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nereidprinc3ss · 3 months ago

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hourglass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to kiss me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

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

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

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

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

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

Realized it was not at all a joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t want to see you.

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

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

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

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

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

Surely you’re hallucinating.

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

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

But it's him.

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

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

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

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

You scoff.

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

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

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

It chills you.

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

He is so different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silent moment passes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this what you want?”

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

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We don’t have to do—”

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

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

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

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

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

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t,” you admit.

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

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

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

Right. No shirt.

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

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

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

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

“I don’t believe you.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

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

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

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

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

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

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

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

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

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

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

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

“Is this okay?”

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

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re still pretty.”

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

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

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

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

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

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

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

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

“I...”

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

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

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

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re not even fucking yet.

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

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

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

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

Spencer. Your Spencer.

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

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

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

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

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

Spencer continues unprompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re here.”

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

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

“I’m here,” he breathes.

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

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

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

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

Honey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

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

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

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

“Am I going to hate you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

But it doesn’t work.

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

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

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

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

The bruises covering his abdomen.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

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

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

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough.

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

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes.

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

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

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

Maybe it will never be like it was.

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

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

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table.

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

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

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

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

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twilightkitkat · 1 month ago

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Can we talk about the dynamics of Logan "I eat anything and scarf it down immediately" Howlett and Wade "I only eat the same 10 foods in different fonts" Wilson?

Logan is used to living without. Even as a child, he had to get by when he was sick with the food his family could afford. Once he joined the military, he had to survive on the limited rations he was given. He didn't have room to be picky—he either ate what he was given or didn't eat at all. And in war, he had to eat eventually.

His preferences didn't matter. He was always treated as a soldier, a weapon, and his food reflected that. He'd get enough protein and carbohydrates to fuel his power but that was it. Food was for functional use, not to be enjoyed. It didn't matter if it tasted disgusting, he just inhaled it so the taste wouldn't linger.

He's also an extremely quick eater. He's feral and ravenous when hungry, tearing into meat with his claws and hands. He lived in the army, in the mountains, through the Great Depression, and in dangerous situations where he hunted for himself. To him, food is a scarce resource and if you don't eat it while you can, you might not have it tomorrow. So he takes gigantic bites and tears into food no matter how bland and unappealing it was because that's all he knows. His standards for food are just that it has to have nutrients and not be poisoned.

Wade, on the other hand, is more picky. If he had to choose between eating something he hates or not eating, he'd rather just starve. At first, in the army, he did eat what was given to him even if he disliked it, but it was purely for survival. He choked it down even when it made him vaguely nauseous and disgusted. But later, he'd hoard stashes of his own food that he managed to steal or barter for or bet on. It was better to be hungry most of the time than satiate his hunger temporarily only to fight to keep it down and feel sick the entire day.

The second he has the freedom to pick his own food, he sticks to things he knows he likes. That he feels comfortable with. He's picky about brands and specific types of food and how it has to be cooked or made, but he manages. He can normally find something on the menu he's OK with, even if he often has order a kid's meal. But most places have grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken tenders and macaroni, and people chalk it up to him being childish and silly, so nobody pays much attention.

Wade sees food as one of the only things he can control. He's been devoid of true choice for most of his life. He couldn't control getting cancer or being forced to turn into a horrific mutant. He couldn't save his relationship with Vanessa. When everything around him was collapsing, he hyperfixated on the little things he could control like food or clothing.

The two, together, learn to have a healthier relationship with food.

Logan was the first person to truly pay attention to Wade. To see which foods he liked and which he picked at and grimaced towards when nobody was looking. When Logan abruptly said he'd cook dinner one day, Wade was nervous, but nearly started bawling when Logan made homemade chicken tenders and macncheese. He noticed. He cared.

It was the first time Wade could be open and let someone see he was genuinely affected by food instead of him just playing it up as a lunatic. And Logan took him seriously and didn't make fun of him. He learned recipes to make the foods Wade liked but healthier and more balanced. He helped Wade finally get the nutrients he needed consistently without feeling sick to his stomach.

And Wade helped Logan too.

Logan was never allowed to have preferences. To have a sweet tooth or ask for more. To expect quality. But here Wade was, buying him some apple cinnamon-filled pastry just because he looked at it too long in the store.

Logan was never allowed to have dessert. To have sweet food just for the sake of it even after a meal. His eyes become wet as he clutches the pastry between his shaking hands and takes a bite. He's allowed this. To have the comforts in life. To eat just because it tasted good.

Someone cared about him enough to buy him what he wanted just because he'd enjoy them, not just to keep him functioning as a tool. Wade treated him as human. Like he was precious. Like he deserved the nice things in life.

And Wade reminds him of this. He stocks their kitchen with desserts that Logan likes, because he knows that Logan secretly enjoys sweet things. He sees the way he sniffs the air and wanders close to the fresh-baked goods of a bakery. He keeps snacks around the house, so Logan can eat whenever he want. Even if it isn't a "necessary meal."

And Wade learns to be more comfortable and try new variations of foods he likes that Logan makes. Because Logan knows the textures and flavors he hates and is somehow able to create a few new dishes entirely that he likes. He stops dreading mealtime or trying new foods. And Wade feels comfortable just trying the food without pressure, knowing that he can just not finish it if he doesn't want to and that someone else will.

And Logan learns to let himself enjoy eating again. To see it as less of a chore for the maintenance of his body and more as an enjoyable activity. Wade reminds him that he can eat just because he wants to and that it's OK to have preferences and ask for things. Logan feels well cared for. Pampered, almost. And he basks in the feeling of being wanted and loved and being allowed to express it through cooking and food.

#poolverine #deadclaws #kitkat #deadpool 3 #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool movie #logan howlett #wade wilson #wade x logan #wade/logan #wade would 100% be picky as hell #i am too #it gets a bit better w age but never really goes away #and logan would learn to eat slowly #to actually savor the food bc it isnt going anywhere #i love poolverine

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inkskinned · 10 months ago

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you have to go to work so you can pay for your doctor, who is not taking your insurance right now, and if you say i can't afford the doctor's you are told - get a better job. it is very sad that you are unwell, yes, but maybe you should have thought about that before not having a better job.

(where is the better job? who is giving out these better jobs? you are sick, you are hurting - how the hell are you supposed to be well enough for this better job?)

but you go to the doctor because you had the nerve to be hurt or sick or whatever else. and they tell you that it is because you have anxiety. you try your best. you are a self-advocate. you've done the reading (which sometimes pisses them off worse, honestly). you say it is actually adding to my anxiety, it is effecting my quality of life. so they say that you are fat. they say that all young people have this happen to them, isn't it a medical marvel! they say that you should eat more vegetables. they say that you probably just need to lose a little more weight, and that you are faking it for attention.

(what attention could this doctor possibly give? what validation? that's their fucking job, isn't it?)

there is always a hypochondriac, right. someone always tells you about a hypochondriac. or someone who is unnecessarily aggressive during the worst days of their life. or someone looking "for a quick fix". or some idiot who wasn't educated about how to properly care for themselves who just abandons their treatment. and again, the hypochondriac, the overly-cautious hysteric. these people don't deserve to be treated like humans (right), and since you might be one of these people, you also don't get treated like a human. because those people can really fuck with the system, you now have to pay for it. and besides. you're actually probably faking it.

(more often than not, you find a 2:1 ratio of these stories. for every "hypochondriac", there are 2 people who knew something was wrong, and yet nobody could fucking find it. the story often ends with pointless suffering. the story often ends with and now it's too late, and it's going to kill me.)

you are actually just making excuses. someone else got that procedure or that diagnosis and he's fine, you should be fine too. someone else said they watched a documentary about other inspirational people with your exact same condition, maybe you should be inspirational, too. you're just too morbid. your pain and your experience is probably just not statistically concerning. it is all self-reported anyway, and you're just being a baby.

(once, while sitting down in the middle of making coffee, you had the sudden, horrible thought - i could kill myself to make the pain stop. you had to call your best friend after that. had to pet your dog. had to cry about it in the shower. you won't, but that moment - god, fuck. the pain just goes on and on.)

you know someone who went in for routine surgery and said i still feel everything. they told her to just relax. it took her kicking and screaming before they figured out she wasn't lying - the anesthetic drip hadn't been working. you know someone who went in for severe migraines who was told drink water and lose weight. you know someone who was actively bleeding out and throwing up in the ER and was told you're just having a bad period.

in the ER there are always these little posters saying things like "don't wait! get checked today!" and you think about how often you do wait. how often the days spool out. you once waited a full week before seeing the doctor for what you thought was a sprained wrist. it had actually been broken - they had to rebreak it to set it.

but you go into the doctor. the problem you're having is immediate. the person behind the counter frowns and says we're not taking your insurance. you will be paying for this out-of-pocket.

they send you home with tylenol and a little health packet about weight loss or anxiety or attention deficit. on the front it has your birthday and diagnosis. you think about crying, and the words swim. it might as well say go fuck yourself. it might as well say you're a fucking idiot. it might as well say light your money on fire and lie down in it. and the entire fucking time - the problem persists.

it's okay. it's okay, it's just another thing, you think. it's just another thing i have to learn to live with.

#spilled ink #warm up #can you tell what i'm mad about today specifically #i will say that there are a LOT of things that go into this. like a lot. this is ungendered and unspecific for a reason #it isn't just sexism. it's also racism. and ableism. and honestly classism.#and before a healthcare professional reads this as a personal attack: i understand ur burnt out #we are ALSO burnt out. your situation is also dire. this is not an attack on you.#this is a commentary on the incredible amounts of bigotry that lie at the heart of capitalism #where people have to pay money out of pocket to be told to fuck off.#your job is important. so is our humanity. and if you cannot accept that people are fucking mad as hell #at the industry - you are probably not listening .#anyway at some point im gonna write a piece about sexism specifically in medical shit #but i don't want terfs clowning in it bc they can't understand nuance #> it is true that ppl w/a uterus are more likely to experience medical malpractice & dismissal globally #> it is also true that trans people experience an equally fucked up and bad time in the medical field #> great news! the medical industrial complex is an equal opportunity life ruiner :)#(if you find it necessary to go into a debate about biology while discussing medical malpractice #i want to warn you that you're misunderstanding the issue. because guess what.#cis MEN might experience this. particularly black men. particularly disabled men.#so YES having a uterus can lead to more trouble for you. but this happens a LOT.#instead of fighting those ALSO experiencing your pain.... try working WITH them.#which btw. is like. actual feminism.)

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cressidagrey · 5 months ago

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Unknowing

Summary:

“If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.”

What if… Azriel actually takes Rhys at his word? And does exactly what his High Lord ordered? With unexpected consequences.

This is the Inner Circle finding out about said consequences. Azriel is very good at keeping secrets

Warnings:

(This is a doozy.) Mention of Sex Work, Unexpected Pregnancy, Mention of Faerie Genocide, Mention of Faerie Wings being used as leather, Mention of Sex

Note:

This was a thought experiment that kinda started to grow a life on its own.

(super pretty divider by @saradika-graphics)

Azriel slid into the Dining Room of the River House nearly on the cusp of being late. Mostly because he hadn’t been able to pull himself away from what he had been doing that afternoon.

Nobody in his situation would have wanted to leave.

It had involved his wife and the flower field in their backyard… their daughter sleeping peacefully in her willow basket a few paces away, cradled in a bubble of her mother’s magic that would keep her asleep and safe from anything that could happen to her.

Fed, changed and as happy as a clam to fall into her usual milk-induced coma, he knew that she would only wake up if she wanted more milk.

Which meant that her parents had some quality time for each other…and they had made the best out of that.

The result was a little shimmer of magic all over Azriel that he couldn’t get scrubbed away. Not that he had tried particularly hard either. He liked having that proof of his wife’s pleasure all over him.

His wife, his mate, the mother of his child…his fucking sanity . There were many words he had for Embelia.

She was the bright spot of his life, untouched by the darkness that leeched around him. A secret he gladly kept.

And if the glimmer of her magic followed him and showed everybody that he was hers…well, then that was the case. Azriel didn’t particularly care what anybody else thought of it.

Azriel was out of fucks to give, to be honest. Had been, for the better part of two years…ever since that Solstice.

He was pretty sure that something inside him had splintered apart at Rhys’ order.

That fucking order had been the reason why he had ever even met Embelia though. He had taken Rhys literally. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her. That had been Rhys’ words.

Her had been Elain.

Azriel had listened to Rhys. He had followed the order to the fucking letter, giving the High Lord of the Night Court to complain about. He had left Elain alone…who had figured things out with Lucien. Both now happy and ensconced in Day Court, with Helion, Lucien’s actual father.

And he had gone to that pleasure hall. He had asked for any female that wasn’t afraid of him…and then Embelia had claimed his hand with hers. And that had been that.

Granted, he hadn’t known her name then. For months, all he had known her as had been Blossom. That’s who she had been to him for months .

Just Blossom. Every Thursday, he had gone to that pleasure hall and paid for her company.

And then she had gotten pregnant.

Not quite what either of them expected.

He hadn’t even bothered with a contraception draught and while she had, apparently it hadn’t stood up to Azriel of all faes.

He should probably thank the mother on his knees for that .

But Embelia had told him about the pregnancy and had been very clear from the start that while she wanted the child, she wasn’t going to ask anything of him. Which was simply unacceptable.

He had grown up a bastard. He was not going to put his child through the same if he had any choice in that matter.

And he had been a little bit in love with her then already. So taking her from that pleasure hall and making her his wife…moving her into a cottage he found and making a life with her…that had been the easiest decision he had ever made.

They had just fit together…

She had come to live with him, and had given up her job, though that wasn’t something that bothered her all too much. More than anything she was happy that she no longer needed to do that to keep alive, to make a living…

And he got to hear the story of how she had come to Velaris and to the pleasure hall.

Embelia was a Floresco Fairie. One of the few survivors of that breed of Lesser Fairies. The rest of her family had been slaughtered in the Spring Court Centuries ago.

She had escaped and had ended up in Velaris of all places, traumatised and alone. Still half a child to her people, not having a trade or anything of that sort. The natural ability of a Floresco Fairy made it possible for her to grow flowers and life wherever she stood but none of that particularly lent itself to a well-paid job.

So the pleasure house it had been. With a glamour, of course.

The first time he had met her, she had left the glamour fall away, showing him a pair of iridescent pink wings sprouting out of her back.

Even then he had thought that she was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen.

That opinion had never changed. If anything…after the birth of their daughter, after the mating bond had snapped for both of them, sometimes between cutting the cord and pressing a kiss to their daughter’s blood-covered head, covered in downy black curls…and he had watched Emmie cradle the baby against her chest, watched her coo to her, not caring one bit about blood and sweat and anything else, because there was their little girl that they had hoped and prayed for…somehow at that point, love seemed such a weak word for what he felt for them both.

Somehow…somehow they had become the light of his life, the only guide he needed. And he protected that ferociously.

Maybe even more than was necessary.

He kept them away from his job and from anything and anybody that may would know him as the terror of the Night Court.

They were his. His. His .

The first thing in his long life that was his and his alone .

And maybe that was too possessive, but…he had never wanted to listen to anybody else’s opinions about his and Embelia’s relationship.

And everybody would have had their opinions.

He knew that.

Instead…he had kept them a secret.

To this day, nobody knew. Not Rhys, not Cassian, not Mor, not Amren…not Feyre or Nesta.

Though of all people, sometimes he thought that maybe Nesta suspected something.

But even if she did…that was fine too.

He had made Embelia his wife, and his mate and the mother of his child and nobody could take her away from him. Nobody but herself, and she was gloriously happy in their little flower-covered cottage, where she was…content to dabble at being a housewife.

After the life she had, he could understand it. She revelled in the normal, in doing nothing but dote on their daughter and try and cook him dinner, which had started as absolutely disgusting but these days often turned out at least mostly edible…to tend to her garden of flowers, which were all she ate anyway…

To just exist there, in that little slice of paradise they built.

And instead of being with her…he attended a family dinner at the River House that evening. He would have gladly just stayed at home, made himself dinner, or maybe let Embelia try to feed him, which never quite worked out and then walked their daughter to sleep.

It would have been perfectly fine to him. To press a kiss to their daughter’s black curls and stroke her iridescent purple sparkling wings that were carefully folded and laid over her back…her heart-shaped mouth would open into a perfect o and she would yawn and he would fall in love all over again. It wouldn’t just be perfectly fine. It would be everything he had ever wanted.

And then he could lay her in her crib and he could walk the few steps to their bed and crawl into it next to his wife, and she would give him that smile…and he could cocoon both of them in his wings and fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that she would be there the next morning.

Maybe kiss her some more and hear very perfect noise that left her throat and feel her warm body against his, skin like silk and small warm hands that could take him apart in seconds.

But no. Rhys had ordered him. Like he was sometimes prone to be doing these days. Maybe because he didn’t know how Azriel spent his free time and clearly him being a loose cannon was way more believable than anything else.

Oh well. Azriel wasn’t in the mood to clear that up.

If anything he was in a brooding mood, wanting to go back to his afternoon in the flower field.

“For cauldron’s sake,” Cassian complained, just as he started to violently sneeze. Multiple times. “Did you roll around in a flower field or something?” his brother demanded and Azriel was amused besides himself.

“Yes,” he agreed drily, taking his seat next to Cassian who just glared at him and then grumbled under his breath, swapping seats with Nesta because otherwise he was probably not going to stop sneezing.

“The Lord of Bloodshed taken to his knees by some flower pollen,” Amren drawled from across the table and Cassian glared at her.

Nesta just snorted in amusement.

Rhys and Feyre appeared at that moment and at least the discussion of flower fields was tabled for the moment.

Which was just as well.

Azriel mentally wondered if he could get away with skipping dessert if he cited some headache or something. He could get dessert at home. It promised to be much better than anything that would be served at the table anyway.

Or maybe that was just going to make Rhys think that he was on the brink of some sort of breakdown even more than he already was. Who knew?

Was it worth the mental berating that it promised to give him? All under the guise of worrying about him or checking in on him?

Azriel had his own opinion about that these days.

He couldn’t help but flinch as Nesta suddenly reached out to touch his hair.

“What are you doing?” he asked her drily as Nesta pulled back her hand, Embelia’s glimmer sticking to it.

“You have…glitter in your hair,” Nesta gave back. “What did you do?” she asked him with a grin. “Is that some kind of fashion choice now?”

“It’s not glitter,” he gave back. It wasn’t. It was the flakes that Embelia’s wings shook loose when she trembled. It did look like glitter though. Sparkling, catching the sunlight…gorgeous, like every inch of her.

“Az, I don’t know if you are ready to hear it, but it definitely looks like glitter,” Nesta told him with a snort. “Don’t worry, it suits you,” she said graciously, biting back a laugh.

Mor was watching the whole thing. “It’s not glitter,” she finally said, mustering his hair with far too much interest. Azriel forced himself not to twitch under the assessing gaze of her brown eyes. Once upon a time, he would have given nearly everything to have her look at him like that, but nowadays…there was nothing there anymore. He would always lover her but sometimes during centuries of yearning for her it had settled into a deep and abiding friendship. Into loyalty. No longer the bright burning of desire, of…anything like that. “Though I would really like to know where you found a Floresco Fairy to talk into your bed, Az,“ she said with a wink.

Azriel didn’t react.

“A what?” Feyre asked, curiosity piqued.

“Floresco Fairy,“ Mor repeated. “They used to live in the Spring Court…centuries ago.”

“They don’t anymore?” Feyre wondered and the conversation around the table dropped.

“Tamlin’s father had them slaughtered and used their wings for leather,“ Azriel said, his voice forcefully even. It was even more horrific than it sounded like. A whole breed of faeries was killed off because of their wings. Floresco Faeries had never been violent or a fighting breed. They kept to themselves, raising their families and growing their flowers and their crops…and then it had been ripped apart into a bloodbath.

Embelia had been right in the middle of that. She had escaped, her youngest sister in tow…who had later succumbed to her injuries and all Emmie had been able to do was to bury her into the icy ground in Winter Court. She hadn’t outright said it but Azriel had known that for years she had wished to bury herself right there alongside her sister.

Feyre just stared at him, blue eyes wide. “That’s horrible,“ she whispered, swallowing.

“Yes,“ he agreed. It was.

Horrific.

“Not all died, a few escaped,” Mor said, trying to make it seem less horrific than it had been. “It happened a very long time ago. But still, they are quite rare. Where did you find her?” She asked Azriel, clearly trying to find something else to talk about.

He wasn’t stupid enough to lie to Morrigan, whose gift was Truth.

“Today? At home.” He answered honestly.

“Home?” Mor repeated, sounding amused beside herself.

“Is she the same one you bought that solstice gift for?” Nesta piped up.

He had asked her for advice, more out of desperation than anything else. She had been quite helpful though.

He hadn’t been anted to ask Mor for obvious reasons, Armen would have probably bitten off his head and Feyre…well then Rhys would have known. But Nesta? Nesta had listened to him when he had asked politely and had then told him that if she liked him, she would like whatever he would buy her.

Not that useful but oh well.

So he just nodded.

“Which one did you end up picking?” Nesta asked him, curious.

“I just bought both,” he admitted with a shrug.

A hair comb that Emmie still wore nearly every day, silver and pink stones intertwined, keeping blush hair pulled back from her face and a pair of earrings that she also wore sometimes.

She liked things like that, even when she never seemed to spend much money on them. And he liked buying her stuff like that because then she wore it and had that pleased little smile on her face, content and happy…

“Lucky girl,” Nesta told him with a secret smile, elbowing his ribs and he bit back down a smile for himself.

“Az got a girlfriend?” Cassian asked, sounding shocked.

“I do not,” he disagreed with a roll of his eyes. He didn’t have a girlfriend. He had a wife. Very different.

“So you just buy…What did he buy, Nesta?” Cassian asked.

“He was waffling between a jewel-encrusted hair comb or a pair of lovely earrings. Apparently, he got her both,” Nesta answered her mate with a sigh. “You should take some advice from him,” she told him drily, making Cassian roll his eyes.

“So if you don’t have a girlfriend, you just buy hair combs and jewellery for any female you come across?” His brother asked him drily.

He just shook his head, not saying a single word. His shadows tightened in response, crawling closer to him from where they had skittered away.

They liked Embelia, though they had taken a special liking to his daughter, tendrils oftentimes coming to play with her or checking on her through the night. With Emmie they kept a respectful distance, though they liked to hide and play with her, like they basked in her pure presence.

It wouldn’t surprise him all too much if that’s what they did.

“Flower and Bud are safe” they whispered at that moment, even when he hadn’t asked.

Right. Safe.

“Leave him to it, Cassian. Though maybe next time wash off the glimmer. Or don’t have one of your amorous adventures before you show up to dinner,” Rhys drawled.

It shouldn’t have upset him like that. It shouldn’t have.

It was harmless. Mostly at least, but Azriel couldn’t help but feel the icy rage burn bright in his chest at Rhysand’s words. At his brother’s words.

He didn’t have many good things in his life but he had Emmie and he was not going to let anybody take her away from him. He was not.

That was simply unacceptable.

“If you try to forbid me from bedding my wife, Rhysand, we are going to have a problem,” Azriel snapped back icily.

A real problem, because he was not willing to give up Embelia under any circumstances. Not her and also not the pleasure they shared.

He regretted his words instantly. One could have heard a pin drop in the Dining Room of the River House at that moment because this was the last thing anybody had expected.

The last thing.

He had kept his wife and his daughter hidden and he had been completely content with that because it had kept them safe and secure and he hadn’t wanted to listen to anybody trying to talk him out of it or telling him it was a bad idea.

It was his fucking choice and he had never regretted it once.

“Your wife ,” Amren was the first that recovered. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.”

His wife. His daughter. His family.

The family he claimed. They were his.

“You don’t have a girlfriend but you have a wife ?” Mor repeated.

He just nodded.

“You got married. When?” she continued asking him and he met her gaze.

“About a year ago,” he answered. It had been just the two of them…and well, the babe slumbering in Emmie’s womb, but that was the whole reason for the wedding in the first place, right?

“You didn’t even invite us to the wedding!” Cassian complained, having suddenly recovered his ability to talk. “You got married and you didn’t tell us?”

Clearly.

“And you never thought that that was something we may want to know, Azriel?” Rhys asked, his voice icy but Azirel met the gaze of violet eyes with his own.

“If you believe it or not, I can just about manage my personal relationships or my amorous adventures without the input of you, High Lord,” he drawled.

There had been no reason to tell anybody. Least of all Rhys.

“That was not what that was about and you know it,” his brother hissed at him, but Azriel just shrugged.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was.

Maybe it had really just been a political worry for Rhys, but that didn’t mean that what he had done, hadn’t hurt…didn’t mean that he hadn’t pulled rank with Azriel in a way he had only done so very rarely.

Rhys had gotten what he had wanted in the end. Elain and Lucien had figured it out…Day and Night were closer than ever.

And Azriel…well, he was still pissed off about what had gone down in Rhys’ office that Solstice. Fucking furious, to be honest. Even after Embelia had come into his life…even after she had married him. Even after the mating bond had snapped. He loved his wife, but he was still fucking furious about being treated like that.

Furious and hurt.

And maybe that had played into his decision as well.

There was no reason to tell Rhys what happened. No reason whatsoever.

Rhys must have caught that thought because the shimmer of night started to swirl around him, but Azriel wasn’t scared. He just raised a single eyebrow in question.

“No reason?” Rhys questioned harshly. “You are the Spymaster of this fucking court, Azriel! You don’t think that maybe I should know who you are cohabiting with? Who you share a bed with? Who you married? How long did you even know this female before you married her?”

“A few months,” he answered drily. “What do you think I talk about when I am with her? Bring up the secrets of the Night Court as Pillow Talk? Oh, I tortured a couple of faes from Hewn City this afternoon, oh, harder, love? ” He questioned with a roll of his eyes.

Feyre choked out a laugh.

Rhys did not find it amusing.

“Where did you even meet her?” he demanded.

“Why, Rhys, I just followed your orders. You told me to go to a pleasure hall so I did,” he shot back. He had followed that order to the fucking letter.

“So she’s a whore,” Rhys said and Azriel just looked at him.

Embelia wasn’t ashamed of what she had been. Quite frankly, neither was he. She had done what she needed to do to survive. He was never going to give her the fault for that. The fault was on Spring for slaughtering her family and on the Night Court that they hadn’t given better support so that she would have never gotten into a situation like this where that was the only way out.

But Embelia? She had been a whore. It was a simple fact. And she wore that proudly.

“She was. Yes,” he agreed and he could see it on Rhys’ face what he thought about that.

“You ordered Azriel to go to a pleasure hall?” Cassian asked. “Why?” he demanded.

“Because he fancied himself in love with Elain of all faes and I couldn’t have him bring our court to the brink of war because he couldn’t keep it in his pants!” Rhys growled. “So I told him to go to a pleasure hall and pay for it to get it out of his system.”

“Rhys!” Mor snapped, shock colouring her voice

“Clearly, I was right, because your infatuation didn’t last long after you were told no. How long did it take you until you were in that pleasure hall?” Rhys demanded. “A Day? A week?”

“Around 6 months,” he answered, his voice even. “After it became obvious that Elain was going to give in to Lucien…Once it became obvious that she wasn’t interested in me. Then I started visiting the Pleasure Hall. I married my wife 4 months later.”

“By the mother, Azriel, did all your good sense leave you?” Rhys asked him, shaking his head. “What were you thinking?” he demanded.

“That I love her,” Azriel said calmly. “I love her,” he repeated.

“Wow, she must have really been worth the money you spend on her,” Rhys drawled.

She had been. Every gold coin. Every fucking clipped copper he paid for her company. Everything had been worth it, just for Embelia’s company.

He didn’t even react to it. He had heard worse. But he could feel his rage grow with ever fucking word Rhys uttered.

“She is worth more than you will ever understand,” Azriel said quietly, his voice laced with steel.

Rhys glared at him. And then he said something so utterly inappropriate that the rage exploded.

“So that’s what you needed all the time? Some pretty female that opens her legs and suddenly she leads you around by your prick?”

It felt like somebody had sucked all the air out of that room.

Azriel’s blood boiled with anger and hurt, seething inside, his control barely keeping the darkness at bay.

He wanted to kill Rhys at that moment. He couldn’t remember ever being this angry before.

Having their relationship reduced to that…

Embelia’s face appeared in his mind, her smile, her laughter, the warmth of her touch.

His sanity.

He had made his choices, and he would stand by them. No one, not even Rhys, could make him regret loving Embelia.

“You can say whatever you want about me, but you say a single thing about my wife or my child and I’ll rip out your fucking throat, and don’t think for one moment that I won’t,” he snapped back harshly. “And yes, for the record, she was worth every fucking clipped copper, I spent on her. She was worth everything. I wanted to marry her. I asked her. I made that choice. She has done absolutely nothing but love me .”

“You got a kid too?!” Cassian piped up. “Az?” he asked and Azriel ground his teeth.

“Yes,” he bit out.

“How old?” Cassian asked quietly.

“3 months tomorrow,” Azriel answered honestly. Cassian stared at him, hazel eyes harsh.

“Boy or Girl?”

“Girl.”

“I got a niece and you haven’t told me?!” Cassian demanded. “How dare you! I owe her three months' worth of gifts and cuddles!”

“Cassian!” Nesta said sharply and Cassian started pouting.

“Are you sure that the kid is yours?” Rhys drawled.

He didn’t even bother to answer that question.

“Where are you going?” Rhys demanded as he stood.

“Home,” he gave back clippedly. “I’d rather walk my daughter to sleep than listen to you insult her mother and ask if she’s actually my daughter.” His voice was dripping with disdain. “Like there ever were any questions about it. She got her mother’s wings and my colouring.”

***

Nobody followed him home. Which was a good thing because Azriel wasn’t in a particularly forgiving mood at the moment. He was still furious. Utterly furious.

Even as he walked through the door of the cottage… right until he saw Embelia sit in the living room, in that overstuffed armchair and nurse their daughter. She looked up as he entered, smiling.

And suddenly, every bit of anger just went up in smoke, because he couldn’t care less.

Not when his mate was sitting there nursing his daughter, and it was so easy to just cross the room and drop to his knees before her, to let her reach out for him and run a hand over his hair and jaw and he leaned into her touch, breathing in the smell of earth and home and love.

Home. He was home, he was with her and that was all he cared about. He stared at his daughter, happily drinking…dark eyes closed in concentration, one pudgy little fist pressing against Embelia’s breast, clearly making sure that her source of milk was going nowhere and he pressed a kiss to her downy soft hair, breathing in the combination of scents of himself and Emmie that clung to her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Embelia asked him softly and he just shook his head. No. No, he didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to be with his girls. He just wanted to…He just wanted to be right there.

“You are the best things that ever happened to me,” he whispered hoarsely.

A gift from the mother herself, and he still wondered every fucking day how he deserved both of them.

Emmie ran a hand through his curls, staying quiet, as their daughter stopped drinking and he reached out to take her.

Embelia happily relinquished her hold on her, but not before pressing a kiss to his cheek, and a soft touch to their daughter’s wings…iridescent black.

Her wings. His colouring.

No question about it.

He walked her to sleep like he always did when he could be there, pressing her little body tight to his chest, a scarred hand holding her as carefully as she was made out of spun gold.

Emmie had laughed at him at the start, at how carefully he held her, telling him that she was a baby and would survive it if he kissed and cuddled her. Still, he had been terrified of hurting her.

She was so small, and his hands were so big and broad and scarred and…

But sometime during the last few weeks, he had realised that his daughter…his daughter would never look at his hands as anything other than the hands that had held her and comforted her. She would grow up with these scars…she probably wouldn’t even notice them.

They would just be a fact of life to her.

So he walked her, the slow swaying circles around their living room that he always made to calm her as much as him, as Embelia tidied around the living room, got ready for bed, and made herself comfortable for the night.

He could hear the bath running as he felt the touch against his mind. It wasn’t Rhys.

It was Feyre.

He was surprised enough that he let her slide in, just a little bit, and he knew that she caught a glimpse of the baby in his arms as he felt the surprise register.

“She’s beautiful.” It was nearly a coo in which she said that, much to his amusement and pleasure, taking in the iridescent wings that lay folded over her back.

“She got it from her mother.”

It was the truth. Embelia was the most beautiful fae he had ever laid eyes on. The kind of beauty wars were fought over, that brought males trembling to their knees…Azriel easily admitted that he also met that particular criteria.

“You missed a knockdown drag-out fight between Rhys and Cassian…And then Mor and Nesta decided that they should also get a word in.”

That was not what he had expected, to be quite honest.

He had half expected that he was going to end up taking his wife and his daughter and find someplace else for them to live.

“Amren stopped them from levelling the city,” Feyre said drily. It should have amused him, but it didn’t. Not really.

“You should have come to me after that solstice, I would have told Rhys that he was being ridiculous,” Feyre told him drily. “I’ll deal with him. I promise.”

“It’s fine,” he waved her off. It was fine.

Right now at least. He never could stay angry when he got to be home when he got to hold his daughter. How could he be angry when he got to hold her?

He didn’t want to be angry when he held her…He just wanted to breathe in her scent and feel every bit of tension bleed out of him.

A snuffling sound came from his daughter, then a heart belch…and her little body relaxed against his, clearly on her way to the land of dreams.

“No, it’s not, he should have never done that,” Feyre cut him off. “Or talk to you like that for that matter. Neither on Solstice nor today. I’ll make sure he understands that. It won’t happen again. You can expect an apology tomorrow.”

Now he was amused. It bled all over Feyre, who just huffed. “What, do you doubt that I can make him apologise?” she challenged him.

“Of course not, High Lady,” he promised her. If anybody could get Rhys to weaken in his stance, then it would be his mate. And that was exactly why he had never told Feyre, never wanted to bring her into a position where she was in disagreement with her mate.

“So congrats on that wedding,” Feyre said suddenly. “We owe you a gift or two, I think…Who knows what Mor is gonna come up with…” He could just hold back the snort at that but could feel Feyre’s amusement leech all over his mind. “Can I…” she trailed off, unsure for a moment. “May I see her?” she asked, curious and delighted for him all the same. He could feel that.

He pushed a memory at her, from that afternoon…of his wife and his daughter in that spring sun, in that flower field, their wings glittering and fluttering, Embelia’s pink hair falling to her waist in soft waves and curls, their daughter with his dark hair and her wings, curled up in her mother’s arms, grinning gummily at her…Happiness was oozing from every second of that screenshot.

“You are beyond lucky,” Feyre said quietly.

“I know.”

He knew that with every fibre of his being.

“What’s her name?” Feyre wondered. “She’s beautiful.”

She was. Gorgeous in fact. And that wasn’t just coloured by the fact that she was his wife and his mate…but she was gorgeous.

“Embelia,” he answered Feyre. “Family calls her Emmie though.” He called her that, some of her friends did as well. It was what she was most comfortable with.

“And your daughter’s? What’s her name?” Feyre asked.

It had taken them months to settle on a name, and then finally, it had been so easy.

“Aster.”

“A Star and a Flower,” Feyre realised with some amusement.

“Embelia thought it was just fair.”

#acotar fanfiction #the Unexpected series #unknowing #my writing #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #acotar #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic

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moonbaetarot · 7 months ago

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Pick a pile

what is your future spouses love language

1. 2. 3.

Pile 1

Your future spouse’s love language is words of affirmation they love telling you you did a good job there so proud of you. they make you feel better when your down or need clarity. they like to celebrate you on your birthday, anniversary you got a new job they are having a little party or a date night because they love you so much and they are so proud of you. Your future spouse also enjoys quality time with you and by yourself they love to make you feel good not just physically but mentally they never want you to be stressed or feel burnt out they love taking you on vacations having spa days anything for you just to take the stress of life off of you for a while. I see you person just wants to make you feel good they don’t like seeing in any discomfort or negative emotions they feel best themselves when they know you are taken care of.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

Pile 2

Your future spouse’s love language is physical touch in private and in public they just love being connected to you in that way. they love being physically intimate with you this person is definitely more dominant. I see them being a bit jelous and protective over you when they are holding your hand and kissing you in public they do it because they love you but they also wanna show everyone that there yours and nobody is laying a hand on you they are very protective over you. Your future spouse is a fixer they like being the one in your life to help you with anything that is going on in your life they got it any obstacle or hard time your having they are going to take as much of it off of you. This person also really likes gift giving they love giving you flowers and I see you having a really nice wedding ring it could be gold.

Thank you from reading loves! 🤍

Pile 3

Your future spouse is all the love languages lol you Two are perfect for each other this person is like your other half they very much complement you. They love words of affirmation I feel like you may overthink a lot or have anxiety and your future spouse just reminds you that there is nothing to worry about And you’re going to be ok. When you’re sad or feeling down they like to make you laugh they may make jokes or be silly just to make you happy. they also really love complimenting you and telling you how beautiful you are. If you ever need something they are going to help you it gives them like pleasure being your helping hand. They love spending quality time with you they genuinely love being with you they really enjoy cuddling and holding hands I see them being really excited to get married so you can spend forever together.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

#pick a card #pick a photo #pick a picture #pick a pile #pick an image #tarot cards #tarot deck #tarot reading #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #pick a reading #pick a deck #pick a crystal #pick a number #pick one #free tarot #daily tarot #tarot

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yaseraphine · 13 days ago

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pick a card 2 - what do people like about you ?

PILE 1.

The Star , 3 of Cups , 4 of Wands, King of Pentacles, Justice, The Emperor, 4 of cups, 3 of swords

The girls’ girl pile : “90% of life is confidence. The thing about confidence is that nobody knows if it’s real or not.”

If you're not a girl or don't identify with having strong feminine energies, this pile might not resonate.

You really know how to have fun and bring fun anywhere you go. You are always down to party. You might have hosted or organized parties and people think you’re the best host ever! You probably did one or two memorable parties that were so good even though it was a while ago people still remember until this day and probably still talk about it months, even years after.

If you haven’t hosted parties, then you’re the life of the party anywhere you go! People truly get addicted to your infectious energy : you’re not afraid to share your cup with others. Just like in the 3 of cups’ illustration, you raise a toast with everyone you meet, celebrating the small wins in life, not afraid that your cup might spill a bit from the shock of the metals together.

People like how you dance and move your body. You’re probably a really good dancer. You’re not scared to embarrass yourself by being the only one on the dancefloor at a dull party. You simply don’t care of other people’s judgements : you came to a party/club , you’re here to FUCKING DANCE. You’re probably the type to not understand why people don’t dance in clubs like girl you paid to be here ?! Why are you shyly swinging like that ??!! get your ass up and dance!

People love your confidence and how contagious it is. You remind me of Maddy Perez from Euphoria. Even if you don’t identify with being a woman, you have this undeniable star quality and fierceness that makes people both envious and inspired. (I just realized I wrote “love” here instead of “like” as the title of the pick a card indicates/suggets. There is just something about that is so out of the ordinary that people simply cannot have mild reactions about you. You incite extreme emotions inside people the moment you walk in a room. The energy, the way you smile. Everything.

People like the fact that you’re probably a girl’s girl. Even though you have a really intimidating exterior and girlboss energy, you also have this softer side that makes people feel so safe. I think you probably went through hell and back to attain the confidence that you have today. Part of your purpose here is probably to help people feel better in their skins. You’re a baddie healer basically. I am seeing girls’ bathrooms in clubs or other public areas like that. You probably helped many girls/ or heartbroken people who were hiding in the bathroom during a party. The type of girl in middle school/ high school that instead of making fun of a girl for having a period stain, would tell her and help her change/ or get rid of the stain without telling anyone. The type of girl in a group that sees that one person that is left out and that asks about their opinion regarding the conversation they're having so that they feel included. The type of girl that would give beauty tips to girls who struggled with their “femininity” growing up or were in a strict or religious household that didn’t let them put makeup on or act girly.

The scene with Lexi and Maddy, where Maddy teaches Lexi about confidence while putting lip liner on her, sums up this “girls’ girl” side of you. Lexi says she feels stupid with the makeup on. To that, Maddy answers that everyone feels stupid and that it's a choice that she made to stop feeling that way. Lexi replies that she doesn't know if she is able to stop feeling stupid so maddy tells her that “ 90% of life is confidence. The thing about confidence is that nobody knows if it’s real or not.”

(do you work in the beauty industry by any chance ? like are you a nail tech, a hairdresser, a makeup artist or an esthetician ? there is something prominent about that field of work here.)

Placements you might have : moon in leo, sun in leo, moon in aries, sun in aries, sun in sagittarius, cancer placements, Venus in cancer, Venus in Leo, Pluto in the 1st house, Chiron in an angular house (1st, 4th, 7th, 10th house), Chiron in Leo, North node in Leo, North node in Aquarius, Mars in Leo, Aries or Sagittarius, Mars in Libra, Saturn in Leo, Sun in leo conjunct Saturn, Saturn in the 5th house, 8th house placements, Lilith in Leo, Lilith in Aquarius

You might have a master number as a Lifepath ( life path 11, 22 or 33. For you I am mostly picking up life path 11 or 33, The illuminator/Psychic and the Spiritual teacher.)

youtube

=> link of the scene with Maddy and Lexi about confidence

SONG : Feel it - Ayesha Erotica (the song is so spot on i swear ayesha's songs are the epitome of leo energy slayy)

PILE 2.

Page of Pentacles, 6 of cups, 4 of cups, Judgement, The Hierophant, The Moon, The Hanged Man, 9 of swords

A diamond in the rough

First and foremost, this pile has a really different energy from pile 1. They’re probably even opposite lol. If you want to read pile 1 before reading this one, don't hesitate as it might help you understand the description better (which is not so clear at times).You are literally the person that is helped/ or feels healed by the archetype of person described in pile 1. It’s like both of your piles are complementary.

You might lack a bit of self-confidence, and might have a hard time affirming yourself yet I weirdly feel this is what people like about you ?? It’s like maybe they see you holding yourself back when you could accomplish so much but they are not concerned for you because they know you will accomplish great things in life eventually.

You can be a bit shy or reserved, and people like that about you. They think it's cute.

People like your social awkwardness. Despite having a hard time socializing, you still try your best to keep up with the conversations and what is going on around you and people find it really cute. It’s like people like the fact that they can protect you, or defend you. You might appear like you’re often lost or in your head.

People like the fact that they can see your potential before you can even see it yourself.

It's kind of weird to be honest but it’s like they like the fact that they can imagine endless possibilities for your future.

They like the fact that you don’t see your potential in a way ?? It’s hard to explain because it doesn’t come from ill intentions at all

They like how talented you are. I am picking up on how raw your talent is. They like your raw beauty, your raw talents : your raw everything. There is something so real about you. I don’t think you do it consciously but you have no filters : you live your life in all honesty and authentically.

This might not be for everyone but I am picking up that some of you are like this because you’re neuroatypical/ neurodivergent. It’s just the way your brain works naturally.

They like how “naive” you are, not in a derogatory sense as in “you don’t understand life” but they find it refreshing that you just live and experience things without suppressing your true inner feelings

They like how you live your emotions fully, whether they’re good or bad. This might make people uncomfortable at times, because your rawness subconsciously triggers their shadow and what they suppress in their lives.

People basically like how you act as a mirror without intending to. They like that you work as a catalyst for change, but you’re not even aware of it.

People see that you have a superpower, something that you do naturally that they could never achieve and they like it. Just like pile one you trigger AND inspire them at the same time but in a different way.

They like how unique you are. You truly are a diamond in the rough.

This pile was a little shorter than the other piles, but I think the message is just pretty straightforward.

Placements you might have : sun in aquarius, sun in pisces, neptune dominant, Uranus and Neptune in the first house, Pisces stellium, Aquarius stellium, Gemini rising, Virgo rising, Libra rising, Venus in Capricorn, Saturn in the 6th house, Pluto in the 4th house, 5th house and 4th house placements, Saturn in the 2nd house, Jupiter in the 4th house, 5th house

SONGS : Perfect night - LE SSERAFIM / Chilhood dreams - ARY / Class of 2013 - Mitski

PILE 3.

Ace of cups, Strength, Temperance, Page of Cups, The Sun, 8 of Pentacles, Queen of Pentacles (i started your pile and didn’t realize the Queen of Cups was hidden under the Page of cups! You probably evolved a lot and serve as an example to many people around. Going from a Page to a Queen is not easy at all)

Top of the deck was The High Priestess.

The Spiritual Warrior

First and foremost, you got 3 major arcanas, and 2 out of the 3 fell first.. damn… Don’t tell the other piles but this might be the most powerful pile of the reading lmaoo

You might be older, like in your forties, thirties. Even if you’re not, you just had to grow up really fast and take on a lot of responsibilities early. You probably experienced a divorce or some sort of loss that made you jaded towards life for a while. But then, you were reborn.

People like your authoritative energy. You command respect, you incite some sort of fear inside people. However, a group of younger people might see you as an example. They might see you and think to themselves : “I want to be like them when I grow up. And I'll do anything that I can”. Driven youngsters see you as a role model. They aspire to attain the quiet confidence you have today.

Children probably like you, they feel safe around you. You have healing energy, but it isn’t exactly soft, like one of a fairy for instance. You’re more of a monk or a nun. You don’t necessarily try to spread positivity. You aim to find inner peace, and this inner power will be alchemized as an aura that heals. Your mere presence is healing. You don’t have to say a word. Your gaze and aura do all the job for you, and that’s because you are extremely aligned with the universe.

Oblivion by Grimes is currently playing as I am doing your pile. The song is really disturbing, kind of haunting in a way and is about a traumatic experience Grimes went through. She explained the meaning behind this song in an interview saying : “The song is about being violently assaulted and it made me crazy for a few years. I got really paranoid walking around at night and started feeling really unsafe. The song is more about empowering myself physically amongst a masculine power, and the hate of feeling powerless, making light of masculine physical power, making it jovial and non-threatening. I took a typically violent cultural situation and made it pop and happy.”

You might relate to this in a way or might have lived a similar experience before.

“See you in a dark night” is a prominent lyric here. Are you part of the Pluto in Scorpio generation perchance ? There is this thing where you might have been a really giving person in the past. You were like a fairy, probably the "panic pixie girl" archetype (you don't have to be a girl by the way). However, many losses in your life made you lose that innocent spark. Now, despite not being as cheerful and positive as you were before, you hold a deep, almost lethal strength inside of you.

There is a lot of Yellow, Blue and White in your spread. Your chakras are definitely aligned and it’s powerful. You probably have a really similar aura to angels. Your aura might be white. There is a glow, a light that follows you everywhere you go.

=> Energetically speaking, white is thought to be a very high vibrational color, relating to pure light. As spiritual author Shannon Kaiser tells mbg, "White is the rarest of all aura colors and indicates purity, integrity and a high level of spirituality."

People almost have no words to describe what they like about you. They’re simply left speechless.

I want to say “they like”, but stronger words such as “love” keep on coming up. People cannot just LIKE you, they get addicted and fascinated by your energy.

They like your energy, your otherworldly energy.

People like your wisdom and your mysterious demeanor.

People like the fact that you are a mystery, but your energy doesn’t want them to know more about you. They like the mystery just as it is.

People like how fascinating you are.

People like how resourceful you seem

People like how you seem like an immovable object. Nothing seems to be able to make you flinch, or react.

People like how your gaze reveal so much but nothing at the same time.

People like how you embody the sentence/ quote “Everything, Everywhere, all at once”. (I don’t really know what this is supposed to mean exactly but this might be relevant to you / maybe the movie ?)

People like the way you look too - if you know about face type essences and kibbe body type you’re probably have Angelic (ethereal) face type essence and a Dramatic body type. You look like you could play in series like Game of Thrones or just that you came straight out of a sci-fi movie or fantasy novel

What people like about you is directly linked to the effect you have on them : your existence leaves them speechless

I am getting the word “ineffable” would describe how people see you and what they like about you. The meaning of that word is “something that is too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.”

Placements you might have : to be honest, your energy is so complex that it’s hard to pick up on specific placements. I am only getting aura colors.

Maybe Pluto harshly aspecting the first house, a lot of asteroids in the first house, chiron might be prominent in your chart, 8th house placements, 12th house placements, 10th and 11th house placements, Lilith in the 11th or 12th house

Signs that this pile might be you : chakra candles, spirituality, divination; angel gabriel, goddesses, angels, you might really spiritually connected, 1010, 1111, 777, 444, angel numbers

SONG : Oblivion - Grimes

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helslastangel · 4 months ago

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Random Astro Observations #6

@helslastangel

Disclaimer: These are based on personal observations and experiences and may not resonate for everyone with these placements. If it doesn’t apply, let it fly 🪽

🔥 Leo sun men as fathers often make excellent financial providers but poor emotional support for their children

💧Scorpio moon women are often overprotective of their sons and very harsh or demanding of their children's love interests

🌬 Aquarius mars placements don't get mad, they get even. the definition of neither forgive nor forget

🌿 Capricorn moons pay attention to what you like and will send you relevant memes or funny videos if they like you. They love making others laugh and sharing humor is a love language to them

🔥 Sagittarius sun women with Aries placements can be self-centered in their day-to-day actions without realizing it and sometimes end up with strained friendships and issues with their siblings

💧Cancer venus men can be some of the most caring and kind if they like you, but they are also vengeful and will ruin your day on purpose if they feel like it will make their point

🌬 Libra suns are typically cheerful unless they have Virgo or Capricorn moon - those can be quite serious or melancholy. if they have Sagittarius moon they may have more anger management issues and are more confrontational in general.

🌿 Taurus sun men prefer to be chased than do the chasing. if a Taurus man is chasing you, he seriously likes you something different because they're not getting off the couch for just anybody

🔥 Aries moon and Sagittarius mercury can make anyone 2x more fiery than they would be based on their sun sign, or give an otherwise chilled-out chart a massive energy boost. I had a Scorpio sun, Aries moon, Sag mercury, Libra venus, Scorpio mars friend and she was the sweetest but most aggressive Scorpio I ever met. Nobody believed she was a Scorpio tbh her Aries + Sag energies overwhelmed the rest of her placements. I knew someone else with Scorpio sun, moon, venus, mars, and Libra mercury and they were like a huge teddy bear and kind of a pushover most of the time.

💧Scorpio risings deal with a lot of unexplained hatred from acquaintances and random strangers. Most people react to them with either love/obsession or intense anger. It can cause them a lot of anxiety and people like to pick physical fights with them.

🌬 Gemini women are extremely loyal friends besides the tendency to talk a little bit too much to one person about someone else's business. The thing is, Geminis value community and communal traits a lot. I think they subconsciously forget that their friends aren't automatically your friends too, so they do need to ask before sharing things you only wanted them to know.

🌿 Virgo suns/moon LOVE to dance, or if they can't/won't, they might either enjoy watching other people do so, or just enjoy some form of physical movement that requires some coordination and focus in some way (martial arts, boxing, yoga, Tai chi, etc). But yeah if they become comfortable around you, just like with Capricorns, you'll discover a whole other side to them

🔥 Leo venuses are known for liking gifts but tbh it's not just any gift - they want things that are high quality at the very least. Even better if it's something they can show off to others. My ex has this placement and I remember for Valentine's Day, I got him a bunch of things ranging in price, some for glamour and others because I just noticed he could use them. Yeah well, he loved the $250 gold earrings and immediately put them in and went to show his friends, and he loved the black woven bracelets because they "looked exclusive" but I found the tracksuit, graphic tees and the card with the lipstick print I got him shoved in the back of his closet. Asked about it and after lying about putting them there "just for a second to sweep the floor" he eventually admitted that because they weren't designer he really didn't want them. Lesson learned 0_0

My dad also has Leo venus and although he doesn't particularly care about things being designer or not like that, he WILL pick at the quality of anything you get him and only be happy if he can do the boomer thing where they say how "solid" something feels and how it will "last." If it's something like a book, it has to be a super popular bestselling "everyone is talking about this" title or else... yeah your gift is ending up in a sock drawer :/ lol

💧 Water moons experience a lot of guilt whenever they set boundaries with others and it's something they have to overcome as early as possible or they will suffer from a lot of headaches or stomachaches from anxiety

🌬 Aquarius sun men can be extremely toxic when it comes to wanting and chasing someone only after that person loses interest or displays nonchalance towards them. It is almost like they like a challenge to the point of manufacturing it over investing the same energy into a personal connection. The thing is, this is fun for a while but if they do it too often to too many people within a closed environment (school, activity group, work, etc), word gets around and they can often suddenly find themselves losing friends and romantic prospects. They can become lonely at that point and try to double back with their top interests, but won't admit they f*cked up. They just show up either acting as if nothing happened or being kinda arrogant about the whole thing and insisting that you're the one playing games with them.

🌿 Earth signs in the big 3 can make someone develop very peculiar ways of organizing. It can be physical objects, locations, or even just their thoughts, but they will have a whole elaborate process that can be kinda cute to watch unfold.

🔥 Fire signs in the big 3 can make someone highly expressive and have huge energy, even if they're a shy or quiet person. You'll know they've arrived at a function long before you see them and can find them in a room by just following the vibes ✨️

💧Pisces placements, especially suns, are extremely perceptive and people do not give them nearly enough credit for this. They're noticing everything and taking notes for future reference - looking like they're in the own world is just how they seem on the outside. Just because they didn't say anything doesn't mean they didn't clock your tea.

𓆩♡𓆪

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#astrology observations #astro notes #astrology blog #astrology signs #astro posts #astrology #astro observations

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03jyh23 · 4 months ago

Text

🔞⌇ateez reaction to walking on you sexy dancing

!minors do not interact!

trigger warnings: highly suggestive, sexual themes, the word ''daddy'' used when singing along to a song, jealousy, lap dance, implied masturbation, lingerie

— hi there! it's my first time posting reactions! i always wanted to try and decided to finally go for it! let me know if you like this type of post from me? can't believe i am exposing the songs im shaking my ass to like this lol but enjoy! (yeah, i was totally cleaning to all of them today and my mind couldn't help but... daydream)

love, monika ♡

⌞hongjoong⌝ get busy by sean paul

You were cleaning up for a longer while, meticulously tidying each corner and surface of your home. Your phone was connected to Hongjoong’s expensive, high-quality music set, filling the room with crystal-clear sound. Cleaning wasn’t your favorite thing to do, but since Hongjoong was busy in the studio working on his latest project, it was better to tackle the chores during his absence than when he was at home and potentially in the way. You prefer to be alone when cleaning, with nobody to disturb you or interrupt your rhythm. The solitude allowed you to focus entirely on the task, making it somewhat more bearable. Your cleaning playlist was set on shuffle to keep you motivated throughout the extended cleaning session. You were wiping off the table when Get Busy by Sean Paul started playing, and you knew damn well the next thing you were going to do was shake your ass to one of the best songs ever recorded, at least in your opinion. The infectious beat and energetic rhythm were too irresistible to ignore. You could feel the music pulsing through your veins, compelling you to drop the cloth and start moving to the rhythm. You were swaying your hips left and right, your hands clapping to the rhythm. The music seemed to take control of your body, your movements becoming more fluid and enthusiastic with every beat. Lost in the music, you didn't notice the entrance door quietly opening. You put your hands into your hair, untangling them from the bun and shaking your head in the matching rhythm to your hips. You finally dropped in a swift motion to the floor, doing the sexiest drop you could, your hands between your legs and then up on your knees when you were back standing in a swift motion. You were attempting to twerk, and oh lord, you couldn't do that even if your life depended on it, but you were enjoying yourself so much you didn't even care about looking funny. You closed your eyes, letting the rhythm move you. Hongjoong stood there, leaning against the wall with a smirk on his face, watching your dance performance. He had finished his work earlier than expected and decided to surprise you, but it seemed you were the one providing the surprise. He couldn't help but chuckle softly, finding your carefree dancing endearing. You once again dropped to the floor, your hands moving up your chest and to your neck as you followed the rhythm. The song's final notes reverberated through the room, leaving you feeling exhilarated and out of breath. As the music faded, you took a moment to catch your breath, when you finally noticed your boyfriend looking at you. Oh.

Your eyes widened in surprise, heat rushing to your cheeks as you realized Hongjoong had been watching you the entire time. "How long have you been standing there?" you asked, trying to sound casual but failing to hide your embarrassment.

He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards you with a grin, "Long enough to decide that the next thing I’m gonna produce will be a dancehall song."

You laughed nervously, still trying to process the fact that Hongjoong had been watching you. "I didn't know you were back," you said, attempting to divert the attention from your dance performance.

He chuckled, "I finished early and thought I'd surprise you, but clearly, you were having your own little party here."

Blushing, you replied, "Well, cleaning is more fun with some good music."

Hongjoong nodded in agreement, "I can't argue with that. But next time, maybe save some of those moves for me?" He winked playfully, making you laugh.

"Maybe I will," you teased back, feeling more at ease now that the initial embarrassment was fading.

He walked over to you and pulled you by your hip into a kiss, deepening it with a passion that made your heart flutter. When he pulled back, his eyes were filled with warmth and affection. "Mind dancing for me again?" he suggested, taking your hand.

You smiled, feeling a rush of excitement. "Only if you join me," you replied, squeezing his hand gently.

Hongjoong laughed, "Deal. But don't blame me if I steal the spotlight." With a playful grin, he led you back to the center of the room, ready to dance together.

⌞seonghwa⌝ super bass by nicki minaj

Seonghwa was busy with his newest Lego set, and you left him be, knowing well he needed his time alone to relax doing his hobby. You watched him for a moment, admiring the way his fingers deftly assembled each piece with precision and care. The concentration on his face was evident, and it made you smile to see him so immersed in something he loved. To avoid disturbing him, you went to your shared bedroom, closed the door behind you, and decided to put on some music. You connected your phone to the speakers, and scrolled through your favorite playlists, looking for something that matched your mood. You chose a female top tracks playlist you often play in the car when driving with Seonghwa. Out of boredom, you decided it was high time to fold your clean laundry and put it back on the shelves and racks. The pile of freshly washed clothes had been sitting in the basket for a few days now, and you figured it was the perfect opportunity to finally tackle the task. As you sorted through the clothes, separating them into different categories, Super Bass started to play, and you smiled hearing the familiar beats. The rhythm of the song lifted your spirits, and you found yourself swaying to the music as you folded. It made the chore feel less like a task and more like a dance. You couldn't help yourself but rap to the song, putting on a small performance. You twirled around, pretending the laundry basket was an audience, and let the music take over. Each note you sang seemed to make the task more enjoyable, and you found yourself getting lost in the melody.

Your favorite part, the bridge, came closer, and you could feel the excitement building inside you. In one swift motion, you grabbed the chair and positioned it in the middle of the room. With a burst of energy, you put one of your legs on it, striking a dramatic pose. You sang at the top of your lungs, completely forgetting about not disturbing your dear boyfriend, "See, I need you in my life for me to stay." You closed your eyes and moved your body sensually to the beat, letting the rhythm take control. Each sway of your hips and roll of your shoulders felt instinctive, the music guiding your movements ''Don't you hear that heartbeat comin' your way?'' you sing, your voice blending seamlessly with Nicki's. You sat down on a chair, swaying your hips to the rhythm, feeling every beat pulse through your body. The music filled the room, creating an atmosphere of sultry energy and anticipation. As you continued to sing and move, you noticed Seonghwa entering the room, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight before him. You couldn't help but smile, your hips moving with even more confidence and allure. Seonghwa's presence only added to the excitement, and you felt a rush of adrenaline knowing he was watching you.

"Like what you see?" you asked playfully.

Seonghwa's lips curled into a smirk, and he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "I always do," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement and admiration. His eyes sparkled with affection as he watched you, clearly enjoying your performance.

Feeling emboldened by his reaction, you continued your playful dance, letting the music guide your movements. With each beat, you moved with more confidence, fully aware of Seonghwa's gaze on you.

As the song reached its climax, you struck one final pose, breathing heavily. Seonghwa clapped softly, pushing off from the doorframe and walking towards you. "That was quite the show," he said, his tone filled with genuine admiration.

You laughed, still catching your breath. "Well, I aim to entertain," you replied with a wink.

Seonghwa reached out, gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "You always do," he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble of happiness. "I think I might need a private encore later," he whispered, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

"Maybe," you teased, "if you're lucky."

With that, the two of you shared a knowing smile, the chores momentarily forgotten as you basked in each other's company.

⌞yunho⌝ smack that by akon, eminem

It was Saturday night and your boyfriend was once again spending his whole weekend preparing for his Artist of the Month performance. You were genuinely happy that Studio Choom finally contacted him, as you knew nobody deserved it as much as Yunho, but you wished he could keep his weekends off for both of you to enjoy. You were ready to go out with your friend, dressed to impress, your hair and makeup looking expensive the way you liked the most. You were finishing your glass of wine, savoring the last few sips as you mentally prepared yourself for the evening ahead. The music was playing in the background, setting the perfect mood. You were supposed to turn off the music and order yourself a taxi to get to the bar, but then the song changed to Smack That by Akon and you couldn't force yourself to skip it. The infectious beat immediately caught your attention, and you felt a surge of energy. You found yourself moving to the rhythm, swaying your hips, and rapping along to the catchy lyrics. Your hips were moving suggestively to the song, a glass of wine in one of your hands, the other on your waist helping you to keep the right rhythm. As the chorus started, you smiled to yourself, feeling a playful energy surge through you. You put your wine glass down. With a mischievous grin, you grabbed your ass and did exactly what was in the song title, moving in perfect sync with the beat. And in that moment you heard a thud. You looked in the direction the sound was coming from and saw your boyfriend walking towards you with determined strides, his bag on the floor behind him. His intense gaze was fixed on you, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. You couldn't even react when he grabbed your chin, firmly lifting your face to meet his eyes. His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him with a possessive grip. The proximity made your heart race, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

"Looks like someone's having fun without me," Yunho murmured, his voice low and husky.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as you stared into his eyes. "I didn't hear you come in," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music.

Yunho pulled you in for a deep, passionate kiss, his lips capturing yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. Without breaking the kiss, he firmly turned you around, his strong hands guiding your body with ease. One hand slid down to your thigh, gripping it possessively, while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel his breath on your neck, hot and demanding, as he pressed you hard against his crotch. The sudden contact sent a shiver up your spine, your body responding instinctively to his touch. His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't planning to let go anytime soon. You pushed your ass harder and pressed it against Yunho’s crotch, clearly enjoying the effect you had on him. He groaned softly, his breath hitching as he felt the pressure. "You ain’t going nowhere," he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

"I guess my plans just changed," you whispered, your voice weak as you felt your boyfriend's lips on your neck.

⌞yeosang⌝ work by rihanna

Yeosang went to the gym earlier this morning, telling you he wanted to get in a good workout before starting the day. He promised to be back by lunchtime to take you out for a nice meal and perhaps some shopping or a walk in the park. You waited for him patiently, ready to go whenever he would return. To pass the time, you turned on the big TV screen and played Rihanna’s top track playlist. As you mindlessly scrolled through social media, the catchy tune of Work started to fill the room, and you couldn’t help but move your body to the rhythm. You've always loved that song so you got up from the couch. The infectious beat took over your body, making you sway your hips and move sensually to the rhythm. You made your way to the table to put your phone down when the chorus hit. With one hand, you held the table to keep yourself steady as you dropped your ass to the floor, swaying it left and right as you were slowly getting back up. You could feel the burn in your thighs as you moved back up, but the infectious beat of the song made it all worthwhile. The sensual sway of your hips felt natural, almost instinctive as if your body was made to move this way. With each rise and fall, you felt more and more in tune with the music, your confidence growing with every beat. As you stood back up, your movements became even more fluid, your body fully embracing the rhythm. You turned around, and to your surprise, you faced Yeosang, a red blush covering his neck and ears. His eyes were wide with surprise, clearly taken aback by your dance.

You bit your lip, feeling a rush of both embarrassment and excitement. "Enjoying the show?" you asked, trying to sound casual despite the butterflies in your stomach.

Yeosang's eyes widened even more, and he struggled to find his words. "I... uh... didn't mean to interrupt," he stammered, his voice tinged with both surprise and admiration.

"You better not have," you teased, giving him a playful wink as you continued to dance, feeling more confident with each passing moment.

Yeosang's face broke into a shy smile, the blush deepening as he took a cautious step closer. "I didn't know you had moves like that," he said, his voice tinged with both admiration and bashfulness.

You laughed, feeling a sense of pride mixed with playful embarrassment. "There's a lot you don't know about me," you teased, giving him a wink as you continued to sway to the rhythm. Yeosang swallowed hard, his eyes taking you in, clearly captivated by your sensual movements. His gaze traveled over your body, lingering on the way your hips swayed and the confidence radiating from you. You could see the admiration and desire in his eyes, making you feel even more empowered. You stepped closer to him as you danced, putting one of your arms on his shoulder, your gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips, then back up. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the anticipation building between you. Slowly, you started to go down, your hand tracing down Yeosang's body, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. As your hand traveled lower, his breath hitched. You moved with deliberate slowness, savoring every moment, every inch of his body under your touch. When you finally reached his waist, you paused for a moment, looking up at him through your lashes. The intensity in his gaze made your heart race, and you could tell he was struggling to maintain his composure. You continued your descent, your fingers brushing against his thighs, feeling the tension in his muscles. As you reached the floor, you gave him a teasing smile, your body swaying seductively to the rhythm of the music. The atmosphere was electric, and charged. You started to rise again, your hand retracing its path up his body, feeling his breath quicken with each passing second. You stood up slowly, your body still swaying to the rhythm of the music, and gave him a teasing smile, "Should we get going?"

Yeosang's eyes were full of desire, and he took a deep breath before responding. "I think we can spare a few more minutes," he replied, his voice husky. You laughed softly, feeling a rush of excitement at his words. You continued to sway your hips to the music, your body moving closer to his. Yeosang reached out, his hand gently caressing your waist as he pulled you even closer. "You’re making it really hard to focus on anything else," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

You smiled, feeling a sense of power and confidence. "Good," you whispered back, your voice filled with playful seduction. "Because I don't want you thinking about anything else right now." With that, you leaned in and captured his lips in a passionate kiss, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony to the rhythm of the music. As the kiss deepened, Yeosang's grip on your waist tightened, his hands exploring the curves of your body.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. "Maybe we should stay in after all," Yeosang suggested, his voice barely above a whisper.

You laughed softly, nodding in agreement. "I think that sounds like a perfect plan," you replied, feeling a sense of contentment and excitement for the moments yet to come.

⌞san⌝ buttons by pussycat dolls

Your boyfriend's birthday was coming up, and your friend had talked you into giving him a lap dance. Initially, you were a bit hesitant, feeling shy about the idea. Not everybody's boyfriend was an incredible dancer, and you didn't want to embarrass yourself. The thought of trying to match San's moves and charisma when he was performing made you a little nervous. You decided to give it your best shot, hoping that your sincerity and the love behind the gesture would shine through, even if your dance moves weren't perfect. It was a late evening before his birthday, and for the hundredth time, you played the music video to Buttons, trying to figure out how the hell Nicole did that move on that chair. You watched her every move, analyzing the choreography with a mix of admiration and frustration. The way she effortlessly blended strength and sensuality was mesmerizing, and you couldn't help but feel a bit intimidated. Determined to get it right, you positioned a chair in front of the mirror, mimicking her moves as best as you could. You adjusted your posture, trying to channel Nicole's confidence and grace. The music filled the room, and you attempted the dance sequence once again, focusing on the smooth transitions and precise movements. Despite the challenges, you felt a sense of accomplishment with each small improvement.

When you finally got everything right, you decided to try and rehearse the choreography one last time with your outfit, or lack of it, and shoes on. You still had some time until San would get back home, so you went into your room and put your lingerie on, together with the high heels. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in your stomach. After adjusting the straps and checking your reflection in the mirror one last time, you walked back to the living room where you had set up the chair. The anticipation built up inside you, and you could feel your heart racing. You started the music once more, letting the familiar beats fill the room. As you moved through the choreography, you felt a sense of empowerment. Each step, each sway of your hips, was a testament to your determination and love for San. You imagined his reaction, the look of surprise and admiration in his eyes, and it fueled your performance even more.

The door creaked open just as you were finishing the routine. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw San standing there, his eyes wide with surprise and a smile slowly spreading across his face.

"Well, this is a surprise," he said, his voice filled with admiration.

You blushed but didn't stop, finishing the last few moves with a flourish. As the music faded, you stood there, slightly out of breath, but filled with a sense of accomplishment and anticipation. "You weren't supposed to see it yet," you stammered, your voice tinged with a mix of surprise and shyness.

San's eyes twinkled with amusement as he took a step closer, his smile widening, his dimples showing. "Well, I have to say, I'm glad I did," he replied, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You look amazing baby."

You took a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. "I wanted it to be a surprise for your birthday," you admitted, feeling the initial nervousness starting to fade away.

San reached out, gently taking your hand in his. "And it is," he said softly, his grip reassuring. "The best surprise I could ask for."

With his encouraging words, you felt a surge of confidence. "Well, in that case," you said with a playful grin, "why don't you take a seat and enjoy the full performance?"

San's eyes lit up with anticipation as he nodded eagerly, quickly finding a spot to sit down. You restarted the music, letting the rhythm take over as you began the dance once more, this time with him as your captive audience.

⌞mingi⌝ streets by doja cat

You were incredibly mad. Mingi was attending one of those prestigious award ceremonies, and being the supportive girlfriend that you are, of course, you decided to watch it live to cheer him on from afar. During one of the last performances by one of the most popular girl groups, they were doing an incredibly sexy choreography on chairs. Your boyfriend was, unfortunately, unlucky enough to be caught by the ever-watchful cameraman staring intently at one of the girl group members. To make matters worse, a wide grin spread across his face as he licked his lips, completely mesmerized by the performance. Oh, how you wished you could reach through the screen and wipe that stupid, infuriating grin off his face. You were already plotting your next move, determined to make your boyfriend pay for his wandering eyes. The revenge will be sweet. The opportunity presented itself a few days later when he was about to return home from the award ceremony. Mingi texted you he was on his way from the airport and you were so ready to make him squirm and beg for forgiveness. You dimmed the lights, and lit up candles across the living room, creating an intimate glow. You had meticulously prepared for this moment, wearing the lingerie he got you for your birthday on your body. The delicate lace hugged your curves perfectly, making you feel empowered and seductive. As you waited, you could feel your excitement and anticipation growing. You replayed the scene from the award ceremony in your mind, fueling your determination to make him understand the consequences of his actions. The sound of the front door unlocking pulled you from your thoughts.

Mingi stepped inside, his eyes immediately widening as he took in the setting. His gaze traveled over your body sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room, lingering appreciatively on the lingerie. You could see the momentary confusion in his eyes, quickly replaced by a look of desire.

"Wow, what's all this?" he asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and excitement. You walked towards him slowly, your hips swaying seductively with each step. Without a word you took his hand and guided him to the chair, pushing him down gently. As he sat, you pressed play and Streets started playing. You straddled his lap, your hands resting on his shoulders. Mingi was quick to grab your waist but you pushed them off of you quickly, "No touching," you warned him as your hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head back slightly. His eyes widened in surprise, but a smirk quickly formed on his lips as he realized you were in control. You leaned in close, your breath hot against his ear as you whispered, "Tonight is all about you learning a lesson."

Mingi's smirk faltered slightly, replaced by a look of anticipation and desire. You could feel the tension between you growing thicker, the air charged with electricity. Slowly, you moved your hips, grinding against him in a tantalizing rhythm, your hands never leaving his hair.

His breath hitched, and you could see the struggle in his eyes as he fought the urge to touch you. "You like watching other girls, huh?" you teased, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Well, let's see if you can handle just watching tonight." You continued your slow, deliberate movements, your body arching and swaying to the rhythm of the music. Each motion was designed to drive him wild, to make him regret ever letting his eyes wander. The intensity of his gaze and the way he bit his lip told you that your plan was working.

⌞wooyoung⌝ drunk in love by beyoncé, jay-z

You were bored out of your mind, your boyfriend had been playing games since early afternoon, leaving you to yourself. You finally switched off Netflix, feeling unsatisfied with the endless scrolling. With a sigh, you opened the YouTube app, hoping to find a soundtrack to make your time in the kitchen more enjoyable. Lately, Wooyoung and you were into Beyoncé, so you played her music video playlist and went to the kitchen. Music filled the room, the lively beats instantly brightening your mood as you gathered your ingredients and started to cook dinner. After a short while, you heard the intro to Drunk in Love and you decided to play it louder. The sultry beats and Beyoncé's mesmerizing voice filled the kitchen, making you sway your hips as you chopped vegetables. You couldn't help but sing along, feeling the music take over your body.

You took one of the big dippers and started to sing to it, pretending it to be your microphone. You feel like a superstar on a grand stage as you move around the kitchen, twirling and dancing as if performing for a captivated audience. Every so often, you glanced towards your boyfriend's room, half-hoping Wooyoung would notice your performance and join in the fun. But for now, you were content to let the music and your imagination take you away.

You sit on the counter, the rhythm of the music coursed through you, compelling you to sway and groove in time with the beat. Your hand gripped the edge of the counter for balance as you leaned back slightly, letting your head tilt and your hair cascade down your back. You sang along to the lyrics, your voice blending with Beyoncé's. Your hips rolled sensuously, matching the sultry vibe of the song, and you couldn't help but smile, feeling utterly in the moment.

"Baby, would you mind turning the music down a bit?" you heard Wooyoung call from his room.

You smirked, feeling a wave of playful defiance wash over you. Ignoring Wooyoung's request, you raised your voice and sang the lyrics with even more enthusiasm, "I been sippin', that's the only thing, that's keepin' me on fire, we on fire!" Your voice echoed through the kitchen, you jumped off the counter, grabbing the big dipper again as your microphone, and strutted across the kitchen floor, feeling like a superstar on a grand stage. With each step, you let your hips sway more dramatically, fully embracing the rhythm. You spun around, your hair whipping through the air, and belted out the next line with just as much fervor.

Wooyoung poked his head out of his room, his initial frustration melting into a fond smile as he watched you.

You bit your lower lip and looked at him while singing, "I want your body right here, daddy, I want you, right now."

Wooyoung's eyes widened slightly, a smirk playing on his lips as he took in your playful performance. He stepped out of his room, the game momentarily forgotten, and walked towards you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Oh? Is that so?" he replied, his voice low and teasing as he reached you.

"Can't keep your eyes off my fatty, daddy, I want you" you continued singing as Wooyoung took the microphone from your hand, setting it aside before pulling you close, his hands resting on your hips. You wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying in time with the beat as you gazed into his eyes.

"Maybe I should take a break from my game," Wooyoung murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You smiled, feeling a rush of excitement. "I think that's a great idea," you replied, pulling him even closer.

"You know, you might just be better than Beyoncé," he joked, looking into your eyes.

"Oh, please," you laughed, feeling your cheeks flush. "But I'll take the compliment."

With a shared laugh, the two of you danced together in the kitchen, the earlier boredom forgotten as you lost yourselves in the music and each other.

⌞jongho⌝ partition by beyoncé

You got out of the shower, towel loosely wrapped around you, as you went through your evening routine. Jongho was still at practice, the tour was coming, so you knew better than to wait for him. He probably wouldn't be back till dawn. You glanced at your phone, hoping for a message from him, but the screen remained dark. You knew how important these practice sessions were, especially with the tour coming up, but you couldn't help but miss him. You moved to your bedroom and decided to play some music before heading to bed. The apartment felt unusually quiet without Jongho's presence, and you needed something to fill that silence. You connected your phone to the speaker and scrolled through your playlist, finally settling on a Beyoncé mix. The first notes of Partition began to play, the sultry beat filling the room. You ruffled through your wardrobe, searching for one of Jongho's t-shirts to sleep in. His scent always brought you comfort, especially on nights when he wasn't around. As the music played, you found yourself swaying to the rhythm, the infectious beat making it impossible to stand still. You tossed aside a few of your own shirts, determined to find one of his that you loved the most. The groove of the song took over, and you started to move your hips more deliberately, feeling the music course through your body. Finally, you found one of his oversized t-shirts at the bottom of the drawer. You held it up to your face, inhaling deeply before slipping it on. The fabric was soft and comforting, and you continued to dance, feeling a little closer to him with each step. You loved how Beyoncé's music made you feel sexy and empowered. You lay down on the bed and started to do your own choreography for the song. The rhythm guided your movements, each beat making you feel more confident. Your hands traced along your body, feeling the music in every touch. You couldn't help but feel a little hot all over as you kept twining around the bed, the music guiding your every move. The rhythm pulsed through you as you turned to your stomach, your ass up, matching the sultry beats of the song. The soft fabric of the bed sheets brushed against your skin, intensifying the sensations coursing through you. In no time, you were on your knees, grinding against the bed with a deliberate, sensual motion. Your hands gripped the sheets, your body moving fluidly to the music, lost in the moment. You played a bit with your t-shirt, lifting it playfully as you felt yourself getting worked up. The cool air against your skin mixed with the heat of the moment, intensifying your sensations. You let the fabric slide back down, but not before teasing yourself a bit more, feeling the gentle brush against your skin. With each sway of your hips and each subtle lift of the t-shirt, you could feel the tension building within you. The combination of the music, the feel of the soft cotton, and the thought of Jongho made your heart race.

You were so lost in the rhythm and sensations that you didn't hear the front door open. Jongho stepped inside, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of you moving sensually on the bed, wearing his t-shirt. He stood there for a moment, captivated by the scene, before quietly walking towards the bedroom. As he reached the doorway, you finally noticed him, your movements slowing as your eyes met his. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine, and you could see the desire and admiration in his eyes. Jongho was stuck by the way your hips grind hard against the bed. Taking a few slow steps forward, he let his eyes roam over your body, appreciating every curve and movement. The intensity in his eyes made your breath hitch, and you could feel the heat between your legs growing with each passing second.

"Need some help, baby?" he asked, his voice low and husky, filled with a mix of admiration.

The words escaped your lips before you could fully process them, "Yes, please," you breathed out, your voice laced with more neediness than you had intended.

Jongho's lips curled into a smirk as he sat down on the bed beside you, his hands gently guiding you to straddle him. The music continued to play as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Let me take care of you."

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