. “You don’t have to ask.”

You made your way to his room, and he followed. In his closet, he pulled out a t-shirt — worn, soft, smelling like him — and handed it to you without a word. You changed in the bathroom, carefully folding your dress and setting it on the counter. When you came back out, barefoot in just his shirt, the sleeves grazing your fingers, he looked at you like he might forget how to breathe for a second.

“Better?” you asked.

“Dangerously better,” he murmured.

You walked past him, pretending not to hear the way his voice had dropped, and made your way to the kitchen. He followed again, this time slower, his eyes lingering on your back. You opened the fridge. “Do we have tea? Or are we doing the rebellious, post-premiere glass of wine?”

“I have wine,” he said, stepping around you. “But I also have those sleepytime tea bags you like.”

You smiled. “You remember.”

“Of course I do.”

He put the kettle on while you sat on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You watched him move — slow, familiar, so domestic in a way that was dizzying when paired with the memory of him on the red carpet just hours earlier, dressed in all black, jaw clenched, hand around your waist like it belonged there.

“You were jealous tonight,” you said after a beat.

He didn’t turn. “Was I?”

You bit back a smile. “You kissed my hand like you were challenging someone.”

He finally glanced back at you, his voice softer now. “I don’t like sharing your light with people who don’t know how to treat it.”

Your chest tightened, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say.

Zayn stepped toward you, his hands slipping into the space on either side of your legs as he leaned against the counter. He was close again. Close enough that you could smell the remnants of his cologne and something earthy — the fabric of his hoodie from earlier, maybe, or the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know what this is becoming,” he said, voice lower now, more uncertain. “But I know I’m not ready to let go of it. Of you.”

You looked at him, really looked — at the tired around his eyes, the vulnerability sitting on his lips. Then you reached up, slowly, and cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to let go,” you whispered. “You don’t even have to figure it out tonight. Just… stay close.”

He leaned into your hand. “I can do that.”

You shared tea on the couch after that, your legs tucked under you and his arm slung over the back, fingertips playing with the edge of your sleeve like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The TV played something quiet neither of you really watched. Your head eventually rested on his shoulder. And after a while, he kissed the top of it — just once.

It was nearly 2 a.m. again, and the world outside Zayn’s house had gone completely quiet. No car sounds, no wind, not even the distant bark of a neighborhood dog. It felt like the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you inside the softly lit studio — that familiar, sacred space that had grown to feel more like home than anywhere else lately.

The session hadn’t started with the intention of recording anything deep.

Zayn had texted you earlier: “Got something stuck in my head. Can’t sleep. You up?”

You were already halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzed, and by the time you’d slipped into sweatpants and thrown on a hoodie, you were already at his door, your hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t even attempted sleep — messy curls pulled back in a bun, long sleeves half-pushed up, and a mug of tea in his hand that had clearly gone cold.

Now, almost an hour into the session, the lights were low again — not for the aesthetic, but because neither of you had the energy for brightness. Only the small amber bulb in the corner glowed, casting long shadows on the walls and a warm sheen on the keys of the piano.

Zayn was sitting on the bench, legs spread slightly, barefoot, his phone on the floor beside him. You were right beside him — too close for just friends, if anyone had walked in. Your thighs brushed. Your knees leaned in together as you shared the piano.

He was playing something slow. Something soft, unresolved, delicate. You rested your chin lightly on your hand, elbow on the piano as you watched his fingers move.

“You keep writing about someone,” you said quietly, voice barely above the music. “Is it always me?”

His hands faltered just slightly on the keys, then kept going.

“Most of the time,” he admitted, not looking at you. “Even when I’m trying not to.”

You turned your eyes down to the keys.

Zayn leaned back just a little, shoulder brushing yours. “Is that… weird?” he asked, softer now, like he was scared you’d pull away.

“No,” you said. “It makes me feel something I don’t think I know how to explain.”

He tilted his head, finally meeting your eyes. “Try me.”

You sighed. “It’s like… it’s like being seen and undressed at the same time. Like I didn’t know someone was watching me love them quietly until I heard you sing it.”

Zayn didn’t respond at first. His hands had gone still on the keys, and his jaw shifted a little, like he was holding something back. Then, slowly, he reached forward and played a single, long chord — one hand resting gently across the low keys. The kind of chord that hangs heavy in the air, then dissolves, leaving only silence.

Then he said, “Can I show you something?”

You nodded.

He stood, walked over to the soundboard, and pulled up an unfinished track you hadn’t heard yet. He motioned for you to sit near the booth mic. You obeyed, sliding into the chair inside the small glass room. He adjusted the headphones on your ears himself, letting his fingers brush against your jaw when he tilted them into place.

When the track started, you were stunned.

It was soft — a minimal, heartbeat-like beat under warm, layered strings. His voice came in first, fragile and almost raspy, like he’d been holding back tears when he recorded it:

“You’ve seen every part of me, Every shade, every fracture. But you never once looked away. You never asked for less…”

Then, almost immediately after, your own voice — sampled from old takes, harmonizing behind his like a ghost, like a memory.

Your lips parted slightly.

You looked up, and he was already watching you through the glass.

He pressed a button, his voice coming into your headphones.

“I made this the night after the premiere. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Zayn…” you whispered.

“I keep trying to say it in conversation, but I get scared you’ll leave if I make it too real.”

His hand found yours, gently covering it. His forehead grazed yours first, like a question.

And you answered it by closing the last inch yourself.

His lips met yours, slow and warm, like something that had been waiting to happen for years. There was no urgency, no rush — just the quiet realization of something that had always been there. You kissed him like he was a secret you’d known forever, and he kissed you like you were the chorus he never wanted to end.

When you pulled apart — barely — your hands stayed locked together, your noses brushing. And then you leaned in again — not just for another kiss, but because you were finally falling into the thing you’d both written into your lives for so long.

You’d helped Zayn tuck Khai in, both of you brushing her hair away from her eyes, laughing quietly at the way she’d insisted on wearing her sparkly skirt to bed. She was asleep in minutes, one hand still clinging to her pink ukulele like a shield.

Now, the hallway lights were dim. The moonlight poured through the windows in slivers, streaking silver across the wooden floor. The breeze had cooled just enough to be felt on your bare arms as you padded back downstairs in socks, one of Zayn’s long-sleeved shirts now draped over your frame. The same gray one from earlier — still loose, still warm, still him.

You heard the soft clink of glass as you reached the bottom of the stairs. In the kitchen, Zayn was rinsing two glasses under low light, the warm glow of the under-cabinet bulbs catching the angles of his jaw and casting long shadows down his neck. His sleeves were pushed up, tattoos like ink bleeding through candlelight.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard you. And smiled.

“There you are,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to leave her room yet,” you murmured, stepping barefoot onto the tile. “She was holding my hand in her sleep.”

His eyes softened, and you watched something flicker across his face — affection, admiration, maybe even awe. He handed you one of the glasses, something fizzy and citrusy, the ice clinking softly. His fingers lingered against yours as you took it.

“She adores you.”

You smiled gently. “I adore her.”

He leaned against the counter, one hand wrapped around his glass, the other tucked into the pocket of his joggers. His eyes traced over your face, resting on your mouth longer than they should’ve. Neither of you moved.

“What?” you asked softly, almost breathless from nothing but the weight of his gaze.

“You look like you belong here,” he said, voice like velvet, low and too sincere.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“Like this house missed you when you’re not in it,” he added. “Like… I do.”

Your throat tightened.

You walked toward him slowly, the glass still in your hand, unsure if you were moving because you wanted to or because something stronger than you needed to close the distance.

“You’re saying dangerous things, Malik.”

He didn’t smile this time. He just set his drink down and straightened slightly, closing the distance between your bodies, not quite touching, but so close you could feel his breath.

“I mean every word,” he whispered.

Your chest rose, your breath shallow. You set your glass beside his. The tile felt cool beneath your feet, but your skin was hot — your entire body hyper-aware of how close he was.

“Zayn…”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, his hand finally brushing your hip.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does to me.”

You swallowed, trying to smile, but your lips parted instead, your eyes searching his face for something solid to grab onto — and finding nothing but that same depth, that same gentle pull you’d been falling into for weeks now. Maybe longer.

“I’m scared,” you whispered honestly.

He stepped closer, his hand resting flat against the small of your back now. “Of what?”

“That this doesn’t stop. That I won’t be able to leave.”

His hand tightened slightly.

“Good,” he said, barely audible.

“Zayn…”

His name again — this time not soft. This time you gasped it because his mouth was finally on yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent.

It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve wanted it for too long — slow, steady, overwhelming. His lips moved gently against yours, like he was still unsure if you’d change your mind, like he was tasting the truth of it before it could disappear. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you in, your chest flush to his now, and when you melted into him — because you did — you felt his exhale shake.

You pulled back barely an inch, noses brushing, hearts racing.

It was late afternoon by the time the golden hour rolled into Zayn’s countryside home, bathing everything in honey-colored light. The house felt like a warm cocoon, quiet except for Khai’s giggles floating faintly from upstairs, where she was playing music and dancing in her room. Zayn had just checked on her—she was in princess pajamas, spinning in circles, making up choreography to a song from Encanto, absolutely in her own world.

Downstairs, you sat curled up on the L-shaped sofa in the open living space, barefoot, legs tucked beneath you, a half-read poetry book resting on your stomach. The big windows were open wide, and the scent of grass, lemon trees, and sun-heated wood floated in. The breeze fluttered the edge of the gauzy curtains. Outside, the last light filtered through the fields behind the house, and inside, it caught in the gold specks of dust suspended in the air.

You glanced up when you heard him descend the stairs slowly, barefoot, a little flushed from running around with Khai.

“She’s in her own concert up there,” he said, his voice low and warm as he made his way toward you.

You smiled. “She’s got better moves than I ever will.”

Zayn grinned, walking past the couch to the open kitchen area, grabbing a glass of water. You watched the way his tattoos caught the light on his forearm, the casual way his oversized grey t-shirt slid off one shoulder, hanging loosely off his frame. He leaned against the counter and looked at you, soft and unreadable.

“You’re always looking at me like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Zayn’s gaze didn’t move from yours. “Maybe I do.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

He walked slowly back toward the couch, glass still in hand. “Yeah. I’ve known it for a while now.”

Zayn sat beside you, but close this time—close in that way that made your heart thunder a little in your chest. His arm brushed against your knee, and he set the glass down on the coffee table without breaking eye contact. You felt the way the air shifted between you. It wasn’t just the heat outside.

“You ever get the feeling,” he said quietly, “that something’s been happening for a long time, and maybe you were both pretending it wasn’t?”

You swallowed, the softness of his voice curling around your chest like silk. “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that speaks louder than words. The room held its breath with you.

Zayn reached forward slowly, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw.

“I don’t wanna pretend anymore,” he said. His voice was lower now, like he was afraid to break the spell. “Not when you’re sitting here, looking like that, in my house, in my life, every day, and I keep stopping myself from…”

Your breath hitched. “From what?”

He smiled faintly. “From touching you like this.”

His hand cupped your cheek then, so careful, so tender, and the pad of his thumb swept along your skin as he leaned in. Your eyes fluttered shut just before his lips brushed yours—not rushed, not hesitant, just warm, deep, and unguarded. His mouth moved with a kind of reverence, a soft hunger, like he was savoring something he’d imagined a thousand times but never dared to take.

You shifted toward him, your hand on his chest, his heart hammering beneath it.

The kiss deepened, slow but intense. His hands slid along your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The hem of your soft loungewear shirt rose slightly as your bodies pressed together.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips, his hand splayed along your back, grounding you.

You nodded, already breathless. “Yeah… I just didn’t think you’d ever actually do something like this.”

Zayn exhaled a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “I didn’t think I had the right to.”

“But you do,” you whispered, tracing his jaw with your fingers. “You always have.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, more certain. There was something unspoken between you, something that had been growing for years but had only just now bloomed fully in the golden light of his living room. You both moved in sync—his hands exploring, yours tangled in his neck, your hips slowly shifting against his lap, heat and want tangled with every breath.

Still, it never felt rushed. It never felt anything less than meaningful.

Zayn pulled back slightly, catching your face in his hands again. His eyes searched yours, open, vulnerable.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, quietly, like a truth that had lived inside him for years.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

From upstairs, faint music played on, a child’s voice singing. And in that moment, surrounded by warmth, sunlight, and the deepest, rawest affection you’d ever known, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. Not tonight. But maybe that’s exactly why it did — because there was no performance, no expectation, no carefully crafted script. Just you in his hoodie, your bare legs tucked under you, the wine half-forgotten on the coffee table, and Zayn sitting so close that his warmth soaked into your skin.

The kiss had already happened. And the second. And now you were breathing him in with a hunger that surprised even you, clinging to his shirt as your back met the couch cushions again.

Zayn kissed you like he needed to, like it had been sitting under his skin for years. There was no hesitation in him now. Just quiet confidence, a gentle hunger. His body pressed against yours — not too heavy, not too fast. He still kissed you like he was trying to memorize it. Trying to figure out if this was real.

Khai was spending the weekend with her grandmother, and the house, usually pulsing with her little footsteps and laughter, felt oddly still — but not empty.

You and Zayn had cooked together earlier. Nothing fancy — just some pasta, a bottle of wine, and a playlist of old R&B songs playing low in the background. You wore one of his hoodies, oversized and soft, the sleeves falling over your hands, and Zayn hadn’t taken his eyes off you all night. Not really. He was subtle, careful — but you felt it. That gaze. That heat. Something unspoken had been stirring between the two of you for a while now, and tonight… it hummed louder.

The windows were wide open, letting in the warm air of late spring. The kitchen lights were off, just the warm lamp in the living room casting amber light across the hardwood floor.

You tilted your head back and let out a soft sound when his mouth traveled to your neck, slow and reverent, like he had all night and no intention of rushing it.

“Zayn…” you whispered, your fingers curling into the hem of his t-shirt. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

He laughed quietly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “It’s real. And if it’s not, I don’t ever want to wake up.”

You felt him smile against your skin as his hand slid beneath the hoodie again, resting over your ribs — the warmth of his palm grounding, protective. Your body reacted instantly, arching into him. The fabric was thin between you. Too thin. Not enough.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice rasped, eyes flicking down to your thighs — the hoodie bunched just above them now, your breath shallow and lips kiss-swollen.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Please.”

That single word undid him.

Zayn kissed you again, slower, deeper, and this time his hands moved with more certainty, sliding the hoodie over your head and tossing it somewhere behind the couch. You were bare beneath it — no bra, nothing but soft skin and want — and he stared at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to hold back. “You’re driving me insane.”

You reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, and the moment your hands touched his skin — warm and sculpted and already familiar from all those platonic touches that suddenly weren’t — you sighed, like it was exactly where you were meant to be.

He kissed you again, one hand slipping behind your neck to tilt your head up to him, and the other tracing the edge of your waist, just above your underwear. His touch was maddening — slow, teasing, hot — and every time he moved closer, it still didn’t feel like close enough.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?” he murmured, mouth against your collarbone. “The way you look at me… how you always sit too close... how you know me better than anyone.”

You could barely breathe, barely think. “Then show me.”

That was it.

He stood, lifted you with such ease it made you gasp and laugh all at once, and carried you upstairs — your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, his mouth never leaving yours. You didn’t know which room he brought you into — his or the guest one — but the bed was soft, and the windows were still cracked open, and the breeze made the curtains flutter like you were inside a movie.

Zayn laid you down with such care it made your chest ache. His body followed yours, his hips slotting between your legs as he leaned over you, his hands framing your face like you were something sacred.

“I’m not just your friend anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t be.”

You reached up and pulled him down to kiss you, breathless and needy and full of that silent finally that had lived in your chest for far too long.

He made love to you like he’d been waiting years — like this wasn’t just a night, but a shift in your entire story. His hands roamed your body with reverence. His mouth whispered your name like a vow. There was laughter too, in between the panting and the kissing — because it was Zayn, and it was you, and somehow it felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him breathless one moment and giggle when he muttered something about you being “unfairly hot” the next.

But then it shifted again — deeper. He slowed down. His fingers threaded through yours, pinning your hand beside your head as he moved inside you, and suddenly it wasn’t just physical.

You stared at him, eyes glassy, heart too full.

He leaned down and kissed your lips, soft as a secret. “You okay?” he asked, brushing your hair back.

You nodded, overwhelmed in the best way. “Better than okay.”

When it was over, he didn’t let go of you. You stayed tangled, skin warm and damp, his arm tight around your waist, his lips moving lazily against your shoulder.

“You ruined me,” you murmured.

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “We just started”.

zaynmalik and yourusername

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[hqrbinqerruoo]

NO. 1 - Rin Itoshi

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

"The look of love, the rush of blood.”

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - Fluff!!

-----------

His eyes held a look—a silent, unwavering look that felt like love. Not loud or obvious, but deep and consuming, like a secret shared only between you two. It was the kind of look that made your stomach flutter, the kind that whispered promises without a single word.

You saw him.

Rin stood by the door, eyes fixed on you. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze was slow, deliberate, almost reverent, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of your face in that quiet moment. 

His eyes—sharp, calculating orbs—held a look you’d never seen before. It was not the cold, distant stare he usually wore like armor. No, this was different. It was something deeper—an expression so raw and sincere it made your breath hitch.

It was love.

Unspoken, yet all-consuming.

His gaze poured into you, unwavering and steady, like a silent promise—an oath only your heart could understand. The kind of look that whispered, “I see you. All of you,” without a single word passing his lips. It made your stomach flutter, the way a secret does when it’s too beautiful to be spoken aloud.

You felt your cheeks flush, warmth spreading from your chest to your face. Your eyes welled with unshed tears—not of sadness, but of overwhelming emotion. You wanted to speak, to tell him how much that look meant—that it silenced every doubt, every fear, every silent cry you’d ever held inside.

But you couldn’t find the words. Instead, you met his gaze, your breath hitching as your heart raced faster. The world outside faded away—the noise, the worries, the noise inside your mind—all dissolving in the quiet space between you two.

His eyes held that silent promise, a reassurance that he was there, completely, utterly there. Not with grand gestures or loud declarations, but in that single, unwavering look.

And in that look, you knew everything. Love wasn’t always shouted or screamed; sometimes, it was just a look—deep, consuming, and perfectly understood.  

Your heart fluttered again, caught in the tide of unspoken words, feeling the weight of that silent vow—an unbreakable promise etched in the quiet gaze of Rin Itoshi.  

---

Rin’s actions carried secret words—quiet gestures that spoke volumes, conveying what words could never express. Each movement was deliberate, tender, and full of unspoken meaning, as if every touch, every glance, was a promise only you could understand. They whispered truths in silence, leaving behind a trail of feelings too profound to put into words.

The clock struck midnight, casting a pale glow through the living room window. The house was silent, the kind of quiet that made the ache of loneliness settle even deeper. You sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight, feeling the hollow weight of a day that everyone had forgotten.

A faint knock broke the silence.

Your breath hitched. Hesitant, you rose and opened the door. There stood Rin, his expression calm, eyes soft but unwavering. In his hands, he carried a small pink bag and a wrapped box, simple yet thoughtful.

Without hesitation, Rin stepped inside. He moved with quiet purpose, placing the gifts gently on the table, then turned to face you. His gaze held yours—steady, full of meaning—unspoken words passing between you like a secret language.

He reached out, softly took your hand, and gently guided you to sit beside him. His touch was warm, deliberate, grounding you in the moment. No need for words; his actions alone conveyed everything— ‘You’re not alone. I see you.’

Rin’s eyes lingered on you as he silently handed you a small slice of cake. His fingers brushed yours as he pressed them into your hand, a fleeting touch that carried an entire conversation—care, tenderness, understanding. His gaze softened, almost vulnerable, as if to say, ‘I’m here.’

He didn’t need to speak. Instead, he poured you a glass of water, his movements careful and deliberate. When you shivered, he gently draped a blanket over your shoulders, slow and precise, as if memorizing every detail of your comfort. Every gesture was a silent vow—an act of love that needed no words to be understood.

Later, Rin simply sat beside you, shoulders nearly touching, eyes fixed softly on your face. His silence was heavy with meaning—every small action, every gentle glance, whispering truths that words could never capture.

Finally, Rin leaned in just a little closer, his voice low and steady. “Happy birthday,” he said softly, with a quiet smile.  

And that was all. No more words were needed.

---

Rin’s lips parted just slightly, a gentle hitch in his breath as he silently took in the sight of you. His eyes linger with a softness that speaks volumes—an unspoken admiration, a quiet moment of vulnerability. The way his gaze held a tenderness that went beyond words, as if he was simply appreciating everything about you, quietly and completely.

Rin leaned casually against the wall nearby, his posture relaxed yet attentive. Dressed sharply in his tailored suit, he seemed to be watching you without making a sound. His eyes traced your reflection in the mirror—so focused, so tender, as if he were memorizing every detail. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, almost imperceptible but filled with genuine admiration.

He shifted slightly, the soft scrape of his shoes on the polished floor the only sound. His gaze was steady and unwavering, yet there was a softness behind it—an unspoken affection that no words could quite capture. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, but his posture was open, as if he was savoring this quiet moment.

Then, without warning, his lips parted just slightly, a gentle hitch in his breath as he silently took you in. His eyes lingered on the graceful curve of your neck as you adjusted your hair, on the way your hands moved with quiet purpose. There was a tenderness in his expression, a vulnerability that revealed how much he was truly appreciating this moment—how deeply he admired you, not just for your beauty but for the way you carried yourself.

You caught his reflection in the mirror, and your cheeks warmed under his gaze. His eyes briefly flicked to yours, and in that glance, you saw everything—how he saw you as something precious, something worth quietly cherishing. He didn’t need to speak; his silence conveyed more than words ever could.

Finally, Rin pushed off the wall with a faint, almost shy smile, stepping closer but still maintaining his composed posture. His voice was low, steady, and filled with sincerity. “Beautiful,” he said softly, eyes locking onto yours with quiet intensity. 

He paused, a subtle flicker of emotion in his expression—almost like he was afraid to disturb the delicate moment. Then, with a gentle, almost hesitant gesture, he reached out, lightly brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

---

And the few times Rin expressed his love with words, those moments felt rare and precious—like delicate whispers that broke through the silence, carrying all the feelings he kept hidden. When he spoke, it was as if the world paused, and in that quiet honesty, you could feel the depth of his affection, spoken softly but with unwavering sincerity, meant only for you to hear.

The first rays of dawn seeped through the frosted windows, casting a gentle, cold glow over the quiet cabin. Outside, the world was hushed in snow, pristine and untouched. Inside, Rin sat slumped near the hearth, his face pale and eyes tired, shoulders tense from the ache in his body. His breathing was shallow, and the silence stretched between you, heavy but comfortable in its quiet way.

You moved softly, draping a warm blanket around his shoulders. His eyes flicked to you briefly, then away, as if reluctant to show too much vulnerability. You caught the faint flicker of gratitude in his gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile. Carefully, you reached for the first aid kit, gently cleaning and wrapping his injury.

He watched your hands work, silent but attentive, then finally broke the quiet with a low, measured voice. “I’m still half-baked.”

You paused, your fingertips stilling for a moment, then softly replied, “You did your best. That’s what matters.”

Rin’s eyes lingered on you, a quiet moment passing between you, one filled with unspoken understanding. He hesitated again, then reached out, his hand brushing yours with a tentative, almost hesitant touch. His voice was brief, almost dismissive of the emotion behind it, but there was a subtle softness there. “Thanks… for staying.”

You looked at him, your gaze gentle but steady, sensing the effort it took for him to say so much with so little. You reached out, lightly squeezing his hand, trying to convey what words couldn’t quite capture. “You’re grateful I’m here, huh?”

He shot you a quick, faint glance—almost shy—and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away again, as if embarrassed by the weight of his feelings.

In that quiet, snow-blanketed dawn, Rin’s actions—his careful touch, his lingering gaze, the brief words—spoke volumes. His hand still held yours, firm but gentle, a silent promise of trust and gratitude. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

You nodded softly, feeling the warmth in his words despite the cold outside. You knew that beneath his reserved exterior was a depth of feeling he rarely expressed—yet in those small gestures and that rare, honest phrase, everything he wanted to say was there.

[connieslilmami]

Chapter 4: He Ain’t Mine… But I’m Still His

I didn’t mean for it to happen.

Jalen always been harmless. Loud, yeah. Pushy sometimes. But harmless. We’ve hung out before—movie nights, late-night rides, all that comfort food stuff. And tonight wasn’t supposed to be no different.

But I was nervous.

I kept lookin’ out my window like I was expectin’ elias to show up.

He didn’t.

Not even a presence of him in the dark.

So when Jalen pulled up in that loud black Charger, all teeth and cologne, I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to say yes. Just hang out. Laugh a little. Get some attention.

But he kissed me.

Fast. Right before I could say “night.”

Caught me off guard.

Wasn’t deep. Wasn’t nothin’.

But still…

It landed.

And I hated the way my heart dropped after.Not ‘cause of Jalen.

But ‘cause I knew Elias saw it.

I didn’t see him.

Didn’t have to.

I felt it.

That air went still. Thick.

I stood in my kitchen makin’ tea with hands that wouldn’t stop shakin’.

I ain’t see him step in.

Didn’t hear nothin’.

But suddenly, he was there—behind me.

“You mad at me?” I asked, real quiet.

I didn’t even turn around yet.His voice came like thunder under the floorboards.

“Nah. I’m disappointed.”

That hurt more.

Mad, I could deal with.

But disappointed? That made my stomach drop.

I turned around slowly . His eyes were already on me. Deep and dark. Cold around the edges. He didn’t even move—but I could feel him inside my chest already.

“I didn’t kiss him,” I said.

“But you didn’t stop him neither.”

I crossed my arms. Not ‘cause I was mad cause I needed somethin’ to leverage myself.

“I didn’t know it was gonna happen” I said defending myself

“You let his mouth touch yours,” he said, steppin’ forward. “That ain’t small.”

I didn’t answer. I Couldn’t. I felt little in front of him. Not scared. Not ashamed. Just owned.

Like every inch of me had already been spoken for and I was the last one to know it.

“You want him?”

His words hit low. My stomach flipped.

“No,” I whispered.

“Then why let him even think he got a chance ?”

“I was lonely,” I said, soft as the steam risin’ from my mug.

There it was.

The truth.

The raw kind. The kind I hated sayin’ out loud.

He walked up so close, I felt the cold kiss of his breath on my collarbone. He caressed my cheek, eyes diggin’ through me.

“You lonely,” he said, “but I ain’t left you.”

Tears sat behind my lashes, hot and stupid.

“You called me, and I came. You said yes, and I waited. Ain’t touched you wrong. Ain’t rushed. But make no mistake, Amerie you mine.”

His voice dropped on that last word.

Like it carried more weight than I knew how to hold.

“You ain’t gotta wear my name yet. Ain’t gotta say it out loud.Your soul done already chose me.”

I swear I almost fell right into him.

My hands gripped his shirt without thinkin’. My body was already leanin’.

I didn’t care if I looked weak.

Didn’t care if I was actin’ spoiled, soft, owned.

Because I was.

I am.

“I’m sorry”

He leaned in close, lips grazin’ my ear.

“I know.”

I closed my eyes.

I wasn’t scared.

I was undone.

Undone by how much I wanted it to be true.

Wanted to be his.

Fully.

Official or not.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t kiss me again either.

He just held me. Tight. Silent.

Long enough for the tea to go cold in my hand.

Long enough for me to forget what Jalen even looked like.

Long enough for my heart to whisper what my lips wouldn’t dare say yet:

I’m yours.

[poeticpoutk]

𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘦 - 𝘱𝘵2

pt 1

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The first few days, he doesn’t say a word.

You keep expecting your phone to light up. A paragraph. A voicemail. One of his rants, maybe. Something. But there’s nothing.

Which, in some twisted way, hurts more than if he’d tried.

You still think about him constantly, though. Of course you do. It’s Rafe.

You sleep with your phone face-down just in case. You avoid your usual spots. You ignore the way your chest tightens every time someone says his name. You try to breathe through the ache.

Then, a week later, it starts.

Rafe (1:12 AM):

| I miss you so much.

| I can’t sleep. Are you okay?

You don’t reply.

The next night, it comes again:

Rafe (12:04 AM):

| You’re so beautiful. I don’t deserve you.

| You’re the best thing I ever had.

You delete the text without reading it twice.

But they keep coming. At weird hours. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes incoherent. Sometimes a photo of something stupid you liked, your favorite seashell he kept on his nightstand. A streetlamp on your block. A song screenshot you once played in his truck.

Rafe (3:07 AM):

| Can we talk?

| Just talk. Please.

And then a switch flips.

Rafe (4:36 AM):

| You were always a stuck-up bitch anyway.

| Acting like you’re some angel. You’re not.

You sit up in bed that night, heart racing. You block his number.

Two days later, it’s a new number.

Unknown (9:52 PM):

| I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t. I was angry.

| I love you. Don’t leave it like this. Please don’t.

You block that one too.

Eventually, you stop counting how many numbers he’s burned through. Some nights he doesn’t say anything at all. Others, it’s four texts in a row. A missed call. A voicemail you don’t listen to. A photo from a year ago, legs in the sand, his hand over your ankle.

And then it goes quiet again. Really quiet.

Almost long enough for you to breathe.

—

It’s a party. You didn’t want to go.

But your friend was begging, and you haven’t left the house in three days, and honestly... you miss being seventeen. The soft weight of a drink in your hand. The feel of ocean air in your hair. Music pulsing up through your shoes. Being a teenager instead of some girl with a broken heart and a Rafe-shaped hole in her chest.

You’re already three drinks deep when you see him.

He’s standing in the archway of the living room like he’s trying not to be seen. But of course he is. That’s Rafe. He looks… not awful. His shirt’s wrinkled, his jaw clenched, but his eyes catch yours like they never forgot how.

Your stomach drops.

You turn your back to him. You start moving, fast, out the back. Somewhere quieter. The deck. The sea breeze.

But he follows.

You hear it in the way the door shuts behind you. The quiet click. His shoes on the wood.

“Wait,” he says, voice tight. “Can we please talk?”

You don’t turn around. “No.”

“Please.”

His voice is different. Not angry. Not bitter. Just tired.

You glance over your shoulder. His eyes are glassy. You can tell he’s been drinking, but not enough to stumble. Just enough to lower the wall.

“I love you,” he says. Like it’s a fact. Like gravity.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to get over you,” you whisper. “And you don’t let me.”

“I don’t know how to.”

You look at him. His arms are crossed. He’s swaying slightly with the wind, but his face is steady. For once.

He swallows. “Come talk with me. Out by the dock.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. But he looks so human, so quiet, so unlike the storm he always is.

So you follow.

The dock is empty. All the party noise fades behind you as you walk down the wooden planks. The moonlight cuts across the water in ripples. His family’s yacht looms at the far end, silent and pristine like some ghost ship.

You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the edge. He sits beside you, knees pulled up, elbows resting there.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, softly “I’m sorry.”

You stare at the water. “You’ve said that before.”

“I know. But I mean it now.”

“You always say that, too.”

“I’m not yelling,” he says, glancing sideways at you. “I’m not high. I’m not making excuses. I’m just sitting here. With you.”

You don’t answer. The wind rustles your hair. You feel your heart pounding and hate how much you still want him.

He sighs. “I fucked up.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“I meant what I said. All of it. That night in my truck? That wasn’t fake. I really thought I could do it.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice flat.

“No.” He exhales. “I didn’t.”

There’s a long pause.

“I think about you every day,” he says.

You close your eyes. “Rafe-”

“I do,” he insists. “I think about you all the time. I think about how I hate not knowing what's going on between us. I think about a lot of things.”

You say nothing.

“I messed it all up. And I hate myself. I hate that I was the one thing in your life that made it worse, not better.”

Your eyes sting. “You weren't all bad.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You weren’t all bad,” you say. “That’s the worst part. You weren’t just bad. You were… a decent boyfriend half the time. You held my hand when I cried. You taught me how to drive. You kissed my shoulder just to calm me down. You made me feel- i dunno” You stop yourself.

He turns fully toward you. “I made you feel what?”

You look at him. His eyes are wide. Earnest.

“special,” you whisper. “even when it hurt I liked how it felt.”

Silence.

You hear him swallow.

The dock creaks under you. You lean back on your hands, trying to ground yourself. You feel dizzy. Not just from the drinks.

He leans a little closer.

“I don’t want to make you more promises I can’t keep,” he says, voice slower now, quieter. “But I want to try. I want to do it different this time. Slower. Whatever you need.”

You look at him.

He looks like Rafe. But not the Rafe from your nightmares. The Rafe from the morning afters. The one who used to rest his forehead on yours and breathe like he needed you to live.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” he says again. “I wouldn’t either.

“I’m tired.”

“I can wait.”

“You say that…”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, gently. “For once, I mean it.”

He stares at the water for a long time, then looks back at you, drunk but steady.

“I'll be patient with you.”

Your heart aches.

“i love you rafe” you say softly.

He nods. “Yeah, I love you too.”

You sit in silence.

The wind is cold on your arms. His presence is warm beside you, familiar in a way that makes you want to curl up and cry.

It’s not fixed. Not even close.

But it’s not nothing.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Hii guys! I have no school and i'm sick stuck in my room so i'm super bored and just felt like writing. I'm not 100% sure if this is how you wanted the pt 2 to go, or if you even wanted a 2nd part but here you go!

Thanksss.

[freakalot]

gojo hates condoms ☆

not even in an ‘i can’t feel a thing’ frat-fuck way either. he just wants to be close to you. he’s touch starved as it is and being inside of you is quite literally the closet he can be to you. why would he want a barrier between his achy length and your silken walls?

he hates condoms. hates them like they’re pointing south on his moral compass. hates them like they hurt to use—which they do, in a way—the mental anguish feels real to him, at least. he picks up a fuss in the grocery store when you pull a pack of ribbed condoms from the shelf to try because why would you seek pleasure from artificial ridges when the protruding veins of his cock would feel just as good if not dressed in a condom?

sometimes he eats you out for twice as long as usual to get you really fucked out and dumb. he’ll make you cum hard and fast and so much that your mind is a mess in the hopes that you’ll forget all about your safety precautions and let him feel you from the inside out. but you always catch on. with a tsk and a finger pointed to the draw where he keeps the horrid things out of sight.

so when you let him fuck you raw for the first time, gojo is reeling. it’s on the condition that he promises to pull out, and promise he does—with a pinky finger hooked around yours and his lips to his thumb—he promises to pull out.

he decides on missionary, because as much as he loves the hundred different positions he knows how to wrangle you into, he wants to connect with you. to make love, not fuck.

and even your wetness against his tip is enough to jolt his stomach downwards. collecting your glossing over his angry head as he rubs himself up and down your folds—he would cum just like this if he wasn’t so stuck on feeling all of you. you’re warm and wet and tight as he pushes against your entrance and oh god he’s going to cum already.

“oh,” he stills, eyes deadset on yours as he slides into you. his tip is rubbing against that spot that makes your back arch upwards and it takes everything in you not to laugh at the distraught look on his face as he says “i have to pull out.”

“you’re joking, right?”

“i really wish i was baby,” he looks pained. he’s never felt something so heavenly and ungodly at the same time. he wants to do bad things, to fuck you into the mattress and breed you full of himself until you’re too weak to care about the aftermath of such recklessness. “i can’t pull out.”

“what?” you laugh, his balls tighten at the sound.

“if i move—” satoru has never looked so serious, “—i will cum. this was a bad idea. why would you let me do this?”

“you’re the one always—”

“actually don’t argue with me, you know what it does to me.” he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on anything other then the way you feel around him. he does math in his head, thinks about the people he’s killed, how much he loves you… how pretty you look right now… growing old with you.

“i swear you’re getting harder inside of—”

“imsorryiloveyoubutpleasebequietorelseyouaregoingtogetpregnant.”

it takes him a minute of mental gymnastics to feel confident enough to start slowly sliding out of you, but all hope dies when the heel of your foot presses against his ass and with a smile made of sin you pull him deeper inside of you.

he opens his mouth to protest, to tell you he is not joking and all that comes out is a beautiful strangled moan that makes you tighten around him. for a man who claims to be the strongest he is rather weak-willed when it comes to your pussy. he needs to cum so hard that it hurts, but a fear of maybe ruining your life and relationship digs his teeth into his bottom lip.

“don’t do this to me,” he whines.

but you’re smiling. you’re so tight and wet and beautiful and everything he’s ever dreamt of having and holding and you’re smiling. “satoru,” you say, and he’s weak. “cum inside.”

anything for you. it’s gorgeous: the way he lets loose, falling forward to press all his weight into you as he groans and his balls release in hot spurts that you can feel painting your insides white. it’s the connection, the intimacy, the tears that prick at his eyes.

and he doesn’t pull out. no, he presses his hips forward to fuck his cum as deep into you as he possibly can and he vows to throw out every condom in the goddamn house.

god he hates condoms.

part 2

[simpotat]

Is it bad that I understand exactly why he'd have a problem with digital food even though "the sensation of eating" is basically the same as when you eat real food

[snail-day]

You swear Geto ends up on his tummy more often than not. Draped across the bed like a lazy cat, broad back rising and falling with each breath, that beautiful inky dark hair tied half-heartedly in a low bun that’s already slipping loose. A few strands fall against his cheek, casting a shadow over those long lashes and the lazy curve of his mouth. He’s so annoyingly pretty like this - it’s tempting to attack him.

And he lets you.

One hand lazily typing on his phone, sending a message to Satoru asking when he’s going to be home. So you pounce while you have the chance. (Not like he'd stop you.)

You straddle him, smack his ass a few times, knead your fingers into the plushest parts of him as if he’s your own personal stress toy. And he just hums with every little assault. Sometimes you bite him, sink your teeth into his shoulder, just to feel the sharp intake of breath, to catch the subtle twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Getting it all out of your system?” he drawls, unbothered, sending a help gif to Satoru. A message that receives a heart react.

You slip cold hands beneath the hem of his dark shirt and he doesn’t even flinch. Just lets out another low hum, close to a purr, amused and warm. His chest is stupidly firm under your palms, radiating heat, and you swear he could flip you over and trap you beneath him without even trying.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s patient. Always has been, out of the two of you. He knows that eventually, you’ll wear yourself out, that you’ll end up curled right where he wants you. And so he lets you play, lets you giggle and wiggle and bite until your energy runs thin, until you’re soft and sleepy against his side, cheek pressed to his bulky shoulder, body tucked beneath the weight of his arm.

Then he turns. Just his head at first, those wine-dark eyes cutting to you through thick, heavy lashes. That slow, feline smile starts to curl across his lips. He watches you for a moment, messy, warm, half-limp beneath him, still letting out the occasional spurt of giggles.

And then he drawls, voice syrup-slow and honey-soft, just enough to make your stomach flip. For your giggles to turn nervous:

“My turn.”

[fic-girlie]

I'd like to request a smut fic where Joel and reader have been extra busy lately and that means no alone time for too long. When they finally get to it Joel ends up finishing unexpectedly too soon hahaha. He's embarrassed and downright mad at him himself for it, but reader finds it endearing really, that he's so into her and missed her so much that he couldn't help it but bust too soon lol. She reassures him it's okay and he ends up making up to her anyway, either with his fingers or his mouth 😏😏

All that want

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: A rare night alone ends faster than Joel hoped—but he makes sure you feel every bit of how much he missed you. Warnings: established relationship, explicit smut (+18), unprotected sex, p in v sex, premature ejaculation, embarrassment, reassurence, oral (f receiving), praises, gentle aftercare

The clink of dishware is the only sound in the kitchen, save for the slow hush of the wind outside. The sun is starting to set, brushing the wooden cabinets in warm gold. You’re standing at the sink, hands in hot soapy water, half-focused on cleaning the last of the dinner plates. The town’s quieting down for the night, and it’s the first time in a long while you’ve had even a breath to yourself.

Your back aches from work. You’ve been covering extra shifts at the nursery and helping in the community garden—planting, pruning, hauling sacks of soil that left your shoulders sore. Joel’s been on patrol more days than not lately, long routes that keep him away until late. Sometimes overnight. When he does come home, he’s tired. Bone-tired. Limps straight to the couch, boots half-off, rubbing at his knee with a wince.

And you—you haven’t had him to yourself in what feels like forever.

Not really.

There’ve been tired kisses before bed, half-conscious hands grazing each other’s backs in the dark. One shared bath where he leaned his head against your shoulder and barely spoke a word. A few mornings where you caught his eyes lingering on you before he laced his boots and went out the door—but that was it.

No touches. No tension relieved. No time.

Until now.

You feel him before you hear him—his solid warmth behind you, the weight of his presence like gravity pulling you backward. Then a hand finds your hip, slow and sure, and you don’t flinch. You lean into it, let out a long, quiet breath.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Joel murmurs, his voice gravel and honey.

You smile faintly. “I knew it was you.”

His hand drifts, thumb sweeping across the swell of your waist. “You always this sure about armed men comin’ up behind you?”

“With you?” you say softly. “Always.”

A beat of silence. You can feel him watching the side of your face, and when you turn, your eyes catch his and hold.

Joel looks tired. Lines around his mouth deeper than usual. His hair’s a little wind-mussed, curls flattened from a too-long day under a patrol cap. His eyes, though—dark and unreadable—those are what make your stomach tighten.

Something’s burning behind them. Need. Frustration. That low hum of wanting that neither of you have had the time or space to give in to. Not until this moment.

You set the dish towel aside and turn fully toward him, drying your damp hands on the front of your shirt as you look him over.

“You okay?” you ask.

Joel’s hand slides from your hip to the small of your back. He pulls you close, eyes still locked on yours. “Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Didn’t help that they paired me up with Seth. Man don’t shut up. Think he asked me how long you and I been together four different times like he forgot.”

You laugh softly. “What’d you tell him?”

“That it ain’t his business.”

He leans down, mouth brushing yours in a slow, barely-there kiss. You rise up on your toes to meet him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and for a few seconds it’s gentle—reverent.

But then something cracks open.

Joel kisses you again, harder. Mouth hungrier. His hands flatten on your lower back, pressing your body into his as his tongue finds yours with a groan that rumbles deep in his chest. You moan into it, clutching the back of his shirt, feeling the rise of his breath and the hard press of his body against yours.

His beard scrapes your chin. His scent—leather, cedar, something wind-blown and warm—floods your senses.

You pull back just enough to speak. “Ellie’s out with Dina, right?”

Joel nods, his lips already on your jaw. “Won’t be back ‘til late.”

You exhale sharply. “Good.”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, footsteps heavy on the wood floor, urgency building between you. His fingers lace tight with yours—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You glance at the hallway mirror as you pass, catching the flushed look on your face and the way Joel’s towering behind you, eyes locked on your every move.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

Then it’s just the two of you again. Quiet and breath and the golden dusk sliding across the bed.

Joel stops, chest heaving. Looks at you like he’s not sure if he should apologize or fall to his knees.

“We’ve gone too long,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

You step toward him and take his face in your hands, fingers brushing the scruff of his beard. “Don’t be. I get it. Life’s been a lot lately.”

His eyes fall shut under your touch. “Still. Ain’t right, me not touchin’ you for this long. I shoulda made time.”

You shake your head. “You’re here now. That’s all I need.”

His hands move—slowly, reverently—finding the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch until you raise your arms to help him pull it over your head. He lets it fall to the floor like it’s nothing, but when he looks back at you, it’s like he’s seeing heaven.

His rough fingers trace along your ribcage, skimming up your sides.

“Goddamn,” he breathes. “I missed you.”

You reach for his shirt next, unbuttoning slowly, watching as the tan fabric parts to reveal the strong line of his chest. That familiar scar on his stomach. The softness at his sides, earned from age and time, and the hardness beneath it that’s pure Joel. Always him.

He shrugs the shirt off and kisses you again, slower this time. Hands finding your waist, your spine, your ass. Your body slots to his like you never left each other at all.

But he pulls back, breath shaky.

“Tell me if you’re too tired,” he rasps. “We can just lie down. I just—I needed to touch you.”

You press your mouth to his ear. “I don’t want to lie down.”

You feel him shudder, feel the tension that’s been building for days finally ripple loose in his shoulders. His hands are already working the button on your jeans before you’ve even finished your sentence, and the look in his eyes—

It’s not just lust.

It’s relief. It’s hunger. It’s that wild, desperate love you see in him only when he thinks no one else is looking.

You kiss him again—longer, deeper—and start to pull him toward the bed.

And Joel follows.

The mattress shifts under your knees as Joel follows you onto the bed, shedding what’s left of his clothes in slow, sure movements. You watch from your back, your body already bare to him, skin flushed with anticipation and the ache of weeks gone without his touch. His eyes never leave yours, not even as he tugs his jeans down his hips and kicks them aside. He’s already half-hard, thick and heavy, twitching when your eyes land on him.

But his face—his face is what makes your breath catch.

That look again. Raw. Unfiltered. A little desperate.

Joel climbs over you, settling between your thighs like he belongs there—because he does—and braces himself with a forearm beside your head. The other hand moves to your cheek, thumb stroking gently as he leans down to kiss you. It starts soft, like he’s trying to remember how your mouth tastes, but within seconds it deepens—urgent, searching. His tongue sweeps against yours, groaning when your hands slide down his ribs and your knees part a little wider.

You can feel how tightly wound he is. His body strung up like wire, muscles tense with restraint. He’s trying to be slow, you can tell. Trying to savor it, to draw it out.

But the moment his cock brushes between your folds, slick and hot and aching to be inside you, Joel falters.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re so wet, baby…”

You nod, panting already. “It’s been too long.”

He presses his forehead to yours, trying to gather himself. His hips twitch forward, barely grinding against your core, and his breath stutters.

“Joel,” you whisper, hands sliding down to his lower back. “You don’t have to wait.”

He lifts his head, eyes dark, jaw tight. “I ain’t gonna last.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I don’t care.”

He closes his eyes, groaning low like he’s angry at himself. “No, darlin’, I—shit, I wanted this to be slow, I wanted to take my time with you—”

“You will,” you promise, sliding a hand between your bodies. You curl your fingers around the base of him, and he hisses through his teeth. “But right now? I just want you. Inside me.”

That does it.

Joel’s hips lurch forward, guided by your hand, and the blunt tip of his cock pushes into you with a stretch that makes you gasp. It’s tight—your body unused to him after all this time—but so good. So deep. You feel him tense as he sinks in, groaning loud and unrestrained as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck,” he pants, bracing himself on both arms now, head hanging low. “Fuck, sweetheart—Jesus—”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I missed you, Joel. Missed how you feel.”

He’s shaking above you. Physically trembling.

“Goddamn it,” he grits out, hips stuttering once, twice. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, so warm—I can’t—”

His voice breaks as he thrusts again, just once, and you feel it—his whole body stiffening, his breath locking up as a strangled noise slips past his lips. He buries his face in your neck, groaning loud against your skin, and you realize—

He’s already coming.

Hot, pulsing warmth floods into you, and Joel groans like he’s ashamed of it, like he’s fighting it even as it overtakes him.

“No,” he mutters, almost angry. “No, no, I didn’t—fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

You’re still beneath him, stunned but somehow smiling, your hands stroking up and down his back as he collapses slowly against you.

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice breathy with surprise and affection. “Hey… hey. Look at me.”

He doesn’t move at first, still buried in your neck, cursing himself under his breath. His whole body feels tight with tension, guilt crawling over his skin like fire.

“Joel,” you say again, firmer now, fingers threading through his hair. “It’s okay.”

He finally lifts his head, and the look in his eyes is pure embarrassment. He looks younger like this—unguarded, vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone else see. You can feel how much he’s beating himself up over it.

“Shit,” he mutters. “That’s not how I wanted it to go. I wanted to make you feel good. Not—fuckin’ finish like a goddamn teenager before I even—”

“Joel.” You slide your hand along his cheek, eyes locked on his. “It’s okay. Really.”

He shakes his head. “It ain’t. You didn’t even—baby, I didn’t even touch you properly yet.”

Your smile softens. “You missed me. That’s what that was. You were so into it, so into me, you couldn’t help it. That’s… that’s kind of sweet.”

He stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Sweet?”

You nod, laughing softly, cupping his face with both hands now. “I’m serious. It’s sexy, Joel. You’ve been aching for me, haven’t you?”

His throat bobs. He doesn’t answer, but his eyes say enough.

You run a hand down his back, soothing. “You don’t need to be perfect. Just honest. And this?” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Was honest.”

Joel groans, low and rough, and leans in again—this time kissing you with something different. Not hunger. Not frustration.

Devotion.

“I owe you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna make it up to you. Lay you out and take my damn time.”

Your stomach flips.

“Promise?” you whisper.

“Promise.”

He starts moving downward then, sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he goes. Your breath catches as his mouth drags over your stomach, and you feel his hands gently urging your legs apart again, even as his softening cock brushes your inner thigh.

“Let me do it right,” he says, voice gravelly, thick with need and remorse and a deep, aching love. “Let me take care of you now.”

And you do.

You let him.

Because Joel Miller might’ve come too fast—but he’s not done.

Not by a long shot.

——

The room is still and quiet, save for the soft rasp of Joel’s breath against your skin. His body is warm and heavy where he’s slumped partially over you, chest rising and falling with the remnants of that release he hadn’t planned on. His hand rests low on your waist, like he’s afraid to let go just yet. Like if he moves too quickly, the moment might slip away and take you with it.

He hasn’t said much since the words let me take care of you left his mouth, but he doesn’t have to. You can feel the shift in him—his guilt softening under the weight of your acceptance, your touch, your quiet affection. There’s no disappointment in you, no tension left in your limbs. Just heat, need, and love simmering under your skin, waiting.

Joel kisses the inside of your thigh like an apology.

“You still with me?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, a little rough around the edges.

You nod, brushing a hand through his hair, dark and mussed from your fingers. “Still here.”

He presses another kiss, higher this time, just along the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “I hate that I couldn’t wait. I ain’t… I ain’t proud of that.”

“You should be,” you whisper. “It’s proof. How much you wanted me.”

Joel groans quietly, like he still can’t quite believe you’re not mad at him. He shifts lower, nestling himself between your legs with a kind of reverence that makes your breath hitch. His hands smooth up your thighs, warm and wide and steady now, coaxing your knees open just a little more.

“You said I could make it up to you,” he says, his voice a promise now. “So let me. Let me really take my time this time.”

And then he lowers his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue is slow. Deliberate. Not teasing—no, he’s past teasing. This is worship.

He drags the flat of it through your folds, humming low in his chest as he tastes you. The sound goes straight through you, sparks racing up your spine. You gasp softly, hips lifting off the bed, and Joel wraps his arms under your thighs to anchor you down.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’m gonna be here a while.”

You feel it—the truth of that.

Joel eats you out like a man starved, not with urgency but with intention. Every movement of his tongue is slow, sure, patient. He licks and kisses and sucks at you like he’s making up for every missed night, every morning you woke up tangled together but too rushed to indulge.

He knows your body better than anyone, and it shows. He takes his time circling your clit, not too soft, not too fast, just enough to make your toes curl and your hands reach blindly for the sheets. When he slips a finger inside, it’s like your body was already waiting for him—wet and ready, clenching around him instantly.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” Joel mutters, his voice husky against your core. “Goddamn, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

You whimper, hips rising to meet his touch, needing more. He gives it to you—another finger, thicker, curling just right inside as his mouth returns to your clit. The combined sensation is overwhelming. Your back arches, eyes squeezed shut, breath breaking apart in shallow gasps.

Joel hums again, low and proud this time, and the vibration makes you tremble.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Let me feel it, sweetheart. Let me feel you come.”

Your hand finds his hair, holding him there, hips rolling desperately against his mouth as the pressure builds and builds. He doesn’t let up—his fingers, his tongue, all of him focused on you, like nothing else exists but this. But your pleasure. Your sounds. Your taste.

When it hits, it’s like a wave breaking clean over your body.

You cry out, legs shaking around him, your whole body clenching around his fingers as the orgasm rolls through you. Joel keeps working you through it, tongue softening into gentle strokes, fingers slowing but staying inside until your grip on him loosens and your back sinks into the mattress.

He doesn’t rise right away. He just rests his cheek against your thigh, breathing deep, like you are what steadies him.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice rasping.

You nod, barely able to speak, one hand sliding down to cup his jaw. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He kisses your thigh again, then slowly moves up your body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake—your belly, the curve of your breast, the space between your ribs where he always lingers like he knows it makes your heart race.

By the time he’s face to face with you again, he looks calmer. Softer. Still Joel—but not the same man who’d tensed with guilt minutes ago. This one’s loose-limbed and warm-eyed, his forehead resting against yours.

“Feel better?” he asks gently.

You smile, fingers stroking his back. “You always make me feel better.”

His hand slides up to cradle your cheek. “I love you.”

You blink at the quiet certainty of it. “I love you too.”

Joel leans in to kiss you—slow and deep and languid. His tongue slides against yours, tasting your own release on his lips, and you melt into it, every muscle in your body humming with satisfaction.

When the kiss breaks, you speak softly. “You’re not allowed to beat yourself up next time that happens.”

His eyebrows rise. “Next time?”

You grin, teasing now. “You keep missing me like that, it might happen again.”

Joel chuckles—really laughs—and it’s the best sound you’ve heard in days. He buries his face in your neck, his body warm and solid over yours, and you hold him there, tangled up and sated and whole.

[narnian-neverlander]

Jason Todd, in all his 6’ 1’’ and 220 lbs glory, who likes to throw his weight around - quite literally, to your absolute dismay.

Jason Todd, who will put things on shelves just outta your reach, simply so he can offer to get them down for you, gentleman that he is, with a smug grin on his face - but only if you ask nicely, of course.

Jason Todd, who, completely out of the blue, will decide to use you as a support, like he’s just casually leaning against a wall, and not his significant other who barely manages to stay upright; arms crossed over his broad chest as he asks if something’s the matter in a chipper tone, while you struggle not to go down.

Jason Todd, who will just flop himself down on top of you when you’re curled up on the bed or couch, big arms locking around you to keep you trapped, no matter how many times you complain that his dumb ass is squishing you. You swear he makes himself heavier on purpose when he does this, but of course you can’t prove that.

Jason Todd, who uses his height and weight to be a menace and pester you from time to time, cause he thinks you’re adorable when you’re annoyed.

And then there’s the times when it isn’t about the teasing.

The times when a mission went south and he couldn’t safe someone. When he got hurt beyond just the regular bruises and cuts you’ve come to expect after almost every patrol. When a spat with his family turned into something more bitter and vile. When the damn heater in your old apartment is out yet again and the cold from Gotham’s freezing winters comes creeping in through the cracks.

The times when he’s reminded of your childhood: curled up with you under newspapers in some back alley, old soggy cardboard beneath you both, trying to keep some semblance of warmth, knuckles raw and scabbed from his last fight and stomach so empty it stings almost as bad the cold.

During those times, there’s no snarky comments or mischievous glint in his green eyes, just slumped shoulders and a shadow over his handsome face and everything about him screams defeat and weariness. It’s in the way he doesn’t actually drop himself on purpose, but instead collapses on top of you more than anything else, an invisible weight weighing heavily on him. In the way his arms come around you, tighter than usual, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise as he hides his face in the crook of your neck.

Somehow, oddly, sadly enough, those moments are easier to handle than his teasing. Because some things never change: after everything you’ve both been through, after all the time that’s passed, he still needs you as much as you need him. And it’s oh so obvious in the way he clings to you in those moments, it makes your heart ache and swell all at once, and it’s like you barely feel his weight on top of you and his nails digging into your skin.

And it never takes much, never takes long; some whispered, hushed assurances and quiet declarations of love, coupled with lazy patterns drawn into his back, and then his grip loosens, calloused fingers gently smoothing over forming crescent indents in apology, shuffling about until he shifts most of his weight off you, but never fully letting go, mumbling thanks into your skin, interspersed by little kisses scattered everywhere he can reach without moving.

Jason Todd, who sometimes genuinely forgets he’s no longer that small, scrawny, malnourished boy struggling to survive and simply wants - needs - to be as close as possible to his favorite person, his safe haven, his home.

[nereidprinc3ss]

spring into summer

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

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

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

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

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the right thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

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

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

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

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

“I explained it to you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why would he do that?

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

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

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

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

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

March 13th

“Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’ve told me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

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

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

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

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

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

“… Okay what?”

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

“Spencer.”

“What?”

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

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

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

“But you’re obviously upset.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

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

More buzzing silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

“So you do remember saying it.”

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

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

“Noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

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

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

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

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

“Not ice cream.”

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

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

“How?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

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

“We need to go.”

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

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

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

April 29th

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

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

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

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

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

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

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

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

“Are you accusing me of something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 3rd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

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

“You just said—”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 20th

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

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

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

“Anti-inflammatories.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Plenty.”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“A kiss.”

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

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

“Yeah? Why not?”

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

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

“Hey, wait.”

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

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

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

June 6th

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

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

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

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop talking to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are.”

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

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

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

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

June 30th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should we go?”

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

“So… you wanna wait?”

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

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

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

“September 24th.”

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

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

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

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

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

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

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

“Very.”

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

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

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

July 13th

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

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

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

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

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

Okay. “Couch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

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

“Who was who?”

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

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

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

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

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

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

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

That only pisses you off worse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

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

“I can hear.”

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

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

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

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

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

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

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

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

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

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

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

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

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

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

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

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

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

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

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

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

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

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

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

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

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

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

He loves me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

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

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

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

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

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

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

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

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

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

You tap lightly at his door. 

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

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

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

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

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

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

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

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

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

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

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

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

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

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

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

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

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

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He regards you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

He hums. 

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

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

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

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

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

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

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

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

September 1st

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

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

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

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

“Or you’re being defensive.”

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

“Am I being accused of something?”

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

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

Which means you need to backtrack. 

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

How can you make this go away?

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

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

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

“You should go.”

A beat. 

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, this?”

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

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

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

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

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

“Go. Home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

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

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

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

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

“Easy. Six.”

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

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

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

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

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

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

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

“Why would you joke about that?”

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

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

Why are you breathing so quickly?

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

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

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

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

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

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

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

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

You watch it wash over him. 

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

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

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

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

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

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

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

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

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

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

“When?”

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

“Spencer…”

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

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You only shake your head.  

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

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

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“I just can’t.”

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

No solution. 

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

So he gets up. 

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

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

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

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

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

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

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

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

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

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

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

September 12th

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

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

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

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

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

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

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

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

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

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

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

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

“You got up pretty quick.”

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

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

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

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

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I owe you that, too?”

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

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

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

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

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

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

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

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

No response. Back and forth. 

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

“Angel.”

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

“Sorry.”

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

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

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

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You falter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

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

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

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

October 29th

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

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

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

“It begins,” you mutter. 

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

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

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

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

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

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

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

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

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

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

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

She’s… looking at your feet. 

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

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

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

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

Before you can, she speaks. 

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

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

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

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

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

“When?”

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

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

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

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

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

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

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

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

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

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

“Pizza!”

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

“Nice socks.”

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

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

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

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

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

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

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

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

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

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

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

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

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

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

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

He checks his watch. 

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

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

“Neither?”

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

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

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

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

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

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

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

“You’re okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

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

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

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

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

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

“Kevin and Penelope?”

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

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

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

“Who’d you hear that from?”

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

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

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

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

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

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

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

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

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

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

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

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

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

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

“What is?”

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

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

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

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

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

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

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

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

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

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

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

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

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

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

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

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

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

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

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

“Then we’ll stop.”

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

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

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

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

It’s basically tradition.

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

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

[lostalioth]

𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫

→ premise: sometimes logan’s age showed more than it normally would and so just once you called him an old man, affectionally of course. Well he was determined to show you he wasn’t one.

→ pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader

→ warnings: smut | 18+, nicknames [baby, sweet girl, princess], daddy kink, both reader and logan use old man as a nickname, oral [f receiving], unprotected sex, established relationship, slight overstimulation.

→ a/n: the pictures/moodborad above are purely for vibes :) you can imagine any logan pretty much for this fic i think. this is mt first time writing logan so sorry if hes out of character and sorry for any mistakes this was written and proof read at 1am.

Logan wasn’t the type of man to be insecure about his age, his body and face didn’t necessarily show it like how it did on others obviously. He was well aware he was way older than you, he was much older than most people. His age showed more with his taste in music and movies, even in some of the outdated slang he frequently used.

You were currently laid up in your shared bed with Logan. You loved being curled up in his lap, your head resting on his chest cuddled up against him. A cigar nestled between Logan's lips, him periodically puffing out smoke. One of his arms lazily resting over your body holding you against him. An older movie was playing on the tv in the background, the volume was high enough for you to hear it, however you could hardly pay attention. Your mind was too lost in how domestic and old timey it all was, the feeling making your heart flutter.

“You know this was my favorite movie, well one of 'em used to watch it all the time” Logan's gruff voice breaks you from your train of thought.

You look up at your boyfriend and smile softly, his gaze fixated on the black and white images flashing across the screen. You chuckle softly and reach up towards his neck to thread your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. An action that Logan has come to love and even crave on the days when life gets just a little too much.

“You're such an old man” your voice breaks his focus , it was teasing and full of affection as you said it. Logan could clearly hear it, and your statement was correct and didn't bother him, however he couldn't help the little plan forming in his head to mess with you. Shaking your head lightly you turn your attention back on the television.

“Ya’ wanna say that again sweet girl?” He leans his head down, all his attention now glued to you. His words came out almost mockingly instantly making your gaze snap back up to him. He grabs ahold of your chin so that your focus and your eyes stay on him. You knew that teasing tone of voice like the back of your hand by now and what it meant. It made the flutter in your heart drop to your stomach, his arm that was wrapped around your body tightens. You can feel him starting to grow harder against your thigh, making you squirm a bit in his grasp. You swallow hard, your voice suddenly caught in your throat. Logan watches as your pupils dilate and that sweet smell that he's become addicted to fills his nose, giving away your own growing arousal.

“Cause i'm thinkin’ you just called me old princess” He cocks his head to the side in a teasing manner, his lips breaking out in a smirk. Still not being able to find your words you shake your head ‘no’ causing him to chuckle deeply. “No? cause i think ya’ did baby, yeah i think you called me an old man” His words come out in almost a growl as he leans forward, pushing you down on your back. His body now perfectly nestled between your legs as he hovers over you, pinning you down with his weight. His large rough hands holding onto your hips, one slowly drifting and pushing up the t-shirt you had on. A t-shirt that looked an awful lot like the one he's been looking for all week.

“Maybe i did.. but you are an actual old man Logan, you’re much older than me baby” Finally finding your voice you attempt to explain yourself, though you knew he wasn't actually upset by your comment. His strained cock pressed against your clothed cunt being more than an indication of that. Your damp panties and his jeans doing nothing to stop him from feeling the way your pussy was throbbing already from his teasing.

“Yea? Well ima show you just what this old man can do huh” He questioned, barely giving you a moment to answer. Wasting no time he has your shirt pushed up revealing your bare tits and his other hand pulling your panties down your legs. Sliding down your body and the bed he slowly kisses down your exposed chest and stomach until his head has made it between your spread thighs. “Logan..” you whine softly, your eyes glued to his every move as you grow more impatient. A rush of cold air hits your lower half when he finally rids you of your soaked underwear.

That damn smirk not wavering from his face as he grabs ahold of your thighs and nearly growls when his tongue finally laps at your pussy. “Fuck i dont think i’ll ever get over just how fuckin’ good you taste baby” his words come out a bit mumbled as his face is buried between your folds. “Lo..” you whine in embarrassment at his statement. Your slick had coated his face in seconds, though it was clear he could care less, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. Even biting the nub softly causing your hips to buck up against his face, his scruffy facial hair rubbing your inner thighs. He groans against you and grips your legs tighter pulling you closer to his mouth.

“Daddy…fuck!” You gasp softly and moan at the sensation and tighten your thighs around his head, Logan's favorite thing was to feel your plush thighs squeeze his head. His adamantium skull being able to take the pressure. You can feel him smile against you at both the name and the action. “Atta girl, princess. Such a good girl for ya’ old man” he praises, his deep voice vibrating through your body.

Letting your clit go Logan pulls away for a moment, dropping his grip on one of your thighs as well to bring his hand and spread apart your lips. Leaning his head back a bit he spits on your pussy, his saliva sliding down to your throbbing hole. “Fuck she always looks so pretty sweet girl” he hums in approaval and admiration at your pussy. His eyes finally lift back up to your face, he takes note of your already blissed out look. “No cuming til I tell you baby, ya’ got it?” He questions, a small smile on his face that was covered in you.

“Yes daddy” you whine, your voice coming out a bit soft as you were taking the time he was giving you to catch your breath.

With a small smack to the side of your ass he dives his head back down, sticking his tongue out flat and licking a strip up the center of your cunt. Growling and burying his face between your legs again he laps and sucks at your clit and folds. Your hips having a mind of their own buck up against his mouth, nearly riding his face. His hips rutting up against the bed of their own accord as well, his precum now leaking through his boxers a bit. His cock straining against his jeans as wonton moans and whimpers leave your lips. Your eyes screwing shut in pleasure as his tongue every now and then pushes inside you and his nose nudges your swollen nub.

You could feel your climax quickly approaching, pushing your fingers through Logan's signature tufts of hair and pulling his face closer. “Fuck- Lo…Daddy please” you moan out pleading with your boyfriend to let you cum. He squeezed your thigh and groaned roughly against you, you knew that was his way of saying ‘not yet’. You whine and tug harder on his hair causing him to let out a small muffled moan. He pulls his face away a bit and with his hand that wasn't squeezing your leg he slips two fingers through your lips, collecting his spit and your slick together. Continuing his attack on your nearly now oversensitive clit he slides his thick soaked fingers inside you stretching you slowly. The rough pads of them instantly finding that spot deep inside you.

“Daddy I don't- uh shit! I don't know how much longer I can hold on, please Logannn!” You moan and whine out his name as your hips thrust back against his skilled fingers and rut against his face. Your high teetering on the edge as you try your hardest to hold it back. “Cum baby, cum on daddy's face princess” he commands and in an instant your body responds and allows your climax to hit you head on.

A string of curses leave Logan's lips as he laps at your cum as it leaks out of you, broken whines and small moans leave yours as he draws out your climax a bit longer. Finally emerging from between your legs, his lips swollen and pink, the whole lower half of his face covered in yours and his combined mess. Heat floods your face a bit at the sight, though your boyfriends still got that smirk glued to his pretty face. The dynamic of you being nearly entirely naked and him still entirely clothed caused an ache to settle back in your core as if Logan hadn’t just made you cum.

He makes his way bad up your body, quickly pulling off his shirt as well as finally pulling yours up and over your head, definitely leaving you entirely naked now. Leaning down, pressing his crotch right up against yours, his clothed bulging cock nudging open your wet and sticky folds. His lips hover over yours as his hand slides up your side, the other brushing over your breast before it’s wrapped around your neck and pinning you back against the bed. He squeezes your neck softly making you let out a whimper.

“You were saying baby?” His voice comes out deep and a bit hoarse as he questions your previous comment again. “Not callin’ me an old man now are ya’ sweet girl, noo cause you cant even talk” he mocks, a small smile on his face as he rocks his hips up against your pussy, the rough material of his jeans stimulating your abused bundle of nerves setting it off again. Your slick creates a wet spot on his jeans the more he grinds his dick against you.

“Won’t do it again i swear daddy, you're not an old man” you whimper softly as your hands grab at his arms and hands, your fingers rubbing at his knuckles where his claws rip through the skin. When his fly zipper brushes your clit you let out a short moan and move to grab at the waist of his jeans tugging, trying to get him to take them off. Tears lightly coat your eyelashes as you bat them at Logan. He scoffs softly and shakes his head at you as he lets go of your neck to undo his belt and the buttons to his jeans, pulling off his belt and jeans. You watch with a sparkle of excitement in your eyes, your chest heaving in impatience, hands wandering his body and rubbing over his muscly arms and board chest. He tugs his boxers down his thighs as he grabs your legs, wrapping your thighs around his waist. His tip leaking precum is redden and twitching as he rubs it through your lips before pushing at your hole.

“Come on princess, apologize for it” he goes painfully slow as he pushes inside you. “Apologize nicely for calling daddy an old man” he grins and brings his hand up to your boob, brushing his rough thumb over your nipple. You gasp softly and whine, wiggling your hips both in protest and to try and get him inside you faster.

Realizing he won't keep going further til you apologize, you give in. Pulling him down and closer, you wrap your arms around his neck and look into his eyes. “I'm really sorry for calling you an old man Lo, i didn't mean it i promise. You're not an old man daddy” you whine and brush your lips softly against his. “Oh fuck, you’re so sweet on me baby i love it” he growls and thrusts inside you hard as his lips crash against yours. You moan out loudly the sound muffled in Logan's mouth as his hips snap against yours. His cock thrusting deep inside you, hitting that spongy spot making your brain go foggy. Kissing you hard and passionately as his hands roam your body not being able to stop himself from touching you everywhere, you're all his anyway.

“My sweet, sweet princess, takin’ it so good from your old man huh?” He groans and presses his forehead against yours as your hips bounce off his. All you can do is frantically nod and mumble and whine about how good he feels and say yes daddy. Your nails digging into his back and running through his hair.

Logan may be an old man but he was your old man and he definitely didnt fuck like one. He knew how to keep up with his sweet little young girlfriend.

→ a/n: hope you enjoyed my loves, PLEASE SEND ME LOGAN REQUESTS< MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN AND IM CURRENTLY OBESSED WITH THIS MAN

[fleurbly]

FOREVER, EVER.

summary: heartbroken and lost after remmick’s sudden disappearance, you're left to mourn the quiet life you shared. but when he returns days later in the dead of night, something about him is wrong — colder, darker, not quite the man you remember.

warnings: non-con, dub-con, coercion, power imbalance (?), mentions of blood, angst

DNI IF THIS UPSETS YOU

pairing: dark!remmick x reader

words: 10k+

based off this req

You stopped waiting at the gate on the fifth night.

The first four, you'd sat on the old stone fence just past the apple tree, chin resting in your hand, eyes trained on the path that cut through the hills. Hoping. Always hoping.

The lantern you kept lit burned down to its wick every time, and the neighbor's dog barked at nothing well past midnight. You’d go to bed with your dress still wrinkled from the wait, your hair loose and tangled, smelling like smoke and sweat, throat tight from swallowing every fear you’d never dared to name.

But by the fifth night, something in you stilled. Not in the peaceful way — not in the trusting way either. Just… dulled. Like your bones were too tired to hope properly.

Remmick had been gone nearly two weeks.

He’d only gone to help a traveler — a stranger passing through, said he’d lost his horse down by the bog. You hadn’t seen the man’s face clearly, just his boots as he stood outside your gate and asked for help in that strange, silken voice. You’d been at the basin, elbows deep in washing, and Remmick had leaned against the doorframe with that crooked smile of his and said, “Back in an hour, love.”

But he didn’t come back.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the one after that either.

The village didn’t offer much. A few shrugs, a few mumbled guesses about Dublin work or wrong turns. Someone said they’d seen him near the grove two days after, speaking to no one. But no one really knew anything. No one seemed to care like you did, not even close.

And you — you were unraveling in silence.

Your hands still reached for two plates at supper, even though you only managed a few bites. His shirts were still on the line, starched stiff by the sun. You slept on his side of the bed and dreamt half the time that the mattress shifted under his weight — that his breath tickled your shoulder, that his hand slid up your thigh like nothing had ever gone wrong.

But the bed was always empty by morning. And you stopped setting the table for two.

The house was quiet in a way it had never been, even before him. You hated it. Hated the way the wind pressed against the shutters like fingers trying to slip in. Hated the sound of your own voice when you called for him without thinking. Hated the silence more.

And the heat — Christ, the heat didn’t help. The summer refused to die, clinging on like a fever, like something sick in the lungs of the world. Even though the leaves were curling at the edges and the fields outside had turned to brittle gold, even though the sky went orange far too early and the cicadas screamed like they were begging for the end — still, it stayed. Heavy. Wet. Oppressive.

It pressed down on you like a second skin. You couldn’t move without feeling the sweat pool in the bend of your elbows, your thighs, the hollow at the base of your spine. The nightgown you wore to bed — one of his favorites, he used to tease you about how soft it was — clung to you like it had teeth, plastered against your breasts, the backs of your knees, the dip of your stomach.

You barely slept. Not really. Just lay there, night after night, your limbs too hot to be still, heart too frantic to rest. Sometimes you’d drift — never for long — and always wake with a start, breath stuck in your throat like something had gripped it. You’d wake clutching the sheets, wild-eyed, convinced you’d heard his voice calling from outside the window, soft and slanted and sweet the way only he said your name. But there’d be nothing. Just the open air and the humming heat and the wind through the eaves like a breath that never finished.

You stopped eating too. At first, it was because you couldn’t keep anything down — the nausea sat heavy in your gut, sour and mean — but then it became something else. Like forgetting. You’d boil water for tea and let it cool untouched. You’d leave bread out until it stiffened. The butter melted to nothing in the dish, but you didn’t move to put it away. Everything was too still. Too loud. Too much. You walked through the house like it was someone else’s, like you were waiting to wake up in the right one again, the one where he came through the door at dusk smelling like cut hay and sweat, grumbling about supper and kissing you before you could speak.

That night — the night he came back — was no different.

You’d given up trying to sleep hours before, the mattress too warm, the sheets too tangled. You’d taken to the floor, cheek pressed to the boards that still held some whisper of coolness. Your body was damp with sweat, the cotton of your gown twisted and wrung around you, and still you didn’t move. The house was quiet but not peaceful. The silence felt thick, like the walls were holding their breath.

The scent of him — linen, warm and clean, and that old citrus soap he used to lather all the way up to his throat — lingered faintly in the air, though you hadn’t touched the basin in days.

You tried to tell yourself it was in your head, that it was just the last remnants of a memory you weren’t ready to let go of. But some nights, it was stronger than others, and you swore the air itself felt thick with him, as if the very walls of the house carried the imprint of his presence, as though his scent bled out through the floorboards, lingering in the spaces where his footsteps had once been. It clung to the edges of the night, curling around you, unwelcome but familiar. And you couldn't seem to shake it.

The lantern burned low, the flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across the room, soft and golden against the walls. The wick had started to gutter, sputtering faintly with each breath of air, and the light seemed to shrink in the small space, leaving more darkness in its wake.

The heat of the summer was still thick in the room, the sticky humidity inescapable even in the cool of night. Everything felt close, as though the air itself was pressing in on you. The shadows danced, stretched across the room like fingers reaching for something, and you hovered in that strange, drifting place between sleep and something else — not quite awake, not quite dreaming. It was a liminal space where time didn’t seem to exist, where everything felt like it might slip away at any moment.

Then the knock came.

It was soft. Three taps. Nothing urgent. But something about it made you stop.

You didn’t move at first. You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the sound, your mind slow, the fog of exhaustion still clinging to your senses. You thought maybe it was a trick, your brain playing games with you after so many restless nights. After all, who would be out here now? The village was far, and no one came by this late — especially not in this kind of heat. The knock was so gentle, like a whisper, like someone uncertain. It should’ve been nothing. But there it was again, a ripple in the stillness.

Then it came again.

This time, slower. Heavier. Familiar.

You didn’t think — not at first. Not until your feet began to move without you willing them to. You rose on unsteady legs, your nightgown twisting around your legs as you took each step. Bare feet skimmed the cool wooden floorboards, the sound of your own breathing loud in the otherwise empty house. You crossed to the door, and the air was thick around you, sticky with something like anticipation — like the stillness of the moment had expanded, stretching everything out just a little too long, holding its breath.

Your heart hadn’t started to beat faster yet. It was too stunned, too unsure of what to feel. It was like you’d been frozen in time, suspended in something you couldn’t quite define. Your body moved without your permission, like it knew something you didn’t. You reached for the door, hand trembling just a little as you wrapped your fingers around the cool wood, but you still couldn’t quite bring yourself to open it. You felt the hesitation — your mind, still too slow to catch up with what your body already knew, already feared.

Another knock.

This time, the air felt different. Something heavier hung between the beats of silence, like the world itself was waiting with you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you hesitated for a moment longer, but then you slowly pulled the door open, the sound of the hinges creaking loud in the quiet night.

The light from the lantern flickered against the doorframe, casting strange, long shadows as the night air washed over you, thick with the scent of earth and warmth. The breeze carried with it a distant hum, but it was nothing compared to the silence that surrounded you, enclosing you in its grip.

Standing there, on the threshold, was a figure. A shape you knew all too well.

You froze.

At first, you couldn’t even bring yourself to speak, because what was there to say? Your mind struggled to process, to find words that made sense, that could explain this moment — but none came.

Instead, you simply stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, your breath shallow as you stared at the figure before you.

He stood there, just outside the door, looking like he’d just stepped out of bed — though anyone who’d seen him at his most disheveled would’ve known better. His shirt was perfectly buttoned, sleeves neatly rolled up, not a wrinkle in sight. His trousers were so pristine they looked like they’d never touched a speck of dirt, not even the tiniest fleck of mud clinging to the hems.

It was like he’d never been gone, like he’d just stepped out of some painting, his sharp jawline cutting through the warm glow, the steady rise and fall of his chest a mockery of the sleepless nights you’d spent wondering where the hell he was.

He looked... perfect. Untouched. As though he’d been lounging on the other side of the world, waiting for the perfect moment to stroll back into your life. His hair was slightly ruffled, but it was the kind of ruffled you only get from running your fingers through it when you're trying to look like you’ve just had a wild night of passion — not from anything remotely chaotic. His expression, however, hadn’t changed at all. That same, cocky tilt to his lips. That same glint in his eyes that you’d once spent so many hours getting lost in.

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something — but he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at you like you were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, taking in your reaction.

You stepped forward, your heart suddenly doing that mad thing again, racing in your chest, but he didn’t move. No hurry. No rush. He was too damn calm.

“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice trembling in spite of yourself. “Jesus, Remmick, where—?”

At the sound of his name, he flinched. That was the first thing that hit you — the first real sign that something wasn’t quite right.

You reached for him, instinctively, your hand brushing the doorframe as if to anchor yourself. His eyes snapped to your fingers, and he blinked slowly, like he’d just noticed them. Like he'd just remembered how to blink, or how to breathe. His lips curled into that trademark smirk, the one that made you want to both kiss him and strangle him all at once.

“Well, ain’t you lookin' all kinds of worried,” he drawled, his voice thick and hoarse, rolling over each word like melted honey. It should’ve been comforting, but there was something so off about it. His throat worked like he was forcing the words out. “I’m sure you’ve been wonderin' where the hell I’ve been, huh?”

You couldn’t find the words to answer. You just stared at him, waiting for something — anything — that would explain this. He was too damn calm. Too perfect.

He tilted his head, still standing there like he hadn’t been gone for weeks. Still looking like the man you remembered — and yet, not at all. “But listen, sugar,” he said, voice a little softer now, “there’s one little thing I need before I can explain any of this. You’ve gotta invite me in. Just a little ‘come on in,’ and I’ll tell you everything you wanna know.”

You blinked. “What?”

He chuckled, low and rich, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. No, those eyes were something else now. Something distant. Like he wasn’t really here. Something far away, watching you through a pane of glass, maybe.

“I know, I know. You think I’m jokin’, don’t you?” His lips twisted into a smile that made your insides twist. But you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. “But I ain’t. It’s simple, really,” he added, dropping his voice just enough to make your heartbeat a little faster than it should’ve. “You just gotta let me in, and I’ll tell you everythin’ you wanna know.”

The sarcasm in his voice should’ve been enough. Should’ve been all you needed to shut the door and run, because what the hell was this? But no, something about the way he stood there, the casual arrogance, the way his eyes never wavered from yours — it was so him. And in the back of your mind, the part you couldn’t quiet, something told you this was no longer the man you had married, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Not yet.

You didn’t ask why. You should’ve. You wanted to. But you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped back, your hand falling instinctively to the door, your fingers curling around the old wood. You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper as you spoke.

“Come in, then.”

And just like that, he did.

His boots met the floorboards with a slow, deliberate rhythm — not loud, not quiet, just enough to echo faintly in the stillness of the room. It was a sound you’d come to know too well, a sound that carried the weight of both absence and presence.

Every step reverberated in the air like a reminder of the days he’d been gone, a reminder that he was here now. The hollow tap of his boots scraped against your thoughts, making the air feel thick, almost oppressive. Familiar. Tangible. But this time, it sent a shiver down your spine, deeper than it ever had before, like his very presence was waking up something deep within you, something locked up tight these last few weeks. 

It kicked something loose in your chest — a mix of dread and relief, something you couldn’t put a name to. And yet, you couldn’t pull your eyes away, couldn’t look anywhere else but at him, even as that feeling twisted around inside you, coiling and unfurling.

He crossed the threshold with a steady, measured stride, like he’d never left. Like nothing had happened. As if two weeks had somehow faded into nothing more than a passing moment. No apology. No explanation. Just him, here, in the doorway — the same way he always had. Like no space had grown between you, like no time had been lost. Like the silence that had stretched on endlessly in his absence didn’t matter. But it did. You could feel it. 

The room had changed, the house had changed. And you? You had changed. The air around him seemed to buzz with an energy that hadn’t been there before, but it was subtle, hiding beneath the surface. Even as he walked into that familiar space, it felt like he wasn’t just walking into the room — he was walking into everything that had happened while he was gone. Every moment. Every second. And yet, his gaze was calm, almost too calm, as if none of it mattered to him at all.

His eyes moved through the room the same way they always had, like they were cataloging everything in their path. A quick, quiet sweep — slow but unhurried. Measuring, thoughtful. Calculating. Like he was mentally clocking what had changed in the room, the small details, the things he hadn’t seen in the time away. The rearranged furniture. The dust on the counter. The cracks in the walls that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge any of it. It was as though nothing could surprise him.

 Nothing could rattle him. And yet, as his gaze slid over the room, you could feel him noticing everything without ever giving it away on his face. He’d always been like that — careful, observant, measuring every move, every flicker of life in the space around him. But this time, the gaze wasn’t just detached. It felt more deliberate, sharper, like he was seeing things he hadn’t noticed before. Things that hadn’t been there when he left. Things that had changed.

Then, just as you started to breathe again, his eyes landed on you.

And something flickered. Just for a split second. It wasn’t enough to give away what he was thinking — not enough to let you know what he felt, what he was seeing — but it was there. A momentary pause in the rhythm of his movements, a subtle change in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his focus sharpened. He took you in with a slow, deliberate gaze, his eyes tracing the lines of you like he was committing every detail to memory, cataloging the parts of you that hadn’t been there before, the parts of you that had.

The way your nightgown clung to your skin, a little too thin against the chill of the air. The hollows under your eyes, deeper than they should have been, shadows that had settled there from nights of worrying, waiting, wondering. The way your shoulders slumped under the weight of it all — the weight of him, the weight of the silence, the weight of the uncertainty that had been crushing you for far too long. 

You hadn’t even realized you were holding yourself like that. Not until the way he looked at you made you painfully aware. His gaze didn’t linger in the way it used to, with that softness, that familiarity. No, it was sharper. More focused. More calculating. He noticed it all — the small things that would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else, the things you had no choice but to live with. And for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he saw you the way you saw yourself now — broken in places, frayed at the edges, and wearing a mask that didn’t fit anymore.

“You look like hell,” he said, voice low, matter-of-fact. It wasn’t cruel or mocking — not even judgmental, really. It was just a simple observation, something he’d been meaning to say. Like it needed saying, and now it had been, and that was all. The words lingered in the air, hanging between you, but they didn’t cut. They didn’t have the power to hurt, not anymore. You already knew.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, the bitter taste of his absence still on the tip of your tongue. Your fingers tightened reflexively around the doorframe, as if it might somehow steady you. The weight of his gaze was like a hand pressing on your chest, and you hated how small you felt under it, how fragile.

“I waited,” you said, the words feeling tight, like something heavy stuck in your chest. “I—every night, I—” Your voice faltered, like the years you’d spent with him were still too much to process, too big to put into simple words. How could you explain the long, slow unraveling of yourself, the endless hours you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was dead, if he was coming back at all?

He sighed, a deep, worn-out sound, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to shake off the weight of something heavier than the air around you. “I know,” he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that same underlying edge of exhaustion.

“Then why—?” The question almost caught in your throat before you could get it out. It wasn’t just the ‘why’ of his disappearance. It was the ‘why now,’ the why after everything.

“Don’t,” he cut in, not sharply, but with an edge that cut through the air between you. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t warm either. It was just... tired. “Not yet.”

You stared at him, blinking against the sudden wave of emotions you couldn’t sort through. His words didn’t make sense, but that was nothing new. Not with him. “You can’t just walk in here and expect me not to ask.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. But what else was there to do? How could you stay quiet after everything?

“I’m not expecting anything,” he muttered, the words rough, like they didn’t quite fit his mouth. “I’m telling you I need a minute.” He said it like it was simple, like everything could be boiled down to that one sentence, but the air between you felt heavier now, thick with all the things he wasn’t saying.

The words should’ve stung, should’ve pressed against the anger burning in your gut, but they didn’t. They didn’t hurt the way you thought they would. Instead, they just sank deep into you, settling into the ache that had already been growing there. A quiet, hollow ache. A place where everything else had slipped away.

“I thought you were dead,” you whispered, the words so soft, so fragile, it felt like they might break apart in the air. “I thought—” You couldn’t finish. It didn’t matter. He’d heard it, and that was enough. That was everything.

His jaw flexed — the smallest movement, but it didn’t escape you. The flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? You couldn’t be sure, but it was there, and it was gone just as quickly as it had come. He didn’t look at you, didn’t speak. He just kept his back to you, his posture stiff, like the weight of your words was too much.

“I know,” he said again, quieter this time, almost... softer. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, his voice unsteady now, like he was dragging the words out. “It wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

“Then how was it supposed to go?” You didn’t mean for the question to come out so sharp, but it did. Your own voice sounded foreign to you, distant, like you didn’t recognize it anymore.

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. He just bent down to toe off his boots, the movement slow and deliberate, as if he was giving himself time to think. Or maybe just time to avoid you. To avoid answering. He set them neatly by the door, as though it was just any other night. Then, without a word, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, the motion dragging his shirt tight against his chest, the muscles beneath it shifting in a way that reminded you of the man you used to know — the one who could move through a room like he owned it.

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” he said. The words were soft, almost a whisper. “Not yet. I need a wash. And some damn sleep.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to beg, maybe to demand more. But he was already moving down the hall, his shoulders stiff with something you couldn’t place, like the tension in his back was enough to pull the rest of him away from you. The heat of him lingered in the air for a moment longer, heavy and unspoken, before it started to fade.

“Remmick,” you called, the name slipping out before you could stop it. He didn’t turn around, didn’t even pause. But he didn’t completely ignore you, either.

He slowed, just enough to let you know he’d heard. The silence stretched between you.

“I should be angry,” you said, voice trembling, more to yourself than to him.

A beat passed — long, drawn-out. Then he spoke, his voice barely a murmur. “You should be,” he said, but there was something strange about it. Something unreadable. “But not tonight.”

And with that, he disappeared around the corner, his figure melting into the shadows of the hallway. The sound of water running came a few moments later, too sharp, too loud in the otherwise quiet house, breaking the silence that had settled like a weight between you.

You stood there for a long time, long after he was gone.

Your hand still pressed against the doorframe, your fingers numb, as if you were holding onto something that was already slipping away. The scent of him — soap, sweat, earth, and something that was just... him — lingered faintly in the air. It curled around the room like the ghost of the man who had once been everything to you. And even though he was there, so close, you could feel the distance between you, stretching farther with each second that passed.

You finally pulled yourself away from the doorframe, the pressure in your fingers dissipating slowly. The sound of the water running—loud, steady—told you he was in the shower.

Without thinking much, you made your way up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. The stillness felt a bit too much, like the air was holding its breath, waiting for something that hadn’t been said.

You entered the bedroom, the familiar scent of the sheets and the faint smell of his cologne still lingering in the room. For a moment, you just stood there, your eyes tracing the space like you were seeing it for the first time.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, the coolness of the sheets surprisingly comforting. It felt strange, being in here alone once again, but the exhaustion was too much to ignore. The bed was warm, the kind of warmth that felt right, even though things between you two didn’t feel that way anymore.

You stretched out, letting your body sink deeper into the comfort of the mattress. Without meaning to, your eyes fluttered closed, the soft hum of the water below lulling you into a quiet space of your own. Thoughts drifted, but the pull of sleep was stronger.

And before you even realized it, the exhaustion had taken over. The tension from earlier faded, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the distant sound of water running.

You were asleep before you could even stop yourself.

You didn’t wake all at once. It came in pieces, slow and disjointed — a vague sense of wrongness settling in before your body even caught up. The kind of stirring that made your brows draw together before your eyes opened, as if some part of you already knew something wasn’t right. Like your body remembered a warning your mind hadn’t yet caught onto. It wasn’t the dark or the silence that did it. It was just... a feeling. A weight in your chest. An ache you couldn’t place.

And then — sharp. Sudden. At the base of your neck.

It wasn’t just pain. It was dragging, hot and deep, like someone had sunk something beneath your skin and left it there to fester. You drew in a breath too fast through your nose, air catching in your throat as your hand moved, half-conscious, to the source of it. Fingers brushed skin that was warmer than it should’ve been, too sensitive, and damp.

Not with sweat.

Not with tears.

When you pulled your hand back, you saw it even before your eyes had fully adjusted.

Blood.

Smearing across the pads of your fingers in thin streaks, tacky and fresh. Your breath stuttered. It didn’t make sense. Not at first. Your mind fumbled, still heavy from sleep — still hoping for something reasonable. A nosebleed, maybe. A bad dream. Anything that didn’t explain why your neck felt like it was pulsing beneath your skin, hot and raw.

But the moment your fingertips found the punctures — two, clean, unmistakable — that shaky hope snapped.

You sat up, not fast, not slow — just enough to know your body didn’t want to cooperate. Your spine felt weak, your shoulders heavy, like you’d been drugged or drowned or left to unravel. The fog in your mind hadn’t cleared, not fully, but it parted just enough to register the absence beside you.

The bed was empty.

And not just empty — cold.

His side of the mattress had no trace of warmth. No indentation, no shifting blanket, no smell of him lingering on the pillow like it usually did. Just stillness. And space.

Your stomach dropped in that quiet, breathless way that only came when something inside you recognized danger before your brain could name it. Because this wasn’t new, was it? That bone-deep panic, that flash of he’s gone—you’d lived it before. And still, even now, the idea of him vanishing again hollowed out your lungs.

You sat up straighter, hand still pressed to your neck, your pulse knocking unevenly under your palm.

“Remmick?”

Your voice cracked when you said his name. Not loudly — barely above a whisper — but it still felt like it shattered something. Like it didn’t belong in the room the way it used to.

Silence.

Not the safe kind.

The kind that pressed back.

You waited. One second. Then two. Then ten.

Still nothing. No answer. No creak of footsteps. No familiar drawl or shift of weight or even the soft drag of breath beside you.

And that was when fear bloomed. Quiet and wide, like ink dropped in water.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, trying to steady your hands, your thoughts, your pulse. The ache in your neck burned again, and you bit down hard to stop from crying out — half from the pain, half from the mounting realization that you didn’t know what had happened.

You were just about to rise when a sound broke through the thick stillness — soft, so subtle you almost missed it.

A creak. Wood shifting under weight. You turned sharply. 

And your breath caught. Remmick was sitting by the window. Still. Half in shadow, half painted in pale moonlight, just enough for you to see him clearly — or at least enough to see what mattered. 

He wasn’t looking out the window. He was looking at you. He was watching you.

Not startled. Not guilty. Just still — like he had been for hours, like he hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d left your side. The chair beneath him creaked softly as he shifted his weight, but even that felt deliberate. Intentional. The kind of quiet that didn’t happen by accident.

One arm rested across the side of the chair, the other draped loosely over his lap — casual, composed, but there was a tension in him now, something unreadable coiled beneath his skin.

And then you saw it.

The blood.

It caught the light as he turned just slightly, glinting red against the pale of his jaw. It smeared along the corner of his mouth, wet and stark and so out of place. He hadn’t wiped it away. Hadn’t tried to hide it. It was yours.

A breath snagged in your throat, sharp and quick. Your pulse skipped — or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was something else now. Something slower. Something changed.

Your hand flew back to your neck — faster this time, not careful, not hesitant — and this time, you felt the truth in full.

Two points.

Sharp. Precise. Still tender.

Still fresh.

Your fingers pressed against the small wounds, and even that tiny pressure made the ache flare again, deeper now, pulling at something beneath the surface of your skin. It was like touching a place that wasn’t fully yours anymore.

Your blood. On his mouth.

Your breath caught, and your eyes locked on him again.

He hadn’t moved.

Just sat there. Watching.

His eyes were different now. You didn’t know how you hadn’t noticed it before — maybe the dark had masked it, or maybe your mind hadn’t wanted to see it. But they were colder. Calmer. Less human.

You opened your mouth — maybe to speak, maybe to scream — but no sound came.

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Measured. Like he already knew.

“Hey baby.”

Two words, quiet as dust settling, but they shattered something in you anyway.

Because you had woken up in panic — empty bed, aching body, blood on your fingertips — and for a moment, you thought he’d done it and left. Like before. Vanished again into the dark like he always had. But he hadn’t.

He’d stayed.

And maybe that was worse.

Your voice came back slowly, a rasp barely held together. “What did you do?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. His eyes never left yours, and he didn’t look sorry. Didn’t look afraid. Just… resolute. Like whatever line he’d crossed tonight had been waiting in the sand for a long time.

Finally, he spoke — and this time, his voice held something else. Something heavy.

“I couldn’t lose you to what I am now.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — too full — of everything he wasn’t saying. What he’d done. What it meant. What you were now.

Your gaze snapped to him — sharp, panicked, disbelieving — and the horror that had been simmering beneath your skin finally cracked wide open across your face. Your chest heaved, breath catching in uneven stutters as your hands began to tremble, fingertips smeared with your own blood, still wet against your throat.

And he just sat there.

Watching.

Still.

It wasn’t the ache in your neck that made your voice break — it was the realization settling like ice in your bones. The finality of it.

Your fingers shook as you held them up — bloodstained, trembling, helpless.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you choked out, your voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Remmick, what—what did you do?”

It wasn’t just fear in your voice. It was grief. Rage. Betrayal.

Your throat closed up around the last word, and your vision swam. You could feel your pulse thundering in your ears, but not in the way it used to — not in the way that made you feel alive. It was distant now. Hollow. Like something inside you had been scooped out and replaced with something colder. Hungrier.

He still didn’t move. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, posture calm — almost reverent. The only thing that betrayed him was the faint tension in his jaw. Like even he didn’t quite know how to explain what he’d done.

“I had to,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You flinched.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head so hard it made your vision blur. “No, you—you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to—fuck, Remmick—”

Your voice broke again, and this time you didn’t try to stop it. The tears came without permission, hot and sudden, streaking down your face as you stared at him like he was someone you didn’t recognize.

Like he wasn’t him anymore.

Or maybe this had always been him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Still, he didn’t rise. Just watched you — a war in his eyes, but no regret on his face.

Only inevitability.

You noticed it the second you moved — the way his eyes locked on to you, tracking every small tremble in your limbs as you rose from the bed on shaky legs. There was no concern in his expression, no guilt. Just a quiet, intent focus that wrapped around you like a snare. He didn’t flinch at the sight of your blood, or at the way your breath caught in your throat, or even at the disbelief etched so plainly across your face.

If anything… he looked calm. Unshaken. Like this had always been the plan.

His gaze followed the stutter of your steps, the way your hand still hovered near your neck as if trying to protect it from him — from what he had already done. A glint flickered in his eyes then. Not regret. Not sorrow.

Possession.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was low — steady in a way that made your blood run colder than anything else.

“You really think I’d let you live out the rest of your days like that?” he asked, his tone almost casual, like he was surprised by the very idea. “Still human? Still breakable?” He scoffed faintly, shaking his head, and took a slow step forward. “Like hell I would.”

He paused, watching you. Letting it sink in. Then his voice dropped further, rougher, the edge of something else — something darker — slipping beneath every word.

“You think I’d walk away forever, leave you behind while I disappeared into something you’d never understand?” His lip curled, not quite a smile — too sharp, too cold. “You think I’d let you grow old without me? Let you forget me?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and the silence stretched, thick and humming with something terrible.

“No, darlin’,” he said, his voice soft now — too soft. “No. That was never gonna happen.”

He took another step, and this time you could feel the air shift around him, like the whole room was holding its breath. “I made sure of that,” he continued, and the words dripped like oil from his lips. “I had to. The second they turned me — the second I felt what it really meant to hunger, to need—”

He let the sentence hang there, unfinished, heavy.

“That was when I knew,” he said, quieter now. “I couldn’t leave without you. Wouldn’t. Not when every part of me still belonged to you, even after death. Especially after.”

Your knees nearly buckled at the intensity in his voice — not shouted, not frantic. Just certain. Like he was telling you gravity existed. Like he was telling you the sky was blue.

He stepped closer still, until the distance between you was no more than a breath. He looked down at you, eyes dark, but lit with something that made your skin crawl — reverence, obsession, devotion twisted into something monstrous.

“I took the choice from you,” he said. “Because I knew you’d fight it. Knew you’d beg me not to. And I couldn’t let that happen. Not when the thought of you out there without me — without this — felt worse than hell itself.”

His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach out but knew it would break you completely if he did.

“You’re mine now, always have been,” he breathed. “In blood. In life. In death. There’s no going back.”

He leaned in, so close you could feel the chill of him, and whispered like it was a promise stitched straight into your soul.

“You ain’t ever leavin’ me, sweetheart. Not in this life. Not in the next. We end where we began.”

You staggered backwards, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought against the rising wave of nausea threatening to overtake you. The blood on your hands, the feel of it still fresh and wet, clung to you like a confession — one you couldn't escape. You couldn’t focus on anything else, not the cold air seeping in around the edges of the room, not the way his gaze followed you like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You made a choice for me, is that it?” The words ripped from you like a scream, raw and jagged, a desperate plea for control you knew you no longer had. Your voice cracked, breaking under the weight of it, yet you still pushed forward, each step farther from him. As if distance could undo the horror of the night. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for any of it!”

You could hear your breath coming in ragged gasps now, your body trembling as if every nerve was alight, your fingers pressing into your sides like you could somehow squeeze the truth out of your skin. “I ain’t wanna live forever,” you spat, the words dripping with a mixture of fear and rage that burned like acid in your throat. “You sick fuck... you thought you could just make that decision for me? Just change everything about who I am, who I was—for what?!”

His silence, that cold, relentless stillness, only made the anger surge deeper. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — just watched, those eyes of his dark with something far too hungry for comfort. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to run, to get out of this — to get away from him before whatever he’d done to you fully took hold. But there was nowhere to go. Not anymore.

“Why?” you cried, your voice breaking, shaking as the tears spilled freely down your cheeks. You couldn’t stop them. You didn’t even try. “Why did you come back?! You should have just stayed wherever the hell you came from!” The words felt like they were choking you as they left your lips. They were too sharp, too brutal, but they were all you had left. “Why drag me into this? Why do this to me? You don’t even care what I want, do you?!”

The sobs caught in your chest, short and ragged, but the fury burned hotter with each passing moment. You swiped at your eyes, trying to clear away the tears, but it felt pointless. He had taken something you couldn’t ever get back, something far more important than just your body. He had taken your choice. He had stolen everything from you. And the worst part? He didn’t even see it as wrong.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, the ache in your neck now a distant throb compared to the tidal wave of betrayal that had you on your knees — metaphorically, physically, you didn’t know anymore. Your body was moving without your permission, words spilling out that you couldn’t take back.

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?!” you screamed, your hands shaking so violently, you couldn’t hold them still. Your mind felt like it was spiraling, everything you thought you knew about him — everything you thought you knew about you — coming apart in pieces too small to gather back together.

But he just stood there. His face unreadable. His eyes locked on you, like he was savoring every word, every tear that fell. A strange, twisted satisfaction in the way you collapsed before him — not physically, but in every other way.

The silence stretched long, too long. It felt suffocating, like the air had turned dense, thick with the weight of what had just happened, what was happening, and what could still come. Your mind scrambled for some sort of answer, something that would make this make sense, but all you could see was him — Remmick, standing there, the man who had just destroyed everything you thought you knew about yourself.

He didn’t speak at first. He just stared at you, those dark eyes taking in every sob, every shake of your body, as if he were trying to commit it all to memory. A predator, studying its prey.

Then, finally, his voice came. Low. Dark. Almost as if he were enjoying the chaos he had stirred.

“You think you’re the only one in pain here, darling?” His words slid over you like cold venom. “You think you’re the only one who has had their choice ripped away?”

You froze. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, each movement carrying with it an almost cruel calmness. His eyes never left yours, his gaze narrowing just slightly, something dark and possessive creeping across his features.

“You think I wanted this?” he asked, his voice like gravel scraping against metal. “I didn’t want this any more than you did. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?” He took another step, closing the distance between you, and you could feel your legs trembling beneath you, as if your body was betraying you, unwilling to stand firm in the face of the terror he had brought.

“I didn’t come back for me, you know,” he continued, his voice taking on that same low, obsessive tone. “I came back for you. You’re mine, and now you’re going to understand that. I made you like me because I had to. You think I’d let you go on pretending you were something other than what you are now? What we are? We belong to each other, whether you like it or not.”

Each word hit like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. Your stomach twisted, nausea threatening to spill over again, but this time it wasn’t from the blood on your hands. It was from the venom in his voice, the surety in the way he spoke, like this was his world now — and you were nothing but a piece of it.

“You really think you could just walk away from me?” he muttered, taking another step closer, and this time, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken threat. “You think you can just run? You’re not leaving me. Not now, not ever.” He paused, and his eyes darkened. "I gave you this gift, and you'll learn to appreciate it, whether you want to or not."

The fear, the panic that had been simmering beneath the surface, broke free like a dam shattering. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want him.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up. You turned, stumbling towards the door, your breath coming in short, frantic gasps. Get out. Get away.

But you didn’t make it far. Not nearly far enough.

Before you could even reach the door, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of your hair with brutal force. The pain was immediate and sharp, the pressure of his grip causing a cry to break from your throat. You tried to struggle, to yank yourself free, but his hold was like iron.

“No,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous, as he yanked you backward. “You’re not running from me. Not now. Not ever.”

Your body collided with the bed, and before you could recover, he was on you — heavy, suffocating, with an air of finality you could feel deep in your bones. His grip on your hair didn’t loosen, dragging you further onto the bed, pinning you down as if you were nothing more than a doll in his hands.

“Let go of me!” You shoved at his chest, weakly, your hands trembling with desperation. Your words came out in a broken, panicked rasp, your voice barely recognizable. “I said, let me go!”

But he didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned down, his breath warm and ragged against your ear as his fingers tightened their grip on your hair, forcing your head back. The pressure was suffocating, like the very essence of you was being crushed under the weight of his presence. You tried to twist beneath him, your limbs flailing weakly in an attempt to push him off, but it felt useless. Your movements were sluggish, your body still reeling from everything he had done to you. Every nerve screamed for escape, but your strength was slipping away, leaving you feeling more fragile than ever.

“You’re wasting your energy, darling,” his voice was low, almost amused as he pressed closer to you. “You can fight all you want. You can scream. But it won’t change a thing. You’re mine now, and there’s no running from that.”

“Why?” you gasped, the word coming out more like a plea than a question. “Why are you doing this? Why me?”

His eyes gleamed, dark with something dangerous — possessive, obsessive. “Because you belong to me. Everything about you, everything that makes you, you, it was always meant to be mine. Do you understand?” His lips curled into a wicked smile as he hovered just above you, his eyes never leaving yours, studying every flicker of emotion that passed across your face. “You can hate me for it all you want, but this is what you were always meant to be. Don’t you see? You can’t escape fate.”

Tears blurred your vision as your breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. Every inch of you wanted to scream, to claw at him, to push him off, but it felt like the fight was draining out of you with each passing second. You continued to struggle beneath him, your hands pushing against his chest, weak and trembling.

“No!” You spat, your voice raw with anguish and fury. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for any of this!”

The sobs came again, racking through your chest in desperate, painful waves. “You took my life from me! You took everything from me!”

His expression twisted, his eyes flashing with something dangerous, something darker than anything you’d seen before. His fingers tightened in your hair, pulling your head back further, exposing your neck to him as he loomed over you.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, his voice full of a dark, possessive thrill. “You think you’re losing everything, but you haven’t lost a thing. You’re with me, and that’s all that matters. That’s all you need to understand.”

You choked on your own breath as the weight of his words settled over you. His grip on your hair dragged you deeper into the bed, making it impossible to look away. But even through the pain, you felt a surge of rage rise up within you, stronger now than ever before. With every ounce of strength you had left, you pushed your hands against his chest again, shoving with every last bit of energy you could muster.

Remmick took an almost sadistic delight in pain now, something you hadn’t known about him before. Before he was turned, he had been nothing but soft — a gentle touch, a soothing voice, a warmth that never failed to comfort you. But now, the cruelty in his eyes, the way he reveled in your suffering, was something entirely new.

Your bed had never felt so unforgiving beneath you. The struggle was fierce, a brutal clash of wills that left your body aching and your heart racing with a mix of fear and fury. Each movement felt like it was costing you something, each strike against him a desperate plea for control that seemed to slip through your fingers with every passing second. In that moment, you were fighting for your life. Or at least, it felt like you were—because in a way, you had already lost it, the life you once knew, the one you thought you had, was gone.

Remmick’s head jerked to the side as your fist connected with his cheek, the force of it sending a brief flash of satisfaction through you. But you didn't stop there. You lashed out again, driven by the need to push him back, to feel some shred of power over the chaos. Your knuckles grazed the sharp edge of his jaw, the impact drawing blood—warm, dark, and unmistakably real.

But instead of retreating, instead of giving you the space you needed, it only made him more feral. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and the raw anger in his eyes burned hotter, deeper, like a fire stoked by every drop of blood you spilled. It was clear now that your resistance wasn’t making him back off—it was making him hunger for more. The blood, your blood, didn’t weaken him. It emboldened him, and that realization hit you harder than any of your blows.

His grip on you tightened, forcing your body back into the bed, his weight pressing down on you with a suffocating finality. Every movement felt heavy, as though every inch of ground you gained was immediately lost under the weight of his presence. And you fought, tried to shove him off, but he just absorbed it, his body not giving an inch, his eyes burning with a dark satisfaction. He wasn’t just enjoying this struggle; he was feeding off it.

The sharp sound of fabric ripping echoed through the room, the soft material of your nightgown shredding with terrifying ease under the force of his grip. Each tear seemed to magnify the tension in the air, adding to the sense of powerlessness that clawed at you. The cool night air kissed your bare skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine as the fabric came apart piece by piece. Goosebumps bloomed along your arms, the chill of the air contrasting sharply with the heat of your skin, still burning from the proximity.

It was as though time had slowed, the cold bite of the room amplifying your vulnerability. But no matter how much you tried to twist, to wriggle away, his hold was relentless—each move you made only made it worse. His strength, like something primal and undeniable, was something you couldn’t fight, no matter how hard you tried. The night seemed to grow colder, harsher, and all you could feel was the weight of his presence, closing in.

Remmick didn’t hesitate, his lips curling into something dark before he sank his teeth into your skin, the sharp bite sending a jolt of pain through you. A startled cry escaped your lips, the sudden intrusion taking your breath away. Desperately, you pushed at his head, your hands shaking as you fought to regain control, the pressure of his weight on you overwhelming.

When Remmick entered you so suddenly, a forbidden heat flared within you, a visceral response that your body registered as good even as your mind recoiled. Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the dark shape looming above, every instinct screaming for him to stop, yet a shameful throb pulsed between your legs, a betrayal of your will.

Each thrust was a brutal act, yet a perverse wave of sensation followed, a tightening and clenching that was undeniably potent but utterly unwanted in this moment of force. Your nails tore at the sheets, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself against the confusing storm of physical pleasure intertwined with the horror of the violation. 

Your body, against your conscious desire, began to heat and clench with a shameful insistence, a biological response at odds with your desperate wish for it to end, for him to be gone. You squeezed your eyes shut, a silent scream against the unwelcome sensations that bloomed within you even as you longed for release from his presence.

A raw, electric heat jolted through you, coiling low in your belly and sending involuntary tremors that rippled through your thighs. You bit down hard on your lip, the sharp sting a fragile anchor against the overwhelming tide of sensation threatening to drown your will.

Remmick's low laugh rumbled against your ear, a possessive sound that vibrated through your very bones. Your eyes flickered open, finding his gaze locked onto yours, a dark, consuming intensity that held you captive.

His skin glistened with a slick sheen of sweat, catching the dim light and mirroring the feverish dampness clinging to your own heated flesh. Strands of dark, tousled hair fell across his brow, shadowing his intent gaze as he watched you. A molten warmth spread through your core, a wildfire of unfamiliar sensations that licked at your resolve, threatening to obliterate your resistance. 

Your breath hitched, a ragged gasp escaping your lips as your gaze dropped to the visceral joining of your bodies, the point of intense friction and burgeoning pleasure. A primal hunger flared in his eyes, a raw possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. His tongue flicked out to wet his parted lips, a silent testament to the desire that gripped him.

"Mmm, look at you, darlin'," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble laced with that slow Southern drawl. "Just tremblin' for me, ain't ya? Every little inch of you." His hips slammed against yours, a relentless, driving rhythm that stole the air from your lungs and sent dizzying pulses of sensation radiating through your body, each deep connection igniting a fresh wave of intense, spiraling pleasure that warred with your inner turmoil. The friction built, a searing heat that stole your focus, leaving only the insistent pressure and the confusingly exquisite ache.

The relentless thrusts continued, each slick slide a deep invasion that stretched you open, filling you with a heavy, insistent heat. Remmick’s breath hitched in your ear, his hands gripping your hips, guiding the forceful rhythm that echoed in the small space. Your own breaths came in short, uneven gasps, a shaky counterpoint to his deeper exertions.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a futile attempt to block the overwhelming sensations. Your body softened, yielding against your will to the insistent pressure and the unfamiliar ache that bloomed low in your belly. It was a deep, throbbing heat, undeniably physical and increasingly difficult to ignore.

“Easy, darlin’,” Remmick rasped, his voice thick with desire. “Just feel it… let it build.”

His words were a rough whisper against your skin, and his movements shifted, angling his hips to press deeper, catching a sensitive point that sent a sharp, unexpected thrill through you. A small whimper escaped your lips, your back arching slightly against the pleasure.

A wave of pure sensation crashed over you, a blinding, intense release that shuddered through your frame. Your grip on the sheets tightened, your body arching as the pleasure crested, a series of sharp, involuntary contractions seizing you. A ragged gasp escaped your lips, the sound raw and unrestrained as the intense waves of sensation pulsed through you, each one more potent than the last. Your vision swam, the edges blurring as the overwhelming pleasure consumed you. 

He began to move again, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, more urgent. The control he had been exerting shattered, replaced by a raw, driving need. His hips slammed against yours with increasing intensity, each impact a desperate plea for his own release. The sweat slicking his skin made the sounds of your bodies moving together even more pronounced, a wet, frantic rhythm that echoed the escalating tension in the room.

His hands, which had been cradling your face, now gripped your hips with a fierce possessiveness, lifting you slightly with each powerful thrust, driving him deeper and deeper. His head fell forward, his teeth gritted, a low growl rumbling in his chest with each movement.

“Goddamn— sugar, you feel too good…better than the other hundreds of times I've taken you.”

He was chasing the edge, driven by the tight, slick heat of your body around him, the lingering echoes of your own release fueling his urgency. His breath came in sharp, desperate gasps, each exhale a ragged sound of pure physical need.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath coming in shuddering gasps as he emptied himself into you, the powerful pulses of his release echoing the recent intensity of yours. He remained there for a long moment, his body  against yours, his grip on your hips slowly easing as the aftershocks subsided. The only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the faint, wet sounds of your joined bodies.

He stayed pressed against you, his body molded to yours like he couldn't stand the idea of even an inch of distance. His breathing had slowed, but the tension in his arms hadn’t left. One hand remained splayed over your stomach, the other draped heavy over your hip — possessive, unmoving.

Silence filled the room, thick and weighted. Only the faint rustle of the sheets and your uneven breaths disturbed it. Your body ached, spent in a way that ran deeper than physical.

Remmick shifted slightly, his nose brushing your neck, lips parted just enough for you to feel the ghost of his voice as he spoke.

“I could’ve kept going,” he said, voice quiet, but far from gentle. There was hunger beneath it — not lust, not anymore. Something deeper. Something endless. “You know that, don’t you? I could’ve taken you again. And again. You wouldn’t have stopped me.”

He didn’t say it to be cruel. He said it like a promise.

But then he sighed, not out of regret — there was no room for that here — but as if reining himself in. “You’re tired,” he murmured, his hand tracing absently across your stomach, as if to remind himself you were still there, still his. “So rest… for now.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your eyes were open, unfocused on the far wall, heart still racing slow and uneven under your ribs.

And beside you, he lay silent, content — not with the moment, but with the fact that there would be many more.

Because now, he had you.

And he wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever. Not even when centuries passed and the world turned to dust around you.

You were his — bound by blood, by the curse he’d carved into your skin, by the hunger he’d forced into your veins. There was no going back now. No undoing what he’d done. You belonged to him, in life, in death, and everything in between — and he would make damn sure you never forgot it.