#not milk tea? maybe green tea

[soilem]

you know what i hate? the fact that specific food phases end, and when they do the food you have been enjoying for so long suddenly and without warning becomes disgusting

[eye-in-the-wall]

the more tea i drink the more im like. dont think im a tea guy. lol.

[miss-floral-thief]

They said matcha milk tea this time but hopefully it should be ok

[ultravioletbrit]

“coffee” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 618 words

“He doesn’t like coffee. He likes tea; no milk, two sugars.” James interrupts the random guy that’s been trying to ask Regulus out for coffee for the last ten minutes.

“Oh, okay… well, um…?” The guy looks at James then back to Regulus and raises his eyebrows with an unspoken question. Regulus just gives him a small shrug. “Right… um… I’ll just... I’m going to… yeah…” He mumbles, then just turns and walks away.

“Quite the linguist, that one.” James says with a small laugh.

“How did you…?” Regulus questions as he turns to look at James.

“You looked kind of stuck, so I thought I’d give you an out if you wanted to take it.”

“No, I mean, how did you know my coffee order, or lack thereof?”

“Oh, well, I sort of just pay attention sometimes.” James shrugs.

“You pay attention to me?” Regulus asks as he raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“Maybe… but not in a creepy way… I just like to know what people like, I guess.”

Regulus tilts his head and narrows his eyes at James. “What else do you pay attention to?”

“What do you mean?”

“You pay attention to what people like. What else do I like?” Regulus challenges.

“Um…” James swallows nervously. “Your favorite color is green.” He says it almost as a question.

“Everyone knows that.” Regulus says as he rolls his eyes.

“But you don’t like dark green, you like lighter green better, sort of like the color of a green apple.”

Regulus raises both eyebrows, slightly impressed and takes a step closer to James.

“Hm. What else do I like?”

James still seems slightly nervous but gaining a bit more confidence at the same time. “You don’t like tomatoes, but you love tomato soup.” James’ voice starts to get a bit softer.

Regulus tilts his head and furrows his eyebrows, it’s an odd choice but accurate, nonetheless.

“What else?” He takes another step into James’ space.  

“You like white chocolate more than milk chocolate, but you like that you don’t have it very often because then it’s sort of special when you do have it.” James starts to whisper as Regulus moves even closer.

“What else?” It’s barely a breath as he gazes into James’ eyes.  

“You don’t like when this curl falls forward.” He reaches up to tuck the curl behind Regulus’ ear.

Regulus doesn’t respond, he just hums and leans into James’ hand a bit. James moves his other hand down Regulus’ arm.

“You wear your jumpers a few sizes too big because you like when the sleeves fall over your hands.” He intertwines their fingers and continues-

“You like to paint your nails black, but you like it better when you paint them pink, but you don’t do that very often.” James quickly glances down to Regulus lips then back to his eyes. “You don’t like it when your lips get dry, so you always keep chapstick in your left pocket. You like the mint flavor the best.” James says it so quietly Regulus only hears it because he’s barely an inch away from him.

“James…” Regulus says just as softly. “What else do I like?” He breathes with a heated look in his eyes.

“Do you maybe like…?” He bites his bottom lip with a small smile and before he finishes the question, Regulus is already nodding.

“Yeah.” He says with a soft smile. 

“Can I…” James’ smile grows slightly bigger as he flicks his eyes down to Regulus’ lips again.

“Yeah.” Regulus can’t help but smile back as James closes the final distance between them with a soft, slow kiss. 

When they break apart Regulus smirks slightly and says, “You taste like coffee.”

James’ smile grows impossibly wider.

“Sorry.” But he doesn’t seem sorry at all as he leans in to kiss Regulus again.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part Two

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: vomiting, food poisoning, talking about puking, smut (18+), sooo in love, awkward/real-life scenarios, visiting Diana, Derek being an instigator as always, no real timeline - they been dating for like two years…, this one is pretty smutty!!! and all the smut is Derek's fault so say thank you to Derek Morgan

Word count: 21.5k

a/n: y'all i was quickkkkkk wit it this time i am so obsessed with this idea and this spencer you have no idea,,, it is just flowing out of me like word vomit frrrrr and thank you all SO SO SO MUCH FOR ALL OF THE LOVE ON THE LAST ONE YOU GUYS KEEP ME GOING MUAH MUAH MUAH

main masterlist part one

It was a rare, sunny afternoon, and you were out in the world—something you didn’t always have the energy or time for, especially lately. But today had started slow and soft. Spencer had asked if you wanted to get breakfast with Penelope and Derek, and you’d agreed, mostly because he looked so hopeful when he asked and because Penelope always made you feel like a beloved member of a secret club.

The four of you had snagged a table at a small café tucked between bookstores and flower shops, the kind of place Spencer liked because the menu had locally sourced teas and the tables didn’t wobble.

He was waiting at the counter now, patiently awaiting collecting your drink orders, always double-checking them before passing them off—yours with coconut milk, Penelope’s with extra foam, Derek’s with exactly one sugar. Spencer Reid, your attentive, overthinking, wonderful boyfriend, was doing what he always did: quietly taking care of the people he loved.

And then it happened.

Derek, mid-laugh, glanced up toward the counter—and his smile froze. His eyebrows raised slightly. Then he leaned over to Penelope and nudged her arm with the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“PG. Look at that.”

Penelope turned, and you did too, instincts kicking in. And there she was.

A woman, maybe a few years older than you, statuesque and striking in a very deliberate way. Hair was perfectly blown out, posture was impossibly confident, and the toned arms on full display in a sleeveless top. She was leaning just a little too close to Spencer. Smiling a little too warmly.

You watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear as she said something that made Spencer glance up, polite and unaware. He smiled at her—your smile, the one that made your stomach flip when it was yours and yours alone—and nodded, clearly answering a question she’d asked. Then she touched his forearm. Lightly. Casually. Familiar in a way that made your blood stir.

You blinked.

And then it hit.

First—insecurity.

Because, yes, she was gorgeous. Her body was lean and graceful, her face radiant in that effortless, magazine-cover kind of way. She looked like someone who wore SPF, drank green juice, and knew how to contour. And you… well, you were you. You didn’t always remember to put on mascara, let alone exude that kind of practiced poise.

Then—jealousy.

That she would walk right up to your man as if he was available. As if his warm smile and gentle demeanor were an invitation to flirt, to try, to touch. As if you didn’t exist.

And then, surprisingly—pride.

Because, of course, someone would flirt with him. Have you seen him? Spencer was gorgeous. Tall, with soft eyes and messy hair and long, delicate fingers that fluttered when he talked about anything he loved. He radiated thoughtfulness. Of course, people noticed.

Finally—impressed.

You couldn’t even be mad at her confidence. The way she approached him without hesitation. That kind of boldness took guts. To see a man in public and think, Yes. Him, and then go for it? You almost wanted to applaud her. Almost.

Penelope leaned over and whispered, “Do you want me to cause a distraction? I could pretend to faint. Or drop a scone.”

You shook your head, lips curving into a slow smile. “No… let’s see how long it takes him to figure out what’s happening.”

Derek snorted. “You think he will? I’ve seen this man miss someone flirting with him while literally being given their phone number.”

Spencer turned, drink tray in hand, the woman still beside him, clearly not finished making her case.

But the moment his eyes found you—only you—his entire face softened. He smiled like he always did like he couldn’t believe he got to walk toward you.

And just like that, all the swirling feelings calmed.

Because she might’ve approached him, but Spencer? He was already yours.

“Okay, I have the drinks!” Spencer announced brightly, carefully balancing the cardboard tray in his hands as he approached the table. His voice carried that classic, slightly too-loud enthusiasm that meant he was proud of himself for not spilling anything on the walk over.

He looked so pleased with himself—so genuinely content to be bringing everyone exactly what they ordered—that for a second, you almost forgot the scene you’d just watched unfold at the counter.

Almost.

Penelope took her drink first with a wide, performative smile. “Oh, thank you, kind sir. What ever did we do to deserve such princely service?”

Spencer blinked. “Well, statistically speaking, I owed you both a drink since I didn’t pay last time, and Derek insisted on splitting that check evenly even though he ordered an extra—”

“—thank you, Spencer,” you interrupted gently, sliding your cup from the tray and brushing your fingers over his hand with a small smile. He looked at you, caught in mid-ramble, and paused.

There it was again—that softness. That barely concealed awe. Like just looking at you slowed his entire system down.

Derek, meanwhile, was eyeing him with one raised brow, sipping his coffee like he was trying very hard not to say something smart.

But Penelope? Penelope had no such restraint.

“So,” she said sweetly, far too sweetly, “did you make a new friend while you were up there?”

Spencer blinked. “What?”

Derek coughed pointedly. “Tall glass of water, blonde hair, caressing your arm?”

Spencer looked genuinely confused. “There was a woman next to me—she asked what kind of milk they used. I told her about the non-dairy options and suggested oat milk for a smoother foam. Why?”

Penelope let out a strangled little laugh and buried her face in her cup. Derek outright guffawed.

You just smiled. So wide and fond and helplessly in love.

Spencer looked around, increasingly suspicious. “Did… did she say something weird?”

“She was flirting with you, baby,” you said gently like you were explaining a very complex concept to a very sweet alien.

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “What? No, she wasn’t—she asked about milk—”

“She touched your arm, man!” Derek interrupted.

“She probably just wanted to know where to stand—”

“She flipped her hair,” Penelope added with wide eyes. “Three times!”

Spencer looked at you again, a little horrified. “You… did you notice that?”

You laughed softly, wrapping your hand around his. “Yes, Spencer. I noticed.”

Spencer blinked at you for a beat longer, cheeks going warm. “…Oh.”

You leaned closer, giving him a smug little smile. “It’s okay, lover. I like that you’re oblivious. Means I never have to worry.”

Penelope beamed. Derek groaned into his coffee.

Spencer, still a little stunned, just held your hand a little tighter. “I really did just think she was curious about milk…”

You kissed his cheek. “I know, Spence. I know.”

—

“Y/N?” Spencer asked softly, his voice warm and casual as if he’d been turning the thought over in his head for a while.

“Yeah, Spence?” you replied, eyes still focused on your laptop, adjusting the spacing on the final slide of the presentation you’d been working on all morning.

“What do you want to do for your birthday?”

You paused, fingers hovering over the trackpad, and glanced toward the corner of the room. Spencer was exactly where he always ended up on your weekend workdays—curled into the armchair you’d jokingly dubbed “his spot,” legs folded underneath him, a Rubik’s cube dancing between his nimble fingers. The light from the window dappled across his curls, making him look more like a daydream than a real person.

“I hadn’t thought about it yet,” you admitted with a smile, closing your laptop slightly to give him your attention. “Why, did you have something in mind?”

Spencer didn’t look up. His eyes were locked on the colorful cube, the sound of soft plastic clicks filling the space between you. “Cancún,” he said plainly. “We could go to the Mayan ruins, and you could drink and tan on the beach while I read under an umbrella.”

It was said so matter-of-factly as if it were a logical answer to a multiple-choice question. You blinked—and then giggled, unable to help it.

“You’re serious,” you grinned.

He nodded without missing a beat, eyes still glued to the cube. “Of course. The Mayan pyramids at Chichén Itzá are among the most well-preserved examples of ancient Mesoamerican architecture. And I figured you’d enjoy a piña colada and maybe, you know…” His fingers paused just briefly as he gave you a shy glance. “Some time to relax?”

You melted a little like you always did when he tried so hard to think about you, even in the middle of his excitement. “That sounds kind of amazing.”

He shrugged. “I also looked at a couple of options closer to home in case you didn’t want to fly. But I wanted to start big.”

You stood, laptop forgotten, and made your way over to him, sliding into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, threading your fingers gently into his curls, “how long have you been planning my birthday without telling me?”

He flushed slightly. “Seventeen days. And six hours. Approximately.”

You kissed his temple, your heart blooming with affection. “You’re ridiculous.”

…

Cancún was everything.

Beautiful, in the way only a place brushed by turquoise water and painted sunsets could be. The kind of beauty that slowed your breath and made you reach instinctively for Spencer’s hand, just to make sure you were both seeing it together.

Fun, in the way that caught you off guard—like when Spencer surprised you by agreeing to dance at that beachside bar after one too many sips of some bright, fruity drink he couldn’t name, cheeks flushed and curls tousled from the wind. Or when he reluctantly joined you in the ocean and immediately lost his footing, laughing so hard he had to clutch your waist for support. More drunk on you than anything else.

Exciting, too. Walking together through the ruins of Chichén Itzá, Spencer practically vibrating with enthusiasm as he explained the alignment of El Castillo with the solstices, hands animated as he gestured toward the shadows cast by the ancient steps. You let him ramble. You loved to let him ramble. Especially when he was this alive, this bright, under a sun he claimed was “just slightly too hot for intellectual pursuits.”

But it was relaxing, too. Quiet mornings with breakfast on the balcony. Your legs draped over his lap while he read to you—sometimes history, sometimes poetry, sometimes just the resort menu aloud in Spanish with a smirk because he knew how it made you laugh.

And, of course, it was romantic. So romantic.

Stolen kisses in shaded courtyards, bare feet brushing under restaurant tables, late-night swims in the moonlight, wrapped in each other’s arms as the waves lapped softly nearby. He tucked hibiscus flowers behind your ear. You kissed sunscreen into the slope of his nose. And when you lay side by side in bed, salt still lingering on your skin, you whispered plans for the future like the stars outside the window could hear them.

Cancún was everything. But mostly, it was yours. Your time. Your memories. Your little pocket of paradise—with the person you loved most.

But all good things must come to an end, as they say. And in your case, the end came in the form of tacos.

It started off like the perfect night. You and Spencer had decided to cap off your trip with dinner at a little oceanside bar—one of those that had hammocks instead of chairs and lights strung overhead like fireflies. You ordered something that sounded incredible on the menu, something bright and spicy, and Spencer got something safe, because of course, he did.

You ate slowly, sipping a drink and watching the waves, laughing when Spencer made a face at the live music that was just slightly off-key. It had all been perfect—until it wasn’t.

The two of you had decided to take a final stroll along the beach, your sandals dangling from one hand, his fingers laced with yours as the tide whispered around your ankles.

And then you gagged.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a small, subtle noise that you immediately tried to swallow down. You turned your head to the side and kept walking, squeezing his hand tighter like you could distract yourself from your own body.

Spencer noticed instantly. Of course, he did.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stopping to face you with concern already blooming in his eyes.

You nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze, your free hand pressing to your stomach like it might help keep everything inside. “Mhm. I’m fine.”

But your stomach had other plans.

The waves weren’t the only thing churning anymore. A sudden roll of nausea swept through you, violent and immediate. You froze. Then shook your head, wide-eyed and desperate.

“I—I need to go back to the room.”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your sandals from your hands, wrapped an arm around your shoulders, and turned you back toward the resort with a quiet, “Okay, we’re going. It’s okay.”

You felt mortified. You never threw up. Not since that one infamous night ten years ago involving too many sugary desserts and a bonfire with school friends.

But by the time you made it to the elevator, you were already gagging again, your hands shaking. Spencer pressed the buttons like a man on a mission and practically carried you down the hall.

And then… your head was in the toilet. Cold tile beneath your knees. A mess of tears and sickness and embarrassment.

You wouldn’t let Spencer even near the bathroom.

The moment he tried to follow you in, concern etched all over his face, you turned around mid-stumble and pointed a trembling, authoritative finger toward the balcony.

“Out there. Balcony. Now.”

Spencer blinked, stunned. “But I—”

“No, Spencer,” you groaned, one hand on your stomach, the other braced on the wall. “I love you. So much. But if you hear me throw up, I will have to walk into the ocean and never return.”

And before he could protest, you shut the door behind you, sealing yourself in like it was some kind of quarantine chamber. You couldn’t stand the thought of him hearing it—the retching, the gasping, the miserable sounds you hadn’t made in over a decade.

Meanwhile, Spencer stood barefoot on the balcony in the dark, completely banished like it was his fault you were sick. He pressed his palm to the cool glass of the sliding door, face full of worried confusion.

“She basically devours the goriest horror movies she can find but throws me outside for a little food poisoning,” he muttered to himself.

And yet—he stayed. Just outside the door, pacing softly, arms folded, waiting for any sign that you were okay. Because if you needed to pretend he wasn’t hearing you puke your guts out? Then he would pretend, too.

You clutched the toilet's cool porcelain like it was your only anchor, your forehead pressed to your arm, knees aching against the tile. The world was spinning in sharp little circles, and your entire body was clammy, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin.

But then, from outside the bathroom door came the soft sound of Spencer’s voice. “Y/N?”

“Spencer!” you croaked, panicked and furious in equal measure. “NO!”

There was a pause, and you could hear the shift of his bare feet on the floor, and the rustle of his shirt as he leaned gently against the other side of the door. “Baby, it’s okay,” he said, calm and steady like he was soothing a frightened cat instead of a grown woman violently rejecting tacos. “It’s normal. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s so gross!” you sobbed, barely able to catch your breath between waves of nausea and your own tears. “I’m sweaty, and—and puking, and I don’t want you to see me like this!”

There was a long silence. Not awkward. Not disappointed. Just full of Spencer’s care, humming just beneath the surface like a low, warm current.

And then, with a voice so soft it barely reached through the wood: “Sweetheart… I’ve seen humanity at its worst. But I have never, not once, thought someone I loved being sick was anything but human. You’re not gross. You’re hurting. And I want to be here for you.”

You sniffled, knuckles pressed to your lips, too ashamed to answer at first.

“I can stay out here. I will,” he continued gently. “But just… let me bring you a glass of water when you’re ready. Or a washcloth. Or a hug. You don’t have to let me in, but don’t shut me out.”

Your heart broke a little at how kind he was. And maybe it was the nausea, or maybe it was love, or maybe both—but you whimpered through the door, voice small and shaky: “I hate being vulnerable.”

And Spencer, without missing a beat, said softly, “I know. That’s why I’m so proud of you. You’re doing it anyway.”

Before you could stop it, your body lurched forward and you retched again, vomiting hard and fast—hopefully for the last time. Your throat burned, your stomach twisted, and by the time it was over, you were choking on a sob you hadn’t meant to let out.

You flushed the toilet with a shaky hand, then slid back against the wall, collapsing ungracefully onto the tile floor. Knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. You were crying now—really crying—coughing between tears, breath hitching like your body didn’t know how to calm itself down.

The door creaked.

“Y/N!” Spencer’s voice was sharp with worry. “I’m coming in.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The door opened, and there he was—barefoot, heart pounding, hair slightly windblown from the balcony breeze, and eyes wide with panic.

He spotted you immediately, curled up on the floor, flushed and tear-streaked, the air still heavy with misery.

“Hey—hey, no, no, no,” Spencer rushed to you, dropping to his knees without a second thought. “Can I hold you?”

“I didn’t—” you hiccuped, trying to catch your breath. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

He cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “You’re sick, not radioactive,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “Let me take care of you, please.”

And something in you cracked again—but this time, not from nausea or shame. This time, it was the comfort. The love. The refusal he had to let you face any of it alone.

You covered your mouth with your hand, still red-eyed and trembling. “At least let me brush my teeth,” you mumbled, voice hoarse and shaky, cheeks burning with leftover embarrassment.

Spencer immediately nodded, standing up with you in one fluid motion, his hands warm and gentle as they steadied your arms. “Yes, absolutely. That’s actually really important—”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob as he began.

“—because vomiting introduces stomach acid into your mouth, specifically hydrochloric acid, which can weaken enamel. So you should actually wait a few minutes and rinse with water first—”

“Spencer,” you croaked, even as you leaned against the counter, reaching for your toothbrush.

“Right, right,” he said softly, rubbing your back. “I’ll wait to give the lecture until you’re minty fresh.”

You couldn’t help but smile—still teary, still exhausted, but somehow lighter. Because he wasn’t there to see you at your best. He was there because he wanted to be, even when you were at your absolute worst.

“Need to be able to kiss you if you’re going to talk dirty to me,” you muttered flatly, toothbrush halfway to your mouth.

Spencer, who had just handed you a glass of water to rinse with, froze.

Then, slowly—painfully—his cheeks turned pink, that signature flush creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. He let out a surprised laugh, nearly stumbling back a step like the words had physically knocked him off balance.

“Oh my God,” he said, grinning now, visibly relieved to see a flicker of your usual spark return. “You’re definitely feeling better.”

You rinsed, spit, and wiped your mouth, finally looking at him with a tired but mischievous little smile. “Still weak. Still gross. But capable of inappropriate humor? Always.”

Spencer beamed and then, because he couldn’t help himself, leaned in to kiss your forehead. “You scared me.”

“I scared myself.” You sighed. “But thank you for being here. Even when I banish you to balconies.”

He chuckled, resting his hand on your hip. “For future reference, you’re allowed to puke. And I’m allowed to love you anyway.”

“Thank you, baby,” you murmured, stroking your fingers gently across his stomach—a spot you knew was always sensitive, always made him twitch or blush or just melt a little. His breath hitched ever so slightly, and he looked at you with soft, grateful eyes.

“You’re not allowed, though,” you added, scrunching your nose. “I don’t want to hear you puke.”

Spencer balked, his mouth dropping open as his eyebrows shot up in exaggerated mock offense. “Excuse me?”

You laughed, stepping back just slightly to put a hand on your hip, already amused with yourself. “It’s gross! I probably wouldn’t find you sexy anymore.”

He let out a sharp breath that was half gasp, half laugh, and shook his head slowly, grinning with that very specific brand of Spencer Reid indignation. “Wow. Wow. That’s… I see how it is.”

And then, with the softest, most ridiculous gesture imaginable, he raised his closed fist and lightly—very lightly—tapped it against your jaw. Like he was throwing the world’s gentlest punch.

You both burst out laughing.

“Violence?” you teased, holding your hand to your chest. “This is what happens when I speak my truth?”

Spencer smirked, eyes glittering. “You threaten my sex appeal and my digestive dignity, and I’m the villain?”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re rude.”

“You’re lucky I’m still in love with you.”

“You’re lucky I am,” he shot back, lips twitching into another grin.

And just like that, the nausea, the embarrassment, the tile-floor misery—it all drifted away, replaced by laughter, love, and the kind of comfort that only came from being exactly where you belonged.

—

Spencer’s sitting at his dining table, shoulders hunched and brow furrowed in concentration, a case file spread out before him. He’s got one hand tangled in his hair and the other scribbling something in the margins of the profile, lips moving soundlessly as he works through his thoughts. It’s the posture he takes when he’s fully in the zone—focused, brilliant, unreachable by most.

But not by you. Not usually.

You’re curled up on the couch a few feet away, watching him with quiet affection and just a hint of boredom. He’s been at it for nearly two hours, and though he’s still talking to you intermittently, it’s all half-responses and murmured agreements. You know he doesn’t mean to ignore you—he’s just wired this way, intense and single-minded when something’s clawed its way into his brain.

Still, you’re feeling a little fragile today. Not enough to show it or say it out loud, but just enough to want a little more softness. A little more attention. Something light.

So you joke, voice casual but tinged with a vulnerability you hope doesn’t show, “Sorry I’m being so annoying, I’ll try to contain the full force of my unbearable personality.”

Spencer doesn’t look up.

“Mm, yeah,” he murmurs, pen still scratching across the paper. “That’d be great, thanks.”

You blink, your breath catching slightly in your throat. It takes a second to process that he actually heard you. Or at least—he heard the words. Not the meaning behind them. Not the way you laughed softly at the end, like it was all a joke when it wasn’t really.

And now he’s nodding to himself, flipping the page, muttering something about behavioral escalation, completely oblivious to the way his offhand agreement landed like a punch to your gut.

You sit still for a moment, too still. The kind of stillness that only happens when you’re trying not to cry out of sheer ridiculousness. It shouldn’t hurt. You know he didn’t mean it. But it does.

It does.

Without a word, you stand up slowly and make your way down the hall. You don’t slam the door. You don’t huff or sniff or stomp. You just slip into the bathroom and close the door gently behind you.

Spencer doesn’t even look up.

But after a minute or two—midway through a paragraph—his brain finally pings with something off.

The silence. The lack of your usual commentary or music playing faintly on your phone. The way you hadn’t laughed at his last mumbled fact about the statistical relevance of childhood trauma. The fact that you’re gone.

His pen stills.

“...Babe?”

No answer.

He looks up. The living room is empty. The soft blanket you were under is tossed neatly on the arm of the couch. The bathroom door is shut. The apartment is silent.

His heart sinks.

He replays what just happened in his head, scanning it like a file, rewinding your last words.

And then it hits him.

Oh. Oh.

Spencer sets the pen down slowly. His brow furrows, not with confusion but with regret. He pushes his chair back, stands, and crosses the hall to the bathroom, knocking gently—barely more than a tap.

“Sweetheart?” he says softly, already wincing. “Can I come in?”

Because now he knows. Now he really heard you.

Your head jerks up at the soft knock, startled, and you quickly swipe at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, trying to erase any evidence of the tears threatening to fall. You hadn’t expected him to notice—not so soon, anyway.

His voice comes through the door, tentative and quiet, like he already suspects he’s hurt you. “Y/N?”

You sniffle, caught off guard but trying to play it cool. “I’m in the bathroom…”

“I know,” he replies, a sheepish little laugh wrapped in nervousness. “So… can I come in?”

There’s a pause. You stare at your reflection in the mirror—your red-rimmed eyes, the wobble of your bottom lip, the way you look like someone who’s trying too hard to keep it together. You sigh, but it comes out shaky, the kind of sound that gives you away before your words even have the chance.

“No, Spencer,” you say, voice cracking around the edges, thin and brittle. “Go back to work.”

You try to sound firm, but it’s no use. The second half of the sentence trembles out of your mouth like you’re holding it together with scotch tape and hope. And Spencer hears all of it.

On the other side of the door, he presses his hand flat against the wood like it might get him closer to you. Like maybe, if he touches it gently enough, the damage might reverse itself. His chest twists with guilt, a deep kind of ache he doesn’t quite know how to sit with.

“Hey,” he says softly, not moving away. “I’m not going back to work.”

“Spencer—” you try, your voice small.

“I wasn’t listening,” he cuts in, regret wrapped around every word. “And I’m so sorry for that. You were making a joke, and I just… answered without thinking. I wasn’t really hearing you, and I should’ve. That was a really stupid thing to say and I—I hate that it hurt you.”

You bite your lip hard, tears gathering again, this time not from the offhand comment but from how earnest he sounds now. How soft. How aware.

“I’m not going to push,” he says gently. “If you want me to leave you alone, I will. But I’m staying right here. Just so you know, you’re not alone in there. Not really.”

Silence falls again, but this one is different. It’s full of his presence, not the emptiness from before.

Your voice comes a moment later, barely a whisper. “I just felt… stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” he says immediately. “You’re not annoying. And you don’t have to joke about your feelings to make them easier for me to handle. I want to hear them. I want to know when you’re upset so I can help.”

You hesitate. Then, very quietly, the lock on the door clicks.

Spencer waits.

The door creaks open a few inches, and there you are, tearful and trying your best to look like you’re not.

His eyes soften as he takes a half-step forward, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “Hi,” he says gently.

Your voice is still thick. “Hi.”

“Can I hug you now?”

You nod, and the dam breaks completely the second you’re in his arms. He holds you tight—steady, warm, and wordless—resting his chin on your head as you bury your face into his chest.

“I didn’t mean it,” he murmurs. “Not even a little bit. You’re my favorite person. Always.”

And you believe him. Because the thing about Spencer is—when he’s paying attention, really paying attention—he loves you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And right now, he’s paying attention to everything.

—

It was a slow afternoon at the Bureau, the kind where the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder than usual, and even Penelope had stopped trying to invent fake emergencies to liven things up. Files sat untouched, coffee mugs were half-full, and the bullpen was quieter than it had been in weeks.

So when Derek nudged Spencer’s arm and muttered, “Come on, pretty boy, lunch run,” Spencer didn’t argue. They wandered down to the corner deli with the flaky bread and the too-strong espresso Spencer would never drink but secretly liked the smell of.

They sat outside—Spencer with his book tucked under one arm, Derek unwrapping his sandwich with the kind of dedication that meant he wouldn’t speak for the first five bites.

But then, halfway through a fry, Derek looked up. Squinted. Tilted his head.

“Wait,” he said slowly, continuing their conversation, bugged by Spencer’s lack of enthusiasm about the subject. “So you’ve never…”

Spencer blinked, startled, then furrowed his brow. “No?” he answered cautiously, his tone more question than statement.

Derek nearly choked on his drink. “Bro, you literally have a girlfriend!” he said, laughter bubbling up. “How long have you guys been together now?”

“A little over a year,” Spencer replied, shrugging a little as he picked at the edge of his napkin. “But… it’s not about that. We don’t just have sex; we have a relationship. She’s my best friend.”

Derek clutched his chest in mock pain. “That’s sweet, Romeo,” he said dramatically. “But you’re telling me, in all this time, you never asked?”

Spencer looked thoughtful as if he were truly trying to remember if he ever had. “She never offered,” he said eventually. “And I didn’t want to pressure her. It’s not… transactional. We’re just—close. We talk. We… trust each other.”

Derek blinked. “You know you’re allowed to ask, right?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Are you?”

“Yes, Reid,” Derek sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “You can ask for things. Especially in a healthy relationship. Especially if you trust each other. You talk about stuff. It doesn’t make you pushy. It makes you communicative.”

Spencer sat back in his chair, chewing that over.

“…I guess I just figured… if she wanted to, she would.”

“And maybe,” Derek said, sipping his drink like he was about to drop the thesis statement of the day, “she’s just waiting for you to stop treating her like she’s a research subject and start treating her like she wants to be wanted.”

Spencer blinked.

“Oh,” he said. Then softer, “Oh.”

Derek just smirked, biting into his sandwich again. “You’re welcome.”

…

“So I had an interesting conversation with Derek today…” Spencer started, his tone just casual enough to seem like he was testing the waters—but not quite enough to hide that something was definitely on his mind.

You smiled over your shoulder at him, where he was sitting on the other side of the kitchen island, elbows resting beside the cutting board you’d left out earlier. The sizzling of the carrots in your pan gave a little punctuation to the moment. “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly, brows raised just a little, the way they always did when he was internally drafting something that made him nervous. He looked like he was mentally pacing even though he was perfectly still.

And then, as if someone hit play on the audio file he'd been rehearsing in his head, he blurted out with the grace of a baby deer on ice, “Will you give me a blowjob?”

The carrots hissed in the oil.

You froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough to let the words fully register—then turned to face him, eyes wide with amusement and a grin tugging at your lips.

“What did you and Derek talk about?” you asked, voice barely containing the delight now bubbling up in your chest.

Spencer flushed immediately, the tips of his ears turning red like you’d flipped a switch. “It—well—I just mentioned that we hadn’t… I mean, not that I expect anything, but he asked, and, well, we haven’t, and I wasn’t sure if—maybe—I was allowed to ask?”

You put the spatula down and turned off the heat, walking slowly around the island toward him, arms crossed but smile blooming. “You needed Derek Morgan to give you a permission slip to ask for a blowjob?”

“I didn’t need it,” Spencer said defensively, but he was already fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater, looking up at you with a sheepish, caught expression. “He just reminded me that asking isn’t a bad thing. I didn’t want to pressure you. I didn’t know if you’d want to or if it would make things weird or—”

You leaned over, kissing his temple, your voice warm and teasing. “You’re adorable when you’re mortified, you know that?”

He groaned softly, letting his forehead fall into his hands. “Please forget how I said it.”

“No chance,” you laughed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind. “But… I am glad you asked. Even if your delivery needs a little work.”

“So that’s not a no?” he mumbled into his palms.

You nuzzled into his hair and whispered, “Definitely not a no, Spencer.”

And just like that, your carrot sauté had officially been put on hold.

Spencer looked up at you from his seat with those wide, impossibly earnest eyes, his cheeks already flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anticipation. His voice came out in a breathy little burst like he couldn’t quite believe the moment was happening.

“I’ve never had one before,” he admitted, almost reverent in tone like it was a confession and a milestone all at once.

You smiled, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through his curls with that familiar warmth that always settled him. “I know, baby.”

He nodded like he expected as much—but then curiosity sparked in his eyes again. “Have you?”

You tilted your head, pretending not to notice the question forming. “Have I received a blowjob?”

Spencer groaned immediately, covering his face with both hands again like he regretted opening his mouth in the first place. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, full and bright, the kind of laugh that always pulled a reluctant smile from him even in his most dramatic moments.

“Yes, I’ve given a blowjob or two,” you replied, nonchalantly, dragging out the answer just enough to tease him.

He lifted his head, peeking at you through parted fingers, eyes narrowing playfully. “Is that an accurate count?”

You smirked. “Do you want the real one?”

Without missing a beat, Spencer groaned again, this time more dramatically, and let his head fall forward—landing squarely against your chest like it was the only safe place in the world. He let out a muffled, mock-mournful, “I suppose not,” as his hands found your waist, holding onto you like he needed emotional reinforcement.

You chuckled again, wrapping your arms around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re too cute for your own good, Dr. Reid.”

He sighed, breath warm against your skin. “And you’re still evil.”

“Mm. But I’m your evil.”

That earned you a soft laugh—low and content—and the kind of squeeze around your waist that said he was glad you were the one he was nervous with. The one he was learning with. The one he trusted to laugh, tease, and still love him through it all.

“Is my evil going to keep being evil or…” he mumbled, barely audible like he was trying not to let himself say it all the way.

You arched a brow, grinning as you tilted your head closer to him. “What was that, baby?” you teased, voice syrupy sweet. “You sound a little desperate.”

Spencer groaned—half a whimper, half a plea—his face still pressed against you as if the heat rising in his cheeks might be hidden there. “Y/N…” he whined, the syllables dragging out of his throat like they were coated in syrup and shame.

You cupped the back of his neck, fingers sliding into the soft curls there, and hummed, lips brushing beside his ear now. “Hmm? Are you getting worked up?”

He nodded.

Just once. Small. But you felt it.

“Thinking about my mouth?” you whispered, your voice velvet and heat, each word wrapped around him like a tightening string. “Wrapped around you? Licking you… sucking you…” You smiled as he shivered against you, the tension building in his shoulders like a coiled spring.

“…swallowing you?”

His breath caught—sharp, choked, completely involuntary.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

His whole body did it for him.

Spencer was trembling—not visibly—not in some dramatic, cinematic way—but in the subtle, desperate tension that rippled through him beneath your hands. It was the kind of trembling that came from want layered under nerves, from anticipation that had nowhere to go but deeper.

He was quiet, but you felt the way his fingers tightened around your waist, how his forehead pressed harder into your chest, like if he hid there long enough, he could escape the fire you were so expertly stoking.

But he couldn’t.

You weren’t going to let him.

Your voice dropped even lower, almost a purr now, your lips ghosting over the curve of his ear, “You want me to, don’t you?���

He gave the barest nod again. Like even that little motion required a full-body permission slip.

“I want to hear it, Spence.” You trailed your fingers down his back, slow and light, the kind of touch that made it worse. Made him ache more. “Tell me you want it.”

He groaned—tried to suppress it, but it broke free.

“I do,” he whispered, voice nearly cracked in half. “I want you to…” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence, the weight of the words too heavy in his mouth.

You softened, cupping his jaw and tilting his face up so you could see his eyes. They were glassy, wide, and so full of helpless want that your heart nearly cracked for him.

“Sweet boy,” you murmured, brushing your thumb across his cheek, “you don’t have to be shy with me. You know I’d never laugh at you.”

“I know,” he breathed. “I just… I’ve imagined it so many times and now that it’s real, I…”

“You’re overwhelmed.” You nodded, brushing his hair back from his flushed face. “That’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He nodded quickly, jaw tight with restraint, pupils blown wide with anticipation.

You leaned in, kissing him—gently at first, then deeper, your mouth moving slowly over his like a promise. His hands gripped you just tight enough to ground himself, and when you pulled back, your lips were still brushing his.

“Go lie on the bed, baby,” you whispered, your voice full of velvet and control and care. “Let me show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”

And for once, in his brilliant, spiraling, overthinking mind—Spencer didn’t argue. He just obeyed.

You watched, wide-eyed and deeply amused, as Spencer practically hightailed it down the hallway like you’d just fired a starting pistol at a race track.

One moment he was wrapped around you, whimpering under your breathy teasing, and the next—whoosh—he was gone, a blur of long limbs and nervous anticipation as he disappeared into your bedroom.

You couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled up from your chest. It escaped in a full laugh as you slid the pan of forgotten carrots to a cool spot on the stove. They could wait. Spencer Reid could not.

You walked down the hallway slowly, and deliberately, enjoying every heavy beat of your heart and the warm, fluttering thrill building in your belly. By the time you reached the bedroom doorway, you were prepared to find him nervously waiting under the covers, maybe still in his undershirt, doing that thing where he fiddles with the hem and doesn’t make eye contact—

But no.

Absolutely not.

You stepped into the doorway and nearly doubled over.

“Spencer!” you shrieked, half in joy and half in stunned laughter.

There he was.

Completely naked.

No covers, no strategic sheet positioning, no half-off clothes like some dramatic movie scene. Just all of him, sprawled on your bed, flushed pink and already looking a little overwhelmed—but so clearly ready.

His curls were messy from where he’d run his hands through them. His legs stretched out nervously, feet flexing like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs now that he was all bare. His hands were clenched into the blanket on either side of him, and his entire face was red.

But he held your gaze, wide-eyed and proud, despite how clearly embarrassed he was.

“I, um—” he began, voice cracking like a teenager, “I didn’t know if I was supposed to wait under the blanket, or if you wanted… access…”

You covered your mouth with your hand, laughing into your fingers before you walked over, eyes sparkling.

“Spence,” you whispered, crawling up the bed as he watched you like you were both a goddess and a thunderstorm, “you are the most beautiful, ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

He swallowed hard. “Is… is that a good thing?”

You leaned down, pressing a kiss just below his belly button as he sucked in a breath.

“It’s the best thing,” you murmured again, lips brushing just above the sharp line of his hipbone, letting the heat of your breath linger there while your fingers lightly traced along the sensitive skin of his thighs.

Spencer’s entire body shivered. His hands clutched the comforter like he needed an anchor, his back arched just barely off the bed in anticipation. And then—his voice, soft and breathy and absolutely wrecked already, slipped out:

“O–okay good,” he stammered, blinking down at you with flushed cheeks and blown pupils. “So what do I do…?”

You looked up at him, chin resting lightly on his lower stomach, and gave him a smile so soft, so steady, it made him swallow hard. “Just let me do the work, yeah?”

“Mhm,” he nodded quickly, his curls bouncing, throat working around a nervous gulp. His fingers twitched against the blanket again, like he didn’t trust himself to keep still.

You brushed your hand up his thigh, slow and deliberate, watching as his eyes fluttered shut from just that. “Can I start, baby?”

His head lolled back against the pillows. “Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse and pleading. “Do anything… just—do something.”

You grinned—loving, amused, and more than a little hungry—and kissed the inside of his thigh.

“Anything?” you teased, voice like velvet.

Spencer made a sound that was half laugh, half moan, and all desperation. “Anything,” he groaned. “I’ve been mentally preparing for this since I was sixteen, please don’t make me wait.”

You kissed higher. “Well,” you murmured, lips grazing the base of him, “good thing I’ve been practicing since then.”

And then—finally—you took him into your mouth.

And Spencer Reid stopped thinking for the first time in his entire life.

It was just the tip.

Just the head, just the softest, most teasing pull of your lips around the very beginning of him. You didn’t rush, didn’t dive in or try to overwhelm him—no, you knew better. You knew exactly what you were doing. You let your mouth rest there, warm and wet and barely moving, while your tongue flicked out slowly, tracing over that sensitive little slit at the top.

Spencer gasped.

His entire body jerked, muscles twitching like he’d been shocked. His hands flew from the sheets to the top of your head—not to guide or push, never that—but to hold on. Because suddenly he wasn’t sure where the floor was.

You dragged your tongue around the underside of the head, slowly tracing that ridge, the texture of your mouth perfectly tuned to the places he didn’t even know he was sensitive. You flattened your tongue and gave one long, deliberate lick along the underside, and—

Spencer lost it.

A strangled moan burst from his throat, cracked and raw like he’d been holding it in for years. His thighs trembled on either side of you, his back arched, and his hands tightened in your hair just enough to let you know: this is too much, this is everything, don’t you dare stop.

“Oh my God,” he choked, voice barely recognizable. “Oh my God, what—what are you doing to me—”

You pulled back just an inch, lips glossy and grin slow, voice sultry with delight. “Just the tip, baby.”

He stared at you like you’d rewritten physics. “That was just the—” he stopped, exhaled like he’d run a marathon. “I’m gonna die. You’re going to kill me.”

You laughed softly, full of warmth, kissing the base of him. “Not before I ruin you first.”

And then your mouth was back on him, and Spencer Reid stopped remembering how language worked.

The muscles in his thighs tensed beneath your hands, his breath catching in his throat like his lungs couldn’t decide whether to inhale or just shatter. He didn’t say your name this time—he couldn’t. It hovered on the edge of his tongue, but the sound died somewhere in his chest, overtaken by sensation.

You were slow, focused, and reverent. Every little movement felt purposeful like you were studying him again—not with questions or statistics but with care, and your tongue.

His head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, and a soft, fractured moan escaped him. “Oh my God—” he breathed, hands fisting the sheets beside him, his whole body trembling under the weight of what you were doing to him.

He wanted to say something. Anything. A fact. A thank you. A prayer. But all he could manage was another helpless sound from deep in his throat, one that seemed to surprise even him.

You looked up at him once—just once—and that was it.

Spencer came. Loudly. Beautifully. Like someone unraveling at the seams in the safest hands possible.

“Shit,” Spencer whispered, his voice cracked and breathless, still reeling from the wave that had just wrecked him.

You pulled back slowly as you swallowed, wiping your mouth with your thumb, smirking like you’d just completed the most satisfying science experiment of your life. “Hmm?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes at him.

Spencer let out a groan and immediately covered his face with one hand, his curls sticking slightly to his forehead. “That was so quick,” he panted, the words muffled behind his palm. “That’s so embarrassing.”

You laughed—soft and affectionate—as you leaned forward to pat his trembling thighs. “I take it as a huge compliment, baby.”

He peeked through his fingers at you, cheeks flaming red, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should pout or grin.

“I had plans,” he said dramatically, flopping back against the pillow. “Plans that involved at least five more minutes of dignity.”

You bent over and kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, well, your dignity didn’t stand a chance the second I started kissing your stomach.”

Spencer groaned again. “I told you that spot is unfair—”

“Not my fault you’re cute and responsive.”

He sighed, defeated, and rolled onto his side, reaching for you like he needed to physically confirm you were still there. “You’re evil.”

You curled into the bed beside him, pulling the covers over both your bodies as his arm draped around your waist.

“Yeah,” you murmured against his temple. “So I’ve been told.”

And Spencer just nodded, breath finally starting to even out, already plotting revenge he absolutely wouldn’t survive executing.

—

They don’t happen often. Spencer’s nightmares—true, bone-deep night terrors—are rare, but when they come, they’re merciless. Cruel. All-consuming.

And tonight is one of those nights.

You wake before your eyes are even open, stirred not by sound exactly but by the feeling of wrongness beside you. The mattress shifts sharply under Spencer’s body as he thrashes, limbs jerking under the sheets. His breaths are short and panicked, puffing from his lips like he’s being chased, hunted by some unseen force only his subconscious knows how to conjure.

He whines—a soft, broken thing, high-pitched and choked—and it makes your heart snap clean in two.

Unlike the times when he wakes you in the middle of the night shuffling for a glass of water or pacing from a post-case spiral, there's no irritation, no groggy frustration. Only fear. Only worry.

You sit up instantly, resting your weight on one elbow as your free hand reaches for him, brushing the soaked curls back from his clammy forehead. He’s burning with sweat, his t-shirt clinging to him like a second skin, his body caught between escape and paralysis.

You start to hum. Soft. Steady. Familiar.

It’s the tune you’ve used a hundred times to calm him—after a case, after a long day, during those quiet moments when the world outside gets too loud for Spencer Reid’s mind.

Your fingers stroke through his hair as you hum, and slowly, slowly, the rhythm of his breathing begins to shift. His muscles twitch less. The tension under his skin begins to loosen like a tight knot finally unraveling. Then, finally, his eyes flutter open—wide and glassy and searching.

His head turns toward you like a compass, finding its true north. He reaches out blindly, fingertips catching your wrist, shirt, shoulder—anything to anchor himself in the waking world.

“I’m here, baby,” you whisper, taking his hand in yours and pressing it to your chest so he can feel the steady beat of your heart. “You were having a nightmare.”

He nods once, but his jaw trembles, and then—the dam breaks.

His chin wobbles, lips pulling into a grimace as silent tears rise like a tide and begin spilling down his cheeks. He doesn’t sob. He doesn’t wail. It’s quieter than that. More devastating. Like something fragile inside him finally cracked open.

“Spencer, my love,” you whisper, brushing your thumb under his eye as you guide him gently toward you, “do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head—violently, once, twice—and that’s enough for you to know. It was either his kidnapping… or you.

But you don’t press. You just nod. And pull him closer.

He lets you move him, lets you shift back against the pillows so he can collapse against your chest, curled in, face tucked to your skin, holding on like you’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

You cradle him. Wrap yourself around him like armor. And then—so softly, so lovingly—you begin to sing.

“Stars shining bright above you…”

Spencer’s breath hitches but slows.

“Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’...”

You press a kiss to his curls, feeling him melt into you.

“Birds singing in the sycamore trees…”

“Dream a little dream of me,” you finish gently, brushing your nose against his temple.

And then, a soft sound. A tiny, choked snort of a laugh.

You glance down to see his eyes squeezed shut, but the corners are crinkled.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, tears, and love.

“And you’re mine,” you whisper back. “Try and sleep now, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And you do. Always.

—

Spencer barely remembered to eat that morning.

His mind had spiraled from the moment the facility called—soft voices and hesitant words and phrases like "she's declining" and "you may want to come soon"—and by the time he got to Hotch’s office, he could hardly string the request together in a full sentence.

But Hotch didn’t blink. Didn’t ask for details.

“Go,” he said simply, leaning back in his chair. “Take whatever time you need.”

Because everyone knew Spencer Reid never took time off. Not unless the sky was falling. And this? This was his sky.

He’d meant to text you. He really had. You were always the person he told first—when he had a rough case, when he learned a new theory, when he read a sentence in a book that made him think of you. But this wasn’t something he wanted to say over the phone. This wasn’t something he wanted to share—not yet. Not when it felt like he was barely holding it together.

So instead, he packed. A little chaotically. A little too fast. He folded things with military precision one moment, then dropped a pair of socks on the floor and forgot to pick them up.

He kept checking the clock, like maybe time would slow down if he stared at it hard enough.

And that’s where you found him—a half-zipped suitcase on the bed, his tie thrown over the back of a chair, a look in his eyes like he wasn’t entirely there.

You knocked as you opened the door, calling gently, “Knock knock!”

His head snapped up. Eyes wide. Guilt immediate. “Y/N—God, I—” he blinked, stepping toward you before stopping himself mid-step. “I was going to call. I should have called. I meant to tell you.”

You stood in the doorway, taking him in—his uncombed curls, the slight shake in his hands, the suitcase half-packed but with none of his favorite books.

“Tell me what?” you asked softly, walking toward him now, your voice the only calm thing in the room.

Spencer’s shoulders slumped. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his palms over his knees like the movement might settle him.

“It’s my mom,” he said quietly. “She’s not doing well. They called. Said I should come.”

And then—his voice even softer, like it hurt to say— “I didn’t want to worry you.”

You knelt in front of him, gently grounding your hands into his. “Spence,” you whispered, “you don’t have to protect me from this. I want to be worried about her. With you.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned forward, forehead pressed to yours, eyes closing as he exhaled like maybe he could finally let some of it go.

And when he opened them again, you were already packing his books. The ones you knew he’d want. The ones that made him feel at home. The way you did.

“You need to tell me these things,” you said, not unkindly but firm—your voice was soft, steady, and kind of serious, and it didn’t leave room for argument. You were beside his suitcase, carefully tucking the last of his books into the corner, smoothing the fabric over them like it would keep him safe.

Spencer nodded solemnly, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He looked down, guilt clouding his features like a child being gently scolded—not because you were harsh, but because he knew he should have told you. He meant to. He just… didn’t. And that fact alone ate at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

You looked up at him then, pausing for just a beat before you asked the question like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as natural as breathing: “Do you want me to come?”

His eyes darted to yours. Surprise flickered behind them—not because he didn’t want you to, but because the thought hadn’t yet made it to the surface. His mind had been too full of logistics, of fear, of memories he didn’t want to revisit alone—but now, with you saying it like, of course, like it wasn’t even a question—he felt his chest ache in the best possible way.

“What about work?” he asked quietly, still hesitant. Still Spencer.

You shrugged, standing slowly as you closed his suitcase and turned to face him fully. “It’s a family emergency.”

And you meant it.

Because Diana was your family too. Because he was your family.

Spencer blinked, and in that blink, something shifted. His shoulders dropped, the breath he’d been holding finally released, and his fingers reached for yours like he needed to ensure this was real.

“Okay,” he said.

And it was more than agreement. It was relief. He didn’t have to do this alone.

Not this time.

Spencer had thought it wasn’t possible to love you any more than he already did. He’d been so sure of it—so convinced that whatever threshold love had, he had already reached it with you. Already filled every available space in his heart with the sound of your laugh, the weight of your gaze, the way you said his name like it was a vow.

But then you stood in his bedroom, your hands on his suitcase, folding his shirts and slipping his books inside like you knew exactly which ones he’d reach for when the silence in the facility got too loud. You didn’t ask what you should pack. You didn’t ask for instructions. You just knew.

And when you asked if you should come with him—not out of obligation or pity, but because of course, you would—you said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was the one who needed to be reminded that this is what love looks like. This unwavering presence. This gentle certainty.

He looked at you and thought, How foolish of me.

To believe he’d reached the edge of it. To think there was a limit. To not realize that love, when it was real—when it was you—only deepened.

It didn’t swell like a tide. It unfolded like a galaxy.

And as you zipped up his bag, took his hand, and told him it was a family emergency—no hesitation, no doubt—he knew with absolute clarity: He hadn’t even scratched the surface of how much he could love you.

…

The plane ride was, as expected, not Spencer’s idea of a good time.

He had tried—really tried—to keep it together, to focus on the practicality of air travel, the necessity of getting to his mother quickly. But no matter how many times he told himself it was just recycled air, probability, and basic physics, his mind still latched onto every microbe, every cough within a five-row radius, every time someone touched the bathroom handle and then the seat tray without washing their hands.

His leg bounced with a steady rhythm. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee. His eyes stayed fixed on the in-flight safety card even after the flight attendant had long finished her speech.

And sleep? Forget it.

His brain was too busy. Running through timelines and medications, wondering if his mother would remember his face, wondering what kind of decline they meant when they said “declining,” wondering if he’d already missed something important.

But then, amid all that spiraling noise, he felt a small, warm weight shift against his arm.

You’d fallen asleep.

It was subtle at first, just the way your head leaned further into him, your shoulder relaxing as the hum of the cabin lured you in. And then, slowly, gently, your cheek came to rest against his shoulder. A little sigh escaped your lips, something soft and content, and then—

A tiny snore.

Followed by the unmistakable damp warmth of drool beginning to spread onto the shoulder of his sweater.

He blinked. Looked down. And instead of being annoyed or grossed out, or even startled—Spencer smiled.

It was small. Barely there. But real.

Because there was you in all the discomfort, stress, and spiraling unknowns. Snoring. Drooling. Completely knocked out and trusting enough to use him as your pillow. And for just a moment, the world didn’t feel so heavy.

He adjusted his arm a little so you’d be more comfortable, rested his cheek on top of your head, and let his eyes close—not to sleep, not yet, but to breathe.

And if his heart beat just a little slower after that? Well. He figured maybe drool wasn’t so bad after all.

When you and Spencer finally made it to the facility and stepped through the front doors, a weight settled over both of you—thick and invisible, wrapping around your lungs and squeezing with every step down the hall. It wasn’t just sterile lighting or that muted scent of disinfectant and aging upholstery. It was the stillness. The hollow kind that only existed in long-term care centers, where time felt both endless and unkind.

Spencer was quiet beside you. Almost too quiet.

He held your hand, but his fingers weren’t threaded with their usual softness—they were locked tight like he needed the contact to anchor him to the floor. He hadn’t spoken much since the drive. You knew he was trying to hold it together; that part of him was walking in that door as her son, and another part was walking in as a protector, a man who had spent his whole life-solving unsolvable problems—except this one.

You offered a small squeeze, and his eyes were already glassy when he looked at you. He gave you a grateful, heartbroken smile.

The nurse met you at the door of Diana’s room. He was kind. Soft-spoken. He gave Spencer an update that he barely registered, nodding absently as he mentioned medication changes, good days and bad days, and lucid moments that came less and less frequently.

And then… you were inside.

Diana Reid sat by the window, hair neatly brushed, her cardigan buttoned all the way to the top like someone had helped her with care. She stared out at the garden with a faint smile, her gaze fixed on something that wasn’t quite there.

“Hi, Mom,” Spencer said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t turn. Not right away. Not until he stepped closer.

And then—slowly, cautiously—her head turned. Her eyes met his, blinking once… twice…

And she smiled.

“Spencer,” she said softly, voice a fragile thread. “You’re so tall.”

Spencer laughed. It cracked in the middle.

You stood back, giving them space, tears threatening behind your eyes as he knelt beside her, taking her hand, speaking gently to her like she might drift away if he was too loud.

It was hard. So much harder than you thought it would be.

But watching him speak to her, watching him love her through the heartbreak—it reminded you of everything you already knew about Spencer Reid:

That his heart was vast. And no matter how much it hurt, he would always show up.

You would never tell Spencer how much it hurt you to see this. Not the weight of the facility. Not the trembling fragility in Diana’s voice. Not the way Spencer’s face cracked in places you’d never seen before.

Because this wasn’t about you. It wasn’t your pain to center. You were here for him.

And no matter how deeply it ached to see him kneeling there, clutching his mother’s hand like he was trying to hold time still, you knew the pain running through his veins was sharper. More personal. More impossible.

So you stood quietly at his side, calm, steady, present.

Spencer looked up at one point, eyes flicking toward you with a soft, hopeful smile, and said, “Mom, this is Y/N. My girlfriend.”

Diana tilted her head, brow furrowing slightly. She studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then she let out a soft, amused little huff. “You’re far too young to have a girlfriend,” she said, teasing, her tone light but off-kilter, like she was only half in the moment.

You offered a polite, if slightly uncomfortable, smile, stepping forward gently. “It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Reid. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Your voice was sweet, and your posture was perfect. You were warm, polite, and kind, even as her words stung—not because they were cruel, but because they were true, in their own heartbreaking way.

Because she didn’t see him.

Not the man who spent his entire life trying to understand her. Not the man who fought tooth and nail to keep her comfortable, safe, and protected. Not the man who flew across states to hold her hand.

She saw a boy.

“Aren’t you in school?” she asked him, blinking rapidly, confused now. “Where’s your backpack?”

Spencer froze.

You saw it the moment his smile faltered—the millisecond his lips tried to recover, tried to shape themselves into something reassuring. “Mom… I’m 28.”

She blinked. “No. No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me, Spencer.”

“I’m not lying,” he said gently, trying to hold her gaze. “I’m 28. I work for the FBI now. I—”

Diana’s face changed. The confusion shifted into something sharper. Panic. Fear.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re just a boy. You’re my little boy. Stop lying to me!”

Spencer’s voice caught in his throat. “Mom—”

You were already stepping forward, crouching beside him, reaching across to squeeze his arm gently. “Spence,” you whispered softly, “maybe… maybe not right now, okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, his mother’s panic echoing in his ears, his shoulders tense and still.

You turned to Diana, voice sweet and soft again. “Would you like to talk about your garden? It looks so beautiful out there.” You pointed to the window.

Diana’s eyes flicked to you, wide and tear-glossed, but she nodded slowly, her fingers relaxing just slightly.

And beside you, Spencer just kept holding her hand. Even as it trembled. Even as he did.

The night was hard—long, quiet, and restless. Spencer had said goodnight to his mother with that practiced softness you’d seen before, like he was trying not to fold inward, trying to be composed. But when you got back to the hotel, that composure started to crack.

He showered in silence. Didn’t ask for your music. Barely responded when you gently offered to order room service or rub his back. He just moved through his routine like a ghost, heavy and quiet, haunted by something too big to name.

Eventually, he crawled into bed beside you. But sleep didn’t come easy.

He tossed. Turned. Huffed softly against the sheets. You didn’t press. You just opened your arms when he finally rolled toward you, found your chest, and curled into the soft rise and fall of your breath like it was the only thing grounding him. You held him close, stroking his back, whispering nothing in particular—just letting him know you were there.

By morning, he was finally still. His curls were splayed across your chest, one arm slung limply around your waist, his breathing deep but a little uneven, like even in rest he couldn’t quite settle.

You tried to slip out without waking him—so carefully—but the second your warmth left his side, he stirred.

“Shh,” you whispered, already rounding the bed. You ran your fingers gently through his curls, leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Still here, sweetheart. Just sleep.”

He sighed under your touch, not quite waking, and you watched his brow soften again as you guided him back into slumber.

Only then did you slip into the bathroom with your phone, the door cracked open just enough to hear if he called out.

You sat on the edge of the tub, scrolling quietly.

There are flower shops near the facility, coffee places with quiet booths and good lighting, a few tucked-away bookstores, art galleries, natural history museums, and a pop-up science exhibit that might be small but still worth exploring.

Las Vegas had no shortage of distractions—but finding the right ones for Spencer? That was a challenge. It took knowing his moods, his quirks, the things that soothed his mind when it spiraled. You weren’t just looking for something to do—you were trying to build a soft place for him to land in case today broke his heart again.

You’d do it all if it helped. Because he would do the same for you. And because loving Spencer meant knowing how to love gently.

When Spencer finally stirred again, it was slow—his lashes fluttering, his breath shifting against the pillow, his limbs stretching just slightly like he was testing the air around him. The light from the window was soft, filtered through the gauzy hotel curtains, casting everything in that gentle, golden morning haze.

You were exactly where you wanted to be: curled up beside him, one hand absently stroking through his curls as your eyes skimmed over the pages of your book. The moment you felt him stir, you marked your place but didn’t move—just kept running your fingers through his hair, grounding him.

Then he let out a sound. Something between a whimper and a groan—deep, low, and raw from his chest.

You looked down immediately, concern tightening in your throat. “Okay, baby?” you asked softly, brushing a curl off his forehead.

He didn’t open his eyes fully—just turned his face slightly into your side, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

“Just need you.”

You set your book down without hesitation and wrapped your arms around him, tucking his head to your chest, holding him as close as he needed. “You have me,” you murmured, kissing the crown of his head, letting your hands trail gently along his back. “Always.”

And in that quiet little cocoon of tangled sheets and steady love, you gave him the safety he didn’t know how to ask for—but always found in you.

Spencer nodded against your chest, his breath hitching just slightly. Before you heard the sniffle, you felt the damp warmth of a tear at the edge of his eye. His whole body curled into you like he was trying to hide inside your arms.

His voice cracked when he started, “You… you were so perfect yesterday.”

You tilted your head down, kissing the top of his hair again, your fingers still carding through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Hmm? Why’s that, my love?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. You could feel him searching for the words, his mind flicking through the moments like files in a cabinet, trying to find the one that made his throat tight and his chest feel like it was folding in on itself.

“You didn’t panic,” he finally whispered, his voice fragile. “When she started to spiral when she didn’t remember me—when she yelled at me—you didn’t look scared. You didn’t try to fix it. You just… helped. You gave her a different focus, something gentle. You gave me time to breathe.”

You stayed quiet, holding him tighter, because you knew he wasn’t done.

“And I didn’t even say thank you. I—I didn’t tell you what it meant. I couldn’t. I think I was… still trying to hold myself together. But I saw it. I saw everything you did.”

You felt his shoulders tremble slightly as another breath shook out of him.

“You were just… perfect,” he murmured again like he didn’t know any other word big enough at that moment. “And I’m so lucky you’re mine.”

You pulled back just enough to kiss the corner of his damp eye and whispered, “You don’t have to thank me, Spence. That’s what love looks like.”

And you stayed right there, arms around him, holding the weight of everything he didn’t have to carry alone.

—

It started small—barely a shift. A silence between words. A longer pause before answering your texts. A softness to his eyes that held more weight than usual.

Spencer was in his head again.

You could feel it the way people feel a pressure drop before a storm: subtle, but undeniable.

He still kissed you good morning. Still held your hand when you crossed the street. Still brought you your favorite snacks from the store without asking. But behind it all, something tugged at him. A quiet unease that he hadn’t voiced yet, but you knew was there.

And in his head, it was loud.

Because Spencer Reid had never been loved like this before.

Not with the kind of tenderness you offered without question. Not with the way you remembered what calms him, what overstimulates him, what makes him light up. Not with the way you touched him so reverently, not because he was fragile, but because you treasured him.

You made space for his rituals. You never mocked his routines. You celebrated his quirks and soothed his spirals. You told him he was enough—and somehow, you meant it.

And he believed you. He did.

But tonight, after you’d made dinner, rubbed his back, and laughed at all his nerdy jokes, something inside him twisted tight.

You always did so much. You made loving him look easy.

And Spencer?

He didn’t feel like he deserved easy.

He lay beside you in bed, his arm wrapped around your waist, chin resting lightly against your shoulder, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Tangled and noisy and sharp.

Do I do enough? She deserves flowers and poetry and grand gestures and I… fold her laundry when she’s tired. What if she thinks I’m not trying hard enough? What if she doesn’t know how much I worship her?

His grip around you tightened slightly—subtle, but enough for you to feel it.

You turned your head, looking at him in the low glow of the bedside lamp. “Spence?” you asked softly. “Where are you right now?”

He blinked, eyes darting like he’d been caught.

“I’m here,” he said automatically, then hesitated. His voice dropped. “I mean… sort of.”

You rolled gently to face him, brushing a hand through his curls, watching how his lips pressed into a thin, guilty line.

“Talk to me?”

He swallowed, hard. “I just… I don’t think I do enough. For you.”

Your brows knit, but you didn’t speak. You let him keep going.

“You do everything in your power to make me feel safe and cared for, and—and loved, and I just—what do I do? I… hold your coffee while you put your shoes on. I memorize your schedules. I read your favorite book three times and bookmarked my favorite parts and never even told you because I was nervous you’d think that wasn’t enough.”

His voice cracked, just a little. “But I adore you. And I don’t know if I’m showing it right.”

You leaned in, and touched his cheek, your heart full and aching.

“Oh, Spencer,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You do everything right.”

Spencer’s eyes glistened, and for a moment he didn’t trust himself to speak. He opened his mouth once, then shut it again, his throat working like he was trying to find language that didn’t exist yet.

“I…” he began, then paused, frustrated. “I don’t have the right words. Not—not mine, anyway.”

You rubbed your thumb gently along his cheekbone, watching him carefully, waiting.

His hand tightened around yours like it grounded him. Then, almost breathlessly, he said, “Can I… borrow someone else's?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

Spencer took a breath, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. And then, in a voice that shook at the edges but still carried so much warmth, he began to recite:

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Pablo Neruda. You recognized it immediately.

Spencer’s voice dropped lower, reverent now, every word reverberating between you.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

He stopped, just barely, a breath trembling against your skin. When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered—not just from tears, but from everything he couldn’t say without someone else’s poetry to carry it.

“I don’t always know how to say it,” he whispered. “Not the way you deserve. But I feel it. Every second. It’s—in me. Like that poem. Like breathing.”

You moved closer, cradling his face in your hands, your own tears slipping free now, quiet and full.

“Spencer,” you whispered, voice thick, “you show me you love me every single day. And that?” You touched your forehead to his. “That was the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He exhaled shakily, wrapping his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.

And maybe, neither of you ever would.

—

The motel was small and a little sad—one of those off-the-highway places with flickering neon signs and rooms that smelled vaguely of lemon cleaner and disappointment. The team had wrapped up the latest round of interviews for the night and gathered outside near the parking lot, taking advantage of the cool evening air and vending machine snacks before turning in.

Morgan sat on the SUV's hood, tearing into a bag of trail mix like it had insulted his family. Emily leaned against the passenger-side door, sipping a bottle of water, eyes sharp and amused. The conversation had already veered wildly off-course from the case, and like clockwork, it had drifted into teasing territory.

“I’m just saying,” Morgan said, grinning around a mouthful of almonds, “this town might be depressing as hell, but I did see a very enthusiastic bartender eyeing me at the diner.”

Emily let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Oh, please. You were offered three numbers from women we interviewed today.”

“Hey, I didn't take any of them. I can’t help that I’m desirable,” Morgan said, giving her a playful nudge with his foot.

“Desirable or shameless?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Why not both?”

Spencer, who’d been half-listening while flipping through the case file one more time, looked up from where he was perched on the curb. “Do either of you ever think about, I don’t know, boundaries?”

“Boundaries?” Emily repeated, grinning as she turned toward him. “Come on, Reid. You make it sound like we’re chasing people through hospital wards. We’re talking about consenting adults.”

“Exactly,” Morgan added, wagging a finger. “Grown folks, grown decisions.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Some people might prefer to focus on the case.”

Emily narrowed her eyes playfully. “You mean you.”

Spencer didn’t respond, but the blush creeping up his neck was answer enough.

Morgan leaned forward like he’d just smelled blood in the water. “You’re telling me, Pretty Boy, that in all the time we’ve been out in the field—years, by the way—you’ve never, not once, had a little... off-duty adventure?”

Spencer shifted awkwardly. “I don’t really think—”

“Oh my God,” Emily gasped, feigning horror as she clutched her water bottle. “Never? Not even a little flirtation at a hotel bar? A mysterious woman with a tragic backstory? A man in a cowboy hat named—”

“You’re projecting,” Spencer said flatly.

Emily grinned. “I’ll allow it.”

“I just don’t see the point in meaningless interactions with people I’ll never see again,” Spencer said, shrugging a little like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Buddy,” Morgan said with a laugh, “it’s not meaningless if it’s fun.”

“Exactly,” Emily chimed in. “We’re not saying you’ve got to form a long-term emotional attachment over drinks and a shared trauma. Just that… exploration is healthy.”

“You guys sound like a pair of bad sex ed videos,” Spencer muttered, tucking his file under his arm and standing up.

Morgan grinned. “We’re trying to help you, man.”

“I don’t need help,” Spencer said. “And for the record, I’ve had plenty of—experiences. Just not with every waitress and desk clerk, we pass along the way.”

“Oh, come on,” Emily had joked. “Name one.”

And he’d blinked, fumbling for the simplest, most obvious answer. “I have a girlfriend?”

It was meant to be enough. More than enough. He thought maybe they’d drop it after that. Maybe Morgan would whistle, or Emily would roll her eyes and call him smug. But instead—

“And I bet those are the only tits you’ve ever seen,” Morgan laughed, head tossed back, that familiar, easy drunk-banter tone laced with sharpness he didn’t realize he’d crossed.

The laughter that followed was sloppy and loud. Emily chuckled too, but hers was a little more hesitant—her gaze already sliding toward Spencer like maybe they had gone too far.

Spencer didn’t laugh. His spine stiffened, and his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Because yeah… okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe he hadn’t racked up any wild, tangled encounters in foreign cities or hooked up with someone he couldn’t remember the last name of. Maybe he didn’t have wild stories about tequila-fueled nights or poolside flings. But it wasn’t like he’d planned that.

He was just… different.

And sometimes—especially moments like this—it made him feel like he’d missed something. Like everyone else had been handed a script on how to be effortlessly cool and experienced, and he’d shown up too late to memorize the lines.

Morgan was still grinning, but Emily had caught on now, her smile slipping completely as she glanced toward Spencer again. He wasn’t saying anything. Wasn’t making a witty comeback or rolling his eyes. He just stood there, arms crossed too tightly, jaw clenched a little too hard.

“Hey,” Emily said softly, nudging Morgan. “That was a little much.”

Morgan blinked, still chuckling, but when he looked at Spencer and saw the tension there—the discomfort etched into his face—his smile dropped too.

“Reid,” he said, sobering, “I was just messing around, man.”

Spencer gave a small, tight shrug. “Yeah. I know.”

But his voice didn’t match the words. Not really.

Emily stepped forward and leaned her shoulder into his gently. “Hey. You’re not missing anything, you know. We just talk a big game. It’s a lot of noise.”

Spencer nodded, still not quite looking at either of them. “It’s fine.”

Morgan sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Seriously, that wasn’t cool. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. You’ve got someone who loves you, and that’s more than a lot of people ever get.”

That softened something—just slightly—in Spencer’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna head back,” he murmured after a beat. “Big day tomorrow.”

And he turned, walking slowly back toward his room, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

Behind him, Emily gave Morgan a look, and Morgan just exhaled heavily.

Because for all the joking and teasing… they sometimes forgot how deeply Spencer felt things. And how, sometimes, even good-natured laughter could echo like a bruise.

…

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

The conversation replayed in his head like a bad tape—Morgan’s words looping, the laughter echoing louder than it had in real-time. He knew, knew, they didn’t mean it to cut so deep, but it did. Not because it was true, necessarily, but because some part of him believed it might be. That maybe he wasn’t enough. Not worldly enough. Not man enough. Not good enough to keep someone like you.

So when he got to your place, there was no ritual. No careful organization. No meticulous unwinding.

His bag hit the floor with a dull thud. Coat flung over the back of a chair. Shoes still on. Keys? Thrown onto the table without a second thought.

He didn’t call out for you. He didn’t stop to think. His whole body was thrumming, full of something frantic, aching, needy.

He found you in your office, sitting at your desk, focused and unbothered by the world unraveling outside your door. You barely had time to register the sound of his footsteps before he was there—pulling you out of your chair and into his arms like gravity had just given up.

“Spencer—” you gasped, your hands reaching up to steady yourself, to steady him, but the name barely made it past your lips before his mouth was on yours.

He kissed you hard, breathless and desperate and full of something wild. It wasn’t how he usually kissed you—not the slow, adoring kind. This was urgent. This was please and prove it and don’t go anywhere ever again.

“What’s up, baby?” you whispered against his lips when he let you breathe for a second, searching his face, already knowing something wasn’t right.

“Need you,” he murmured hoarsely, his hands already on your waist, sliding up your back like he couldn’t hold enough of you. “So badly.”

You blinked, caught in his intensity, your palms cupping his jaw as he dove back in—another kiss, this one softer but still tinged with desperation. His hands moved like he was afraid you’d disappear, like he had to memorize the feeling of you all over again in case this was the last time.

“Spencer,” you murmured, voice gentler this time, one hand finding his curls, the other pressed flat over his chest. You could feel his heart pounding. Racing.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what they said. Morgan. Emily. The way they laughed—like I’d missed out. Like there’s something wrong with me for not having… all those stories. And then I thought—what if you think that too? What if you’re just being patient? What if you’re settling for someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing, who’s boring, or… or disappointing?”

Your heart shattered right there in your chest because he said it with such rawness like the words had been pressing against his ribs for hours, maybe days, desperate to be let out.

His brow was still pressed to yours; eyes closed like he couldn’t bear to see the look on your face when you answered—afraid, deep down, that some part of his fear might be right.

“Baby,” you breathed, your voice caught halfway between shock and heartbreak, your hands gently cradling his face, “what are you talking about?”

He opened his eyes slowly, and they were glossy now, full of something unspoken, something tangled and bruised and fragile.

“I just—” he started, then shook his head, frustrated with himself, with the thoughts that wouldn’t let go. “They said it like it was funny. Like I was some… monk. Like I’d never lived, never explored. And I laughed it off, but it got stuck in my head. I kept wondering if I’d missed out on something. If you felt like you were missing out.”

Your mouth parted to respond, but he kept going, like now that it had started spilling out, he couldn’t stop. “I know I’m not like other people. I know I can be awkward and too intense and not very spontaneous. I like routines. I like structure. I don’t know how to do the whole flirty one-night thing, and I never wanted to, but I also don’t have some grand collection of stories or past lovers or wild memories. I have you. And maybe I’m scared that’s not enough for you.”

You stared at him, chest aching, your thumbs brushing along his jaw as you tried to hold in the tears forming behind your eyes—not from hurt, but from how deeply he was hurting.

“Spencer,” you whispered, pulling him close until your foreheads touched again. “You are enough. You are so enough, baby. You are the most thoughtful, attentive, ridiculously loving man I have ever known. If you think for even a second that I’m missing out, then you really haven’t been paying attention to how obsessed I am with you.”

His breath hitched. “But they—”

“They don’t know us.” You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Spence, I don’t want the stories. I want you. I chose you. Again and again, I would, and I will choose you.”

He swallowed hard like the words you’d just given him were something he hadn’t expected to receive—something he didn’t quite know how to hold without shaking. His eyes were still wet, dark, and glistening as they searched yours, wide and aching with hope he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.

“You mean that?” he asked, his voice barely there as if it might break if he spoke any louder. There was something so young in the way he asked, so open and raw, like some forgotten version of himself was still standing there, waiting to be told he was too much, or not enough, or somehow both.

Your thumb brushed the side of his cheek with a gentleness you didn’t even know you possessed until you met him. And with your lips inches from his, you whispered back—

“I mean it as much as I do when I say I love you.”

You didn’t blink. You didn’t smile or try to soften it. You just said it the way you meant it—honest, unwavering, full.

Spencer stared at you for a long, still moment as if trying to memorize the shape of those words on your face. Then his arms tightened around you suddenly, pulling you flush to his chest like he could hide you in his bones like he needed to protect this feeling from ever being pulled away again.

“I love you,” he breathed into your hair over and over again. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You could feel it with every word—how much he needed to say it now, not because he thought you didn’t know, but because he needed to believe it was real again. That someone could know him like this, down to the soft, sensitive, tender center of him, and not walk away.

“I’m not settling,” you whispered into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re it, Spencer. You're everything.”

His hands trembled just slightly as they threaded into your hair, and he kissed you again, more like a promise than a need this time.

And he stopped thinking about that conversation for the first time in hours—maybe days. Because nothing they said mattered anymore. You were his truth now.

“But…” you started, your voice soft and trailing off, like you weren’t quite sure if it was the right moment. Spencer pulled back just slightly, enough to look at you with those wide, earnest eyes, already on alert. He searched your face like he was bracing for another blow, some revelation that would unravel all the reassurance you’d just given him.

You saw the nerves there—always just under the surface with him—and your heart ached with affection. So you softened the weight of the moment with a gentle smile, tilting your head and raising your brows with playful mischief.

“If you still want me…” you said, voice dropping just enough to hint at something less heavy and a lot more suggestive, “…I’m right here.”

And then you wiggled your eyebrows dramatically.

For a second, Spencer blinked at you, caught off guard—until the realization hit, and he let out an actual, genuine laugh, rich and real, the kind that melted the last traces of tension from his shoulders.

He leaned in slowly, letting his nose brush yours, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I always want you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and warm.

You felt the hum of it in your chest, your fingers curling into the collar of his shirt as you leaned into him again. “Even when I’m annoying?”

He kissed you once, then twice, like punctuation. “Especially then.”

You giggled, your foreheads pressed together, your noses brushing as you whispered, “Even if I don’t have a wild backstory and a cowboy hat?”

“I’ll buy the hat,” he grinned.

“You’d look terrible in a cowboy hat.”

“And you’d still want me.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, hands wrapped around you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And maybe you were.

Spencer’s hands moved without urgency, just steady and sure, like he was mapping every part of you he already knew by heart—reaffirming that yes, you were here, and yes, you were his, and yes, you wanted him just as much.

His palms slid along your back in slow, grounding strokes, fingers pressing into your muscles with the kind of gentle care that made you sigh into the kiss, your body melting against his. You could feel the way his fingertips flexed—like he wasn’t just touching you, he was feeling you, trying to say a thousand quiet things all at once with nothing but the movement of his hands.

You hummed softly, lips parting against his in a breathless murmur of contentment, and just as you were leaning further into the kiss, his hands drifted lower.

Down the curve of your spine. Down to the swell of your hips. And then—

Both of those big, warm, sturdy hands settled on your ass, squeezing gently before he started kneading with slow, purposeful pressure like he had all the time in the world.

You broke the kiss with a quiet, needy whine, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. “Spencer…” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for—just overwhelmed with how good it felt, how expressive he was being.

He only smiled, his forehead still pressed to yours, his thumbs stroking slow circles against the fabric of your pants as he spoke in a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You like that?”

You gave a small, breathless laugh, eyes fluttering half-closed as your hips shifted instinctively under his touch. “You’re lucky I love you. Anyone else, and I’d be filing a formal complaint for being so handsy.”

“Mm,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Good thing I’m yours then, huh?”

His hands squeezed again, just a little firmer this time, and the warmth in your stomach curled tighter.

“God,” you muttered against his throat, “you are so repressed until suddenly you’re not.”

He chuckled into your skin, the sound deep and warm and intimate. “Just needed to be reminded you’re not going anywhere.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes, fingers stroking gently at his curls. “Spence,” you whispered, smiling softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again like a thank you. Like a promise. And then he kissed you again, just because he could.

This was new.

Not the wanting—he always wanted you, always looked at you like you were the safest place he’d ever known. Not the intimacy either—you’d memorized the shape of his affection over time, the soft way he kissed you good morning, the slow, reverent way he touched you like he was reading a favorite passage over and over again.

But this—this was different.

This was Spencer stripped down to something raw and instinctive, something that didn’t think twice, didn’t second-guess or calculate or stop to breathe. It wasn’t the soft hum of his love—it was the ache. The heat. The urgency that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with how much he missed you. Needed you.

He had walked through the door, and in that instant, the world narrowed down to you.

No bag hung up. No coat carefully folded. No slow exhale as he sanitized his hands or washed away the day.

He’d tossed everything aside like it didn’t matter—and to him, right now, it didn’t. All that mattered was you.

And now here he was—holding you like he couldn't stand even a molecule of air between your bodies, kissing you with something fierce in his mouth, something that tasted like longing and relief and the echo of every moment he’d spent thinking what if she thinks I’m not enough?

But he wasn’t thinking anymore.

There was no mental filing system running in the background, no tallying glances, no hesitation as he moved his hands from your back to your ass and touched you with the kind of surety that had your breath catching.

Spencer Reid was making the first move. Spencer Reid—whose fingers usually trembled with careful reverence—was now gripping you, pulling you closer, like he needed to remind himself you were real and his and here.

And for once, he wasn’t checking to see if it was okay. He wasn’t reading your expressions like a case file. He wasn’t trying to solve you.

He was just feeling.

Driven by want. By love. By the low, possessive ache of missing you too much for too long.

And you could feel it in every kiss, every touch, every shift of his body against yours.

You barely managed a breath. “Spencer…”

But he kissed you again, cutting off whatever else you were going to say, hands gripping tighter like he couldn’t bear to let go. His voice was low and rough when he finally spoke, lips brushing yours as he whispered—

“Need you.”

Another kiss.

“So badly.”

There was no doubt in his eyes now. No fear. Just hunger. Warmth. You.

This wasn’t the moment he fell in love with you. He already had.

This was the moment he let himself have you. Not carefully. Not hesitantly.

But fully. Completely. Now.

“Oh—okay,” you sputtered, your voice breathy and barely coherent as Spencer’s mouth moved lower, tongue warm and wet against the soft skin of your neck. He kissed you there with a kind of focus that made your knees feel untrustworthy, his lips sucking gently just beneath your jaw, tongue flicking over the mark he left behind. Your head tilted without conscious thought, already giving him more access, and your hands clutched at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

But then he paused. You felt it in the shift of his breath, the faint hesitation in his hands. Not out of doubt—no, not anymore. Out of deliberation.

Spencer huffed softly, almost frustrated with himself, forehead resting against your collarbone as he breathed in deep, trying to center himself. He was never this forward, never this commanding, and it was clearly throwing him off for a second.

Then he lifted his head, pressed his lips to your ear, and in the lowest, softest tone, said, “I’m going to shower.”

You opened your mouth to protest, heart thudding, already missing his warmth—“Spence, wait—”

But his hand came up, gentle but firm, covering your mouth with one broad palm, effectively silencing you.

“No,” he murmured, meeting your gaze with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’m going to get clean before we continue.”

Your eyes widened, heart hammering now for an entirely different reason. There was no teasing glint in his eye, no nervous laughter. Just calm certainty and the weight of intention behind his words.

You nodded beneath his hand, slow at first, then faster, your face burning with heat as his fingers brushed your cheek, thumb lingering just shy of your lips. You could feel how flushed you were, how needy—his sudden authority was so quiet, so natural, that it wasn’t even about the tone. It was about him.

“Good,” he said softly, nodding once in return. His hand slipped away, leaving your lips tingling. “While I shower, I want you to log out of your computer,” he murmured, voice a warm ribbon against your skin. “Then I want you to go wait for me in the bedroom. Can you do that for me?”

You whined, your throat catching on the sound, and you nodded again—eager, trembling, soaked.

He smiled, and even that was gentle, but his eyes had darkened with something deeper, something you weren’t used to seeing from Spencer—but loved.

Without another word, he kissed your temple, then backed away, his fingers trailing down your arm like he didn’t want to leave but had to.

“I won’t take long,” he said, walking backward toward the bathroom, watching your dazed, needy form with an expression that was already promising more.

And you? You didn’t move for a solid ten seconds after the door shut. Just stood there, breath shaking, heart pounding, thighs pressed together.

Then—obedient, aroused, and wholly overwhelmed—you walked toward the computer.

Log out. Bedroom. Wait.

You'd never followed instructions faster in your life.

Spencer had never taken a faster shower in his life. No overthinking, no triple-wash rotations, no alphabetizing of shampoo bottles or lingering beneath the spray with his eyes closed and the world churning in his mind. Tonight, it was all function—scrub, rinse, done. Because you were waiting.

Waiting like you wanted him. Like he was allowed to take. And God, did he want to take.

He toweled off quickly, wrapping the fabric low on his hips, water still clinging to his skin in rivulets that caught the dim bathroom light. He barely looked in the mirror. He didn’t need to. His feet carried him straight out of the bathroom like he had a gravitational pull toward you, eager and electric.

He reached the threshold of the bedroom, breath catching the second he saw you. And everything in him went still.

You were sitting in the center of the bed, cross-legged like something carved out of a dream—soft light from the bedside lamp casting golden shadows over your bare shoulders. You clutched a pillow to your chest, arms wrapped around it, chin resting lightly on top, eyes wide and glowing.

But it wasn’t the posture. It was what wasn’t there.

From behind that pillow, there was nothing. No straps, no sleeves, no hem. Nothing to hide behind but the downy shape of the pillow—and your teasing, trembling confidence.

Spencer’s breath left him in a rush like it had been yanked from his lungs. His fingers flexed instinctively at his sides, nails lightly digging into the soft terrycloth at his hips.

“Darling…” he said it like a prayer, like a plea, like a man trying to keep his soul tethered to his body. His voice cracked ever so slightly. “Is there… do you have anything on?”

You tilted your head, biting your bottom lip with the most innocent look like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him. And then, without a single word, you shook your head.

No.

Spencer inhaled sharply through his nose, a sound half desperate, half reverent. He took a slow step forward like he wasn’t sure whether to drop to his knees or just stand there and stare.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, “you’re gonna make me forget how to speak.”

You just blinked up at him, lashes fluttering slightly, still hugging the pillow to your chest like you were shy—though the playful twitch at the corner of your mouth said otherwise.

He ran a hand through his damp curls, chest rising with each deep breath, trying to keep control of the fire simmering just beneath the surface. You had listened. You had waited. And now here you were, offering yourself with that look like he could do anything and you’d say please.

“Are you teasing me?” he asked softly, taking another step closer.

You hugged the pillow tighter, lips curving into a guilty smile. “A little.”

His eyes darkened.

“Good,” Spencer whispered, and something about the way his voice dropped—low and sure and just a little wicked—sent goosebumps racing up your arms. He was close now, close enough that you could see the rivulets of water still trailing down his chest, the way his curls clung damply to his forehead, the flush of heat rising up his neck.

He wasn’t shy right now. Not uncertain or hesitant. This wasn’t the man who asked for permission at every moment. This was the man who’d spent the last week thinking about you. Who had walked through the door and claimed you with his mouth. Who had told you what to do and watched you obey.

And he was still in control.

His fingers slid under the edge of the towel at his hips, knuckles brushing his skin, slow and deliberate. His gaze raked over you like he was starving, and you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

“Because now,” he murmured, taking one step closer, “I can finally repay you.”

You felt it like a chord pulled taut between you—the anticipation, the heat, the hunger wrapped around something deeper. Not just lust. Craving. Possession. Worship.

Your breath hitched, hands gripping the pillow tighter, but your thighs pressed together under it involuntarily, betraying how completely undone you were by the sight of him like this—wet, bare, confident.

“Repay me?” you echoed softly, trying to sound coy, but your voice trembled.

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to yours, and his smile—God, that smile—was all promise.

“For all those times,” he started, letting the towel drop silently to the floor, forgotten. He stood there without shame like he already knew you couldn’t look anywhere else. “For all those times you touched me, kissed me, looked at me like you do, and made me beg for it. For making me want you so bad I couldn’t even get through a full shower.”

You swallowed hard, lips parted.

He leaned in slightly, hands coming to rest at the edge of the mattress, bracketing your knees. “Put the pillow down.”

You blinked at him, and he raised an eyebrow in quiet command. “I want to see all of you.”

You threw the pillow.

His breath caught. And then he was moving.

Spencer kissed you like a man possessed—nothing careful about it. No hesitation, no gentle build. Just heat and hunger and the wild ache of missing you pressed into every inch of your mouth. His lips were rough against yours, breath warm and heavy as he claimed you all over again with just his mouth.

Then his hands—those beautiful, skilled, big hands—came up to your shoulders, steady and sure. He broke the kiss only to guide you gently, reverently, down onto your back, your hair fanning out over the pillows as he followed your descent until your spine hit the mattress with a soft sigh.

You reached for him again the second he pulled away, lips parted in protest, already pouting. “Spence—”

But he was already rising, standing tall again at the foot of the bed with that look on his face. The one he got when he was running through a theory in his head, all focused intensity and faint amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching like he knew something you didn’t yet.

You watched in confusion as he bent down, plucking the discarded towel off the floor. “What are you doing, baby?” you asked, blinking up at him, breath still uneven.

He straightened and looked at you with the kind of soft determination that made your chest squeeze. “You’re going to lift your hips,” he said matter-of-factly, walking back toward the bed, towel in hand, “and I’m going to put my towel under you.”

Your brows furrowed, heat crawling up your neck. “Wh–what? Why?” you asked, your voice going small. “Am I… too messy?”

You sounded shy. Embarrassed, even.

Spencer just chuckled, low and warm and affectionate as he knelt one knee onto the bed and leaned forward, brushing his nose gently against yours. “No, darling,” he whispered, lips grazing yours in a kiss so soft it almost broke you. “But you will be.”

And then he smiled—sweet and so smug—like he’d already made you come twice in his head and was just now getting started.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together. And your hips lifted.

As soon as the towel was nestled beneath you, Spencer’s hands smoothed over your hips with a kind of care that contrasted sharply with the fire simmering just beneath his skin. He settled between your legs with a reverence that made your heart ache, eyes dark and steady as they trailed down your body like he was studying a sacred text.

And then he began to kiss.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses against your thighs, the crease where your hip met your stomach, the delicate line of your navel. Each one slower than the last, parting your skin with warm breath and tongue, worshipful in a way that made your breath catch in your chest.

He was so focused, not distracted, not looking for affirmation. Just there, completely absorbed in the act of being close to you. Of learning you. Of claiming this new part of you for himself.

But still… your heart fluttered with nerves. A pang of insecurity twisted in your chest.

“Baby…” you murmured, voice shaky, half-laced with awe and half with hesitation. Your fingers brushed through his curls, trying to tether him, your voice barely a whisper. “You don’t have to.”

He stilled at the bottom of your stomach, lips warm against your skin, hands gently cradling your hips like they were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, his expression unreadable for a moment—serious, but not cold. Just concentrated.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said softly, voice like velvet, slightly hoarse. “But I want to.”

You swallowed, lips parted.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss just above your hipbone, the gentlest kind of reassurance.

“I want to learn every part of you,” he whispered. “Not just the ones we’ve already explored. I want to know what makes you breathe harder. What makes you loud. What makes you fall apart.”

You whimpered then—just from the words.

Spencer’s lips twitched, eyes full of quiet, contained hunger.

“I’ve thought about this,” he continued, breath ghosting lower, hands still firm on your thighs. “About you. About how you’d taste. About how you’d sound when I finally got to make you feel good like this.”

You exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering closed.

“And if you’re nervous,” he said gently, “that’s okay. But I’m not. Not anymore.”

He pressed one more kiss just beneath your navel.

“Let me show you how much I want this,” he murmured. Then his mouth dipped lower. And you forgot how to ask him to stop.

His mouth dipped lower—slow, deliberate, reverent—and your breath caught in your throat so fast it almost hurt. You were trembling, just slightly, with the anticipation of it, your fingers still tangled in his curls, not pulling him closer, not pushing him away, just holding on like you weren’t sure what would happen when he finally reached you.

Spencer’s hands stroked slowly along the outside of your thighs, thumbs brushing upward in long, soothing arcs, grounding you. You could feel the way he wanted this—his touch wasn’t frantic, wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Every movement, every breath, every kiss, like a declaration.

And then—finally—his mouth reached where you needed it.

He started with a soft, exploratory kiss, his lips pressing gently against the most sensitive part of you, and you gasped, hips jerking slightly. His hands tightened around your thighs, just enough to steady you, but not to restrain you.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Spence…”

He hummed, low and content against your clit, and the vibration of it traveled through you.

He looked up once, just briefly, to check on you—and what he saw made his breath hitch. Your head thrown back, lips parted, chest rising and falling with shaky, shallow breaths. You were a vision. All flushed skin and trembling limbs, and you were his.

His hands slid further under your thighs as he settled in, fully committing now, and when his tongue flicked out to taste you—slow and precise—you whimpered, thighs twitching against his palms.

Spencer groaned. Deep and low in his chest, like he hadn’t expected to enjoy this so much like you had just become his new obsession.

“That’s it,” he murmured against you, his voice half-praise, half-need. “You’re already doing so good for me.”

And then he really got to work—slow, languid licks followed by teasing little swirls of his tongue, like he was trying to memorize what every reaction meant. Every little gasp. Every roll of your hips. Every shaky moan.

It wasn’t perfect—it was messy and unpracticed and full of a kind of eagerness that was unmistakably Spencer. But it was so good. Because it was him. Because he was paying attention. Because he wanted to give you everything.

Your fingers tightened in his curls as you let out a breathless, broken moan, back arching into the pillow, into the towel, into him.

“Spencer—Spence, oh my God—”

He moaned softly in response, like your pleasure was feeding something primal in him, and he redoubled his efforts, his tongue moving with more confidence now, more pressure, more purpose.

He treated this like an experiment like you were his thesis and your pleasure, the final data set he had been born to analyze. 

If anyone asked him—if you asked him—he’d turn beet red and stammer something about just following instinct, maybe quote some outdated medical journal on female arousal, but the truth? The truth was that Spencer Reid had done his homework.

He’d read. He’d watched. He’d studied. Not just academically, but with purpose, with the quiet kind of obsession he reserved for the things he wanted to master. And right now, that thing was you.

You were already breathless beneath him, trembling from the waves of pleasure he’d pulled from you so far. But Spencer had that look in his eyes again—the one he got when he was chasing a theory, testing hypotheses in real-time. He’d seen what you responded to. He was collecting the data, building toward a conclusion.

So when he adjusted his grip on your thighs, anchoring them gently but firmly over his shoulders, and leaned in again, you thought you were ready.

You weren’t.

His mouth closed over your clit—not gently. Not shy. And then—he shook his head.

Your cry was sharp, ragged, pulled straight from your chest without filter or form. Your back arched off the bed, every muscle in your body drawn taut like a bowstring as pleasure burst through you, electric and dizzying.

“Oh my— Spencer!” you gasped, voice cracking as your thighs instinctively tried to close, but his arms were already bracing them open, holding you there, grounding you with a strength you hadn’t expected from someone who spent most of his time holding books, not bodies.

Spencer paused for the briefest second, blinking up at you in stunned, awe-struck wonder. You were writhing. Crying out. Your back was arched so high he genuinely worried for a split second you might hurt yourself—if not for the desperate way your hands clawed at the sheets and your breath came in gasping, incoherent strings of his name.

And then you said it—voice cracked and reverent and broken around the edges— “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

Spencer didn’t stop. He doubled down.

His mouth sealed over you again, this time with even more purpose, sucking and shaking, varying pressure like he was experimenting, chasing the formula for your complete and utter unraveling. And God, he was close.

You were incoherent. Wrecked. A shaking, crying mess of nerves and sensation, repeating his name like a litany, fingers in his hair, in the sheets, in the air, searching for something to hold on to while your body tried to come apart under the weight of it.

He moaned into you—actually moaned—because he hadn’t known it could feel like this. Your pleasure was addictive, intoxicating, and he never wanted to stop chasing it.

When you came, it wasn’t a gentle fall. It was a collapse like your body couldn’t hold itself together any longer. Your voice was gone, your thighs shaking, and all you could do was ride it out.

But Spencer hadn’t stopped.

You were still trembling—breathless and glassy-eyed, your limbs splayed out like you’d just been unraveled and your soul hadn’t quite returned to your body yet—but Spencer? Spencer was locked in. Focused. Eager. Insatiable.

His mouth remained sealed to you, tongue still lapping in slow, methodical strokes like you were his favorite dessert, and he wasn’t done savoring every last drop. And maybe he hadn’t realized.

No, you realized, he definitely hadn’t realized.

He hadn’t realized you’d just had a full-body clitoral orgasm. That you were already spent, flushed, and shaking from the inside out. Because to Spencer, this wasn’t the end. This was still data collection. Ongoing results. Field research.

Your hips gave a weak jerk beneath him, overstimulated but helplessly pliant. You tried to lift your head, tried to warn him with a broken, “Spence—baby—I—I already—”

But your voice dissolved into a moan as he gave another slow, deliberate drag of his tongue over your still-pulsing center. Your body flinched, caught in the strange limbo of pleasure and overwhelm, but Spencer didn’t pause—he moaned, and the sound vibrated through you, making you shudder again.

And then you saw it.

You felt it.

The slight shift of the mattress. The tension in his thighs. His hips grinding down into the bed. Not frantic—rhythmic. Slow. Purposeful.

Your dazed eyes dropped to where his body pressed into the sheets—Spencer was grinding into the mattress, his cock rigid and leaking, caught between his stomach and the bed as he rutted against it with the kind of desperate need he probably didn’t even realize he was showing. All while still licking you with the same kind of focused obsession he brought to his most complex theories.

The sight nearly took your breath away.

He was lost in it—eyes half-closed, one hand gripping your thigh tightly, the other splayed possessively over your stomach, holding you down, holding you here as he licked and licked like you were everything he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

“Oh—Spencer,” you gasped, voice caught somewhere between awe and overstimulation, your fingers sinking into his damp curls again. “Baby, you’re gonna kill me—”

He finally pulled back—barely—his mouth glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged as he looked up at you with dazed, reverent eyes. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and his voice was hoarse, hungry when he spoke.

“You taste—so good,” he whispered like it was a revelation. “I can’t stop.”

You whimpered, your back arching again just at the sound of his voice.

And still, you could feel the soft thrusts of his hips into the mattress, like he couldn’t help himself. Like just being here, having you like this, tasting you, was enough to drive him to the brink.

And it hit you clear as day—this wasn’t for your pleasure only.

Spencer Reid was getting off on this. On you. On making you fall apart again and again. On turning every theory into practice.

And God help you—you were ready to let him keep going.

Spencer ate like a man starved. Not of food, but of you—the taste of you, the sound of you, the way your body responded to his every touch like it was made to be deciphered by him and him alone.

He experimented—slow flicks, gentle suckling, broad strokes of his tongue that made your thighs twitch and your toes curl. He noted every whimper, every little gasp, every sudden grab at the sheets with the quiet, terrifying brilliance of someone who didn’t just want to please you—he wanted to master you. Completely.

And then, when you were already trembling and slick with sweat, eyes half-lidded and barely able to breathe, he brought his fingers into the mix.

Two long, elegant fingers—ones that had flipped through a thousand pages and solved puzzles most couldn’t dream of—slid up and pressed directly against your clit, rubbing furiously, while his tongue pushed inside you with an intensity that made your thighs snap closed around his head like a vice.

The world fractured.

You cried out—screamed, really—as your hips bucked wildly, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You weren’t just coming. You were thrashing, your entire body consumed by the overload, trembling violently as Spencer held you down and kept going.

He didn’t stop. Not when your thighs clenched. Not when your fingers yanked at his hair. Not even when your voice cracked trying to call his name through the chaos.

He moaned against you, drunk on your body, on the mess he was making, the slickness he was drinking down like nectar. His eyes rolled back as he kept thrusting his tongue into you, fingers rubbing your clit with that same maddening rhythm, chasing something deeper, more.

“Spence—!” you choked, the sound mangled by a sob, too far gone to form words, too sensitive to take anymore.

It wasn’t even about pleasure anymore—it was just too much.

You reached for him with shaking hands, every part of you trembling, legs twitching uncontrollably. “Baby— Spencer, I can’t—please, please—”

And even then, he didn’t stop until you grabbed fistfuls of his hair and physically pushed him away, your voice wrecked and teary as you cried out, “I need—I need a second—!”

Spencer pulled back immediately, breathless and wide-eyed, mouth glistening, curls messy and damp where your thighs had pressed against his head. His hands released you like he was afraid he’d gone too far.

You were panting, chest heaving, body covered in sweat and shivering from head to toe, the towel underneath you wrinkled and soaked.

He opened his mouth to speak—an apology, maybe—but your hand caught his cheek.

Your eyes met his, hazy but full of emotion. “That was incredible,” you whispered, voice hoarse and shaky. “But holy shit, Spencer.”

He blinked. “Did I—? Was that—?”

You gave a dazed, giddy laugh. “I had to push you off. That’s how good it was.”

He flushed instantly, eyes wide, pride, concern, and lust tangling across his face.

“Let me just—let me breathe for a second,” you added, still gasping as you pulled him down into your arms, your body too weak to do anything else but hold on.

Spencer melted into you without question, lips pressing to your cheek, jaw, and forehead. “Okay,” he murmured softly, voice wrecked but sweet. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

And he did. Every piece. And he wasn’t letting go.

You were blinking up at the ceiling, dazed and glowing.

And maybe later, Spencer would blush. Maybe he’d be shy, overthink it, and pretend he wasn’t proud of himself.

But right now?

Right now, Spencer Reid looked at you like he’d just discovered fire.

Spencer had his head nestled against your shoulder, still catching his breath from how completely he’d just wrecked you. His curls were wild, lips swollen, cheeks pink, but his hands had returned to their default setting: gentle, steady, anchored somewhere on your body like a reassurance that you were still here, still his.

Still real.

But even as he held you, your chest rising and falling in the aftermath, he lifted his head slightly to check in—eyes soft but searching.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse, lower than usual, like the sheer intimacy of what had just happened had rewired something in him. “Still with me?”

You turned your head just enough to fix him with a tired, narrow-eyed glare, your voice still raspy but laced with teasing fire. “You’re not that good.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up immediately, a smug little smile blooming across his face as he shifted onto an elbow to look down at you. “I think I am,” he replied, way too pleased with himself, voice silky and satisfied.

You blinked slowly up at him. “Oh, do you?”

He nodded, eyes half-lidded, hair clinging to his forehead, looking every bit the genius who had just figured out a new way to make you lose your mind.

So you did the only thing you could do to wipe that smirk off his face.

Your hand slid down between your bodies, warm and sure, and wrapped around him—soft at first, fingers barely ghosting over his cock, which was flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip, still twitching slightly from the way he’d been grinding against the mattress earlier. Spencer let out a soft gasp, hips jerking almost reflexively.

But you weren’t done.

You pinched lightly at the tip, just enough to make him jolt with a strangled sound in the back of his throat, the kind that shot straight through you.

“Oh my—” he hissed, breath catching completely.

You began stroking him slowly, deliberately, the barest pressure over his most sensitive skin. You watched with a lazy sort of satisfaction as his eyelids fluttered and that smug expression crumbled, replaced by slack-jawed awe.

“Still feeling smug, baby?” you asked sweetly, your thumb dragging through the moisture at his tip.

Spencer whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

His mouth opened but no words came out, just a shaky breath as his hips bucked into your hand and his fingers gripped the sheets beside your head.

You smiled.

“Didn’t think so.”

You moved slowly down the bed then, with sultry purpose, eyes fixed on his like you knew exactly what kind of power you had—like you’d reclaimed every ounce of strength he’d taken from you moments ago, and now, you were going to use it to ruin him in return.

You trailed your hands up his thighs, soft and deliberate, and he was already shaking beneath your touch, eyes wide, lips parted, chest heaving. Still flushed, still glistening slightly from his feverish grinding into the mattress, he looked like a man who had no business looking so undone.

And then you leaned forward—so close he could feel your breath against the head of his cock, tongue slipping out to just barely trace a circle around his leaking tip.

Spencer gasped, his hips twitching, one hand flying into your hair as the other gripped the edge of the bed for dear life.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, voice ragged. “You—oh, fuck—”

You didn’t answer. You just kept eye contact as you moved in slow, delicate laps, tasting the salt of him, flicking the very tip with the flat of your tongue until he was cursing under his breath and moaning freely—no longer quiet, no longer composed.

He’d come into this night feeling unsure, wondering if he was enough. But now? Now he was helpless. Vulnerable in the best way. Because you weren’t just giving—you were showing. Showing him what he did to you. Showing him how much you loved him. How much you wanted him.

You wrapped your lips gently around the head, sucking—soft at first, light pressure that had his whole body jolting. “Ohh— god, I—please—” he groaned as his fingers tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on.

And then, without warning, your mouth dropped lower.

Your tongue slid beneath him, your lips parting wider, and suddenly his balls were enveloped in the wet heat of your mouth.

Spencer cried out, his head thrown back with a choked sound that was more pure sensation than speech, thighs trembling under your palms.

“Nn—fuck, you’re gonna—” He couldn’t even warn you properly. He couldn’t think.

It was overwhelming. Too good. Too new. Too much.

You hummed softly against him—just enough vibration to push him that last little bit over the edge—and that was it.

Spencer broke.

He came with a cry, long and raw and completely unrestrained, his fingers twitching in your hair, hips stuttering as his whole body shook with the force of it.

You felt him pulse in your hand, warm and heavy and completely at your mercy, and still, you didn’t look away.

When he finally slumped back onto the bed, breathing like he’d just sprinted through a storm, his hand falling from your hair like his bones had melted, you leaned forward and kissed the inside of his thigh before slowly climbing back up beside him.

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and wide.

“Wha—what just—what was that?” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling.

You smiled, smug and sweet, curling up beside him and running your fingers through his hair.

“Field research,” you murmured.

Spencer let out a breathless, wrecked laugh and buried his face in your neck.

He wasn’t going to let you go anywhere.

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[artlefty]

Sometimes I read a tma fic that has the tea martin is serving be like some...fancy herbal or floral stuff.

My dude, come here for a second-

This is a workplace in England. It is Tetley. It is PG Tips. It is yorkshire gold.

It is NOT ginger hibiscus or green tea or fuscia with parma violets. it is a cuppa. It is a regular ass cuppa tea with some milk in it. Maybe some sugar.

Serving unprompted herbal tea to a coworker is a violent act of hatred. It is a decree of warfare.

Your boss asks you to make them a cuppa and you put Ginseng Green Sea Buckthorn tea on their desk? You are telling them you hate their guts. You are letting them know that you think they are the worst person on Earth.

[parkersbliss]

A Domestic Life | S. Riley

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x female reader

warnings: none just some fluff bc I don’t see enough for him :(( maybe OOC

synopsis: just some fluffy headcannons about the infamous ghost and how he treats relationships

a/n: there is not enough tooth rotting fluff for this guy and I’m gonna fix that starting now

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

requests open for ghost!

—

sleeps like a log. the guy sleeps on his back, pointed at the sleeping and when he’s out he’s OUTTTT that boy does not sleep on the field so in an actual bed? he’s comatose. of course if you have a nightmare you can wake him up anytime. he’ll be a little confused at first but he’s got the spirit

enjoys cuddling but not in his sleep. he overheats so easily bc of how big he is so you guys keep your space. he is happy to hold you before bed though while watching a movie or scrolling on tiktok

he’s a DRY texter oh my god. it’s like your biggest pet peeve. “how’s your day” “fine” “made any progress?” “no.” you’re working on improving his skills but he’s just like that. you asked a question, he answers. besides he doesn’t frequently have time to text you long detailed replies

obviously ghost loves his mask, and it makes sense for him to conceal his identity but he doesn’t when he’s back with you. he likes to keep his identities separate. ghost and the mask for the field, regular simon at home. it’s not like anyone would know they were the same guy, except you of course.

on the off chance he’s home for halloween, he doesn’t use his mask as a costume (just in case anyone could connect the dots) but does keep the skeleton theme

his favorite holiday is christmas and he always makes sure he can have it off

he LOVES to cook. he doesn’t eat good when deployed so he loves coming home and cooking himself up exactly what he wanted. don’t get me wrong, he loves if you cook too but there’s something about not being able to control what you eat and then having full control and making homemade pasta for him

wears beanies all the time in winter. the dudes got a buzz cut, standard, so his heads cold. he loves when you wear a matching one with him

wakes up at the ass crack of dawn bc his body is just used to it after so many years

when he retires, he plans on having a small farm for even fresher homemade ingredients like eggs, milk etc. and he’ll wake up early to do the farm chores

again with the shitty food thing, he only likes gas station coffee. he’s so used to a crappy cup of joe that he can’t do the fancy shit. then again, he’s more of a tea guy anyway

loves his alone time but he likes you there, if that makes sense? like he loves reading a novel and not talking but just having you also read in the same room

likes just sitting on the couch together and watching a movie

It took him a while to adjust to physical touch after it being 1.) mostly abuse or 2.) enemies after him but he is not completely against it. he knows it’s important in relationships so he tries his best and eventually learns to love it

a sucker for slow dancing in the living room. bonus points if it’s with the christmas tree lights and music. he loves swaying around and the occasional stepping on feet and your giggles

his most prized possession besides the guns and you is a le creuset tea pot you gifted him for christmas. it’s bright blue with a gold handle and perfect.

he has a tea collection on display and is always trying new flavors from around the world. his green tea is imported from japan ONLY. always makes two cups for himself and you

loves to do any picnic dates or apple picking or farm style dates. the man loves food as FRESH as possible.

his bucket lists consists of food places around the world he wants to try and go with you.

including fugu from japan. you are totally opposed because of the whole life or death thing associated with it, but simon’s used to risks and he’ll do his research ofc.

he’ll never admit but he wants to go to america just to try the fast food there. he knows it’s bad and the opposite of what he stands for but the chinese in britain is ASS and doesn’t canes, in n out and chick fil a look SO good?

bicep holding >>> hand holding

he needs routine. simon needs to wake up at the same time, make breakfast for you guys at the same time, have his quiet time on the porch. watch the morning news with you and the tea. always at the same times. he tries not to but he can’t help bringing some of his military life home

his crew knows he has a wife but that’s it. ghost keeps simon separate and you are married to simon.

plus he can never be too safe when it comes to his work. the only name you went by when he’s deployed is “my wife” or “mrs riley”

doesn’t even carry a photo of you bc he’s that paranoid

you guys actually get married within 18 months because it just makes life easier. as soon as simon knew he wanted to marry you, he did.

it’s just easier in the military bc of pay, benefits, deployment, etc. and ofc he loves you and was locking that down ASAP

sends you recipes when he’s deployed for you to make and rate

when he can’t sleep, which is often, he just lays next to you not touching and contemplated how it is after all the bad he’s done, how he got it so good.

and he makes sure you know how appreciative he is

[hcneymooners]

⋆ up until the very last ember of my heart extinguishes, i will be thinking of you.

dj!mel x best friend!fem!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you & mel have always been thick as thieves, and things have yet to change. but lately, you've been thinking of mel differently and, well—maybe you want more. cw: dj!mel, best friend!reader, female!reader, no age gap i fear, you guys are in your twenties, modern!au, resolved sexual tension, pining, friends to lovers, clubbing, not actually unrequited love, explicit sexual content, dom!mel, sub!reader, lowkey y'all are switches, wall sex, tender sex, vaginal fingering, edging, cunnilingius, oral sex (r!receiving), couch sex, mel is actually insane about you, obsession, possessive behavior, squirting, face riding, pet names, you guys are very soft for each other.

notes: i love her so much guys; i'm gonna be sick. hope you enjoy. this is really rough for my first time back in a while but it is what it is, hmm?

“you’re loyal to her. i’ve never gone a night without seeing you here.”

the words are screamed directly into your ear and you stumble a bit, already off kilter thanks to the lychee martinis you’ve been sipping since the beginning of the evening. the world is beautiful like this: slurred into soft strobes of turquoise, gold, green that caress the sweaty gleaming bodies of the people spinning within it. the set for tonight is still danceable but decidedly slower than usual, honing in on the loneliness and escapism other people may desire on valentine’s eve.

you blink blearily at the girl vibrating next to you. she shakes with a jitter you know belongs either to ketamine or cocaine—or perhaps both. ck-ing was a popular method of dressing up a club night in london. you stop swaying to the beat, body still as you focus on her completely. mel once told you that this was your pull—this ability to make whomever was in front of you feel as though they were the most important thing in the world to you.

“sorry, what?” you finally push out.

“mel,” the girl shouts again, gesturing to the stage way up front. “whenever she’s performing, you’re here!”

you glance up at the woman in question, face softening as you watch the way her body flows into her highly practiced routine of dance. tonight the movements are more minimal, courtesy of her dress—a masterpiece of fanned peacock feathers that catch and scatter light with every subtle movement. the feathers are arranged in a mesmerizing spiral from the jeweled clasp beneath her arm, each eye seeming to watch the crowd as she moves. it's shorter than her usual style, ending mid-thigh in a flutter of iridescent tips that make her look like some rare, exotic bird. every time the bass drops, the feathers tremble in response, creating a hypnotic dance of green-blue shadows across her skin.

it’s not typical for a dj-ing outfit, but mel has cemented herself as a rich girl with a talent. everyone knows who she is, who her mother is. they love that she comes down to their level during the weekends, covers herself in glitter and spins together a beat like some kind of opulent spider.

"yeah," you shout back, your voice still managing to sound tender. "she's my best friend."

the words feel both true and incomplete in your mouth - they always do. you've been "best friends" since you quite literally crashed into her at university, spilling your coffee all over her white hermès sweater. instead of the fury you'd expected, she'd laughed, dragged you shopping for a replacement, and somehow ended up buying you three sweaters instead.

that was mel all over: excessive, generous, impossible to refuse.

"lucky!" your momentary friend shouts back and your mouth dips into a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

lucky. right. lucky to be the one who holds her hair back after bad nights, who listens to her practice sets until dawn, who knows exactly how she likes her tea when she's stressed (earl grey, splash of oat milk, two sugars). lucky to be the one who gets to love her from this careful distance, never quite close enough to risk everything.

the girl disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the music again. mel's current track winds down, bleeding into something slower, more haunting. you recognize it immediately—it's one of her original pieces, the one she'd made you listen to first, cross-legged on her bedroom floor at 3 am, her face anxious and hopeful in the low light.

the memory makes your chest ache. up on stage, she's different from that vulnerable version of herself. her movements are precise and controlled, even in that impossible dress. you watch as she adjusts something on her deck, the feathers shifting across her back like ripples in dark water. when she reaches up to adjust her headphones, the dress catches the light in a way that makes your breath catch.

you're not the only one watching. the crowd around you is entranced, and you hear snippets of their whispered appreciation. the warmth of your tipsiness is starting to wear off. you’re suddenly so much more aware of yourself, of the differences between you and the luminescent girl on stage.

tonight you’ve chosen a simple black midi dress with a scoop neck that cups your chest gently. the tops of your breasts swell up softly at the mouth of the fabric, gleaming with a golden sheen that could only belong to your beloved diamond shimmer bath and body works mist. your hair has been longer by a copious number of extensions, the bundles pooling together at your lower back. tinsel is strung artfully in-between some strands, a careful layering courtesy of mel.

as you look around at the people around you, you feel boring and a bit underdressed. everyone is suddenly so much cooler than you and the thought brings a rush of warmth to your cheeks, the embarrassment strong in its resurgence. you shift in place as the song changes to something a bit more fast-paced. there’s a chorus of screams, shouts of pleasure, and the floor begins to shake as people flood it to dance. you smile tightly as someone slams into you rather harshly, their apology half-assed and unfocused.

you clutch the top of your mother’s vintage ysl clutch, the chain a bit rusted and the body bulging with a combination of your house keys, your lip combo, some shit from work you didn’t take out in time, and the normally slim body of your phone which as been made bigger by the chunky sides of your artisan bedazzled phone case. the multiple polaroids of you and mel in the back didn’t help the situation in any way, the glossy memories slightly distended by the rolled bills you’ve tucked back there for emergencies.

as you turn to navigate the sudden pit of people, the music lowers just enough so that mel’s soft steady voice bleeds through. the lights flash once, twice, a third time; the bulbs are hot and pink. you know what’s coming, but you still don’t turn around, though your mouth twitches in a smile.

"hey, london," mel croons and the crowd screams back at her, eager to greet the woman soundtracking what is probably just another tuesday evening. "i have a question before i finish up. i don't want to forget."

your heart stutters in your chest. she does this sometimes, turns you into an unwitting participant in her performances. you remember the first time she did it, six months ago, how your knees had gone weak at the way she'd claimed you so publicly, so casually. how dangerous it had felt, how thrilling.

"has anyone seen my girl?"

the crowd goes crazy and you lift a hand to your mouth to hide your smile, heat flooding your cheeks. you hate how easily she can undo you, how these little moments of possession—even if they're just part of her show—make your pulse race. your free hand unconsciously touches the delicate gold chain around your neck—her birthday gift from last year, a tiny hextech crystal pendant that she'd said "reminded her of home."

"i came in with her. you know her, right? gorgeous little thing in a short black dress. kind of looks like…"

you close your eyes, remembering how she'd fussed over you earlier tonight, her fingers gentle as she wove tinsel through your hair. 'perfect,' she'd murmured, her breath warm against your ear, and you'd had to suppress a shiver. now, surrounded by strangers who are about to echo what you've felt for years, the irony isn't lost on you.

she trails off, holds out her mic to a group of girls right below her who giggle out the finishing portion of her sentence.

“…the love of my life!” they sing, drawing out the ‘i’ for a long while.

mel’s laugh echoes through the speakers, the sound throaty and raw. on cue, the music begins: “please don’t be love of my life” by caitvi, (calvin harris mix). they were a rock band that accidentally stumbled into becoming the summer muses for every edm fiend in existence.

you clutch your empty martini glass with a renewed strength, fighting until you manage to clutch a hand on the bar. the bartender smiles at you, complimenting your perfume which you don’t even think is still on your skin. you say thank you anyway, laughing openly as they tease you about your fondness for lychee. you’ve always been this way, you want to say, always holding on to what you know in the hopes that it’ll eventually love you back.

instead, you look over your shoulder at mel’s far off silhouette. there’s a moment where she looks up, seems to look at you. you don’t know if she really sees you, given your distance and the disorienting nature of the club. you smile regardless, raise a hand to wave lightly. the chrome bow on your acrylics flashes meanly, signaling your position.

she looks way, smiles earnestly at the crowd, and you drop your hand. the moment is broken, like always. as you move to pull your refreshed martini by the stem, mel’s dj tag sounds: sounds of birds of paradise, interwoven into one another over a damagingly sad violin sample. it’s her way of letting the people know that this will be her last couple of songs for the evening.

the birds’ calls fade into the melancholy beginning of “healing” by gordo featuring drake. the opening notes reverberate through you and you press your lips together, body thrumming with the effect of being noticed. she had seen you. that was the only reason she was playing this song. it had been your favorite for the past month, and now here it was on blast at one of the most elite clubs in the city.

‘i want to see you dance to this,’ she’d told you one evening, her mouth trailing against your shoulder. you were twisted together in your bed, the blankets plush around you as the two of you shared her airpods. ‘i want to see you have fun, lose yourself.’

‘i can’t lose myself,’ you’d said back, mouth rising in a secretive smile.

mel had lifted your hand teasingly, bit it gently, and then interlinked her fingers with yours.

‘don’t worry. i’ll find you.’

you look back at her, find her leaning over her deck with a finger pressed pensively to her mouth. she quirks an eyebrow and gestures to the crowd, as if asking why you’re not inside of it. you smile despite it all and abandon your martini, wiggling through the gaps of people until you're up front.

the bass drops and the crowd surges forward, but you hold your ground, eyes locked on mel. she's watching you now, really watching you, her movements more deliberate as she works the deck. you recognize this version of the song; it's her own remix, the one she'd been perfecting for weeks in her home studio. she'd added layers of ethereal synths that make it feel like you're floating, like you're the only person in the room who really understands what she's trying to say.

she gestures to her security guard, a subtle movement that you've seen countless times before. within moments, strong hands are parting the crowd, creating a path to the booth. your heart pounds as you're ushered up the steps, into her domain of switches and lights and pulsing energy. the peacock feathers of her dress brush against your arm as she pulls you close, her free hand settling on your waist.

"dance with me," she murmurs into your ear, her voice carrying despite the thundering music. her fingers trace patterns on your hip, and you wonder if she can feel you trembling. "show them what this song was made for."

you let your body move with hers, falling into the rhythm she's created. the feathers of her dress catch the light with each movement, creating a private light show just for the two of you. she keeps one hand on the deck, maintaining the perfect flow of music, but her other hand never leaves your body, guiding you through the dance like she's afraid you might disappear if she lets go.

the crowd below is going wild, but you barely notice them. all you can focus on is the way mel's breath catches when you press closer, the way her fingers tighten on your waist when you roll your hips. the tinsel in your hair catches the light, mixing with the iridescent shimmer of her dress until you're both wrapped in a cocoon of glitter and sound.

"see?" she whispers, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "i told you i'd find you."

the words send a shiver down your spine, and you turn your head slightly, catching her gaze. there's something different in her eyes tonight, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. maybe it's the valentine's eve atmosphere, or maybe it's the way the lights are hitting her face, but for a moment, you let yourself believe that the look she's giving you means what you want it to mean.

she transitions into the next song seamlessly, but keeps you close, as if she's forgotten that this isn't how she usually ends her sets. as if she's forgotten that you're supposed to be just her best friend, watching from the crowd like always. as if, just for tonight, you could be something more.

the spell breaks when you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the booth's chrome panels. you see yourself pressed against her, see the way you're looking at her: desperate, obvious, completely transparent. the music suddenly feels too loud, the lights too bright, your skin too tight. you're acutely aware of every place her body touches yours, and it's simultaneously too much and not enough.

"i need—" you start, but can't finish. mel's hand tightens on your waist for a fraction of a second before you pull away. you gesture vaguely toward the floor, not meeting her eyes. "sorry, i just—"

you don't wait for her response, practically stumbling down the booth steps. the crowd that had been watching your dance parts easily, perhaps sensing your urgency. you hear the next dj's tag start to play—some remix of a taylor swift song—which means mel's set is over. which means she might follow you. the thought makes you move faster.

you trip over your feet, your heel catching on the bone of your ankle as it lifts and you fall. your knees crack against the ground, but you regain your momentum. your neck is warm and you lift your hair with one hand as you spin, eventually locating the flickering neon sign denoting the bathroom.

the bathroom is mercifully empty when you burst in, all perfectly-cut marble and deep blue lighting that makes your reflection look expensive and almost admirably tragic. you press your palms against the cool counter, letting your head hang down as you try to steady your breathing. the bass from the club thrums through the walls, muffled but persistent, like a heartbeat.

“you’re always so fucking stupid,” you whisper to yourself, watching a tear splash onto the marble. you'd let yourself get carried away, let yourself pretend. but mel is mel. this is the girl who turns heads when she walks into rooms, who has fashion houses begging to dress her, who could have anyone she wants. and you're just… someone else.

her best friend, you suppose. the girl who’s responsible for holding her hair back when she's sick, who listens to her practice sets, who loves her so strongly that it feels akin to having a spear sunk through your chest.

the bathroom door opens with a soft whoosh, and you know it's her before she speaks. you can smell her perfume. it’s something custom-made in paris, a mix of lily, amber, and caramel. you don't look up.

"hey," mel says softly, and you hear the click of her heels on the marble floor as she approaches. "what happened up there?"

you close your eyes, trying to ignore how the marble feels like ice beneath your palms, how your body still burns where she touched you in the booth. "nothing happened, melly. i just needed some air."

you use your nickname for her as a way to disarm her, but mel has always been immovable when it came to getting something that she wants. the silence that follows feels incredibly long, but you know it hasn’t even been ten seconds. you lean forward, splash water on your face. blindly, you search for a paper towel but you’re handed a small hand towel instead. your makeup transfers onto the fabric, staining it with the traces of your exhaustion and loneliness.

"[name], look at me." her voice is gentle but firm, the same tone she uses when she knows you're lying. when you don't move, you hear her sigh, the sound followed by the soft rustle of feathers. then her hand is on your shoulder, turning you around.

she's closer than you expected, close enough that you can see the individual glitter particles scattered across her collarbones, catch the faint sheen of sweat at her temples from performing. the peacock dress seems alive in the bathroom's soft lighting, each feather shifting with her breath. you try to step back, but the counter prevents your retreat.

"you were crying," she observes, reaching up to brush her thumb beneath your eye. her touch lingers longer than necessary, and you hate how your body betrays you, leaning into her hand like a flower seeking sun. "why were you crying?"

"i wasn't," you lie, even as another tear escapes. "it's just the vodka. you know how i get."

"yeah," she says, and now both her hands are cupping your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. her eyes are dark, intent, stripped of their usual playful gleam. "i know how you get when you're drunk, and this isn't it. this is something else."

you try to laugh but it comes out choked. "melly, please—"

"when you were up there with me," she interrupts, one hand sliding down to rest against your neck, her thumb pressed gently against your pulse point, "what were you thinking about?"

the question hangs between you, heavy with possibility. you can feel your heartbeat racing beneath her thumb, wonder if she can feel it too. the bathroom suddenly seems smaller, the air thicker. somewhere outside, the music has changed to something slower, more intimate. the bass line crawls up through the floor and into your bones.

this is how love always finds you, corners you. it's a snake that's flat enough to slide underneath the door. you always watch it passively as it slides up your body, only crying out when it bites.

"i was thinking," you start, then stop, swallowing hard. her eyes track the movement of your throat. "i was thinking about how great you were tonight, how—how beautiful you are. ‘nd i was thinking about how some things can look real without being real. like stage lights. or club nights. or best friends who—"

you cut yourself off, but her grip on your neck tightens slightly, just enough to make your breath catch. the feathers of her dress brush against your thighs, a whisper of sensation that makes you shiver.

"or best friends who what?" she prompts, her voice low, almost dangerous. she's close enough now that you can feel her breath against your lips, can smell the champagne she'd been sipping between sets.

the door to the bathroom opens, the sound of the club surging in, and you both freeze. mel doesn't move away, doesn't drop her hands. instead, she leans closer, her lips brushing your ear.

"we're not done with this conversation," she murmurs, the words a promise that distills heat through your body. "come on."

she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look in hers makes your knees weak. you open your mouth to respond, but—

the bathroom door swings shut again, leaving you both in that suspended moment. your "okay" comes out barely above a whisper, but she hears it. of course she hears it. she’s always heard you, even when you chose not to speak.

♤

the ride home is thick with unspoken words.

mel's driver, marcus, keeps his eyes professionally forward as you slide into the back of the bentley, the leather seats cool against your bare legs. mel follows, close enough that the feathers of her dress spill over onto your thigh. neither of you speak, but her pinky finger finds yours in the darkness between your bodies, hooking together like you used to do in university when one of you needed grounding.

london slides past the tinted windows in a blur of neon and shadow. you watch the reflections of passing streetlights play across mel's profile, catching the sharp edge of her jaw, the elegant line of her neck. she’s removed her performance jewelry, but missed a spot of glitter near her ear. without thinking, you reach up to brush it away.

she catches your wrist before you can retreat, her thumb pressing into your pulse point again. the car feels smaller in a matter of minutes, the air between you charged with electricity. she turns to fully face you, bringing your hand up to her mouth so that she can slide your pointer finger into her mouth. the suck of her lips is gentle, tender. you watch her head bob as she slides down further, then pulls off.

she doesn't let go of your wrist for the rest of the ride.

when the car pulls up to her mayfair townhouse, you feel like you're moving through a dream. the click of her heels on the steps echoes in the quiet street. to you, they're like gunshots and you have the irrational thought of the neighbors coming out to complain, to tell you that your desire is choking them in the same way you feel now. your own steps are less sure, thanks to the martinis and the way your whole body seems to be humming with anticipation.

she fumbles with her keys briefly, something you've never seen her do, and then you're inside. the door closes behind you with a soft click that seems to echo in the darkness. neither of you move to turn on the lights. the moonlight filtering through her floor-to-ceiling windows is enough to see by, casting everything in shades of silver.

she looks unreal, like a figment of your imagination. you pinch the inside of your thigh, letting out a hiss of air from in-between your teeth. she moves closer, fingers the indentation where your nails had dug into the skin.

you shake, but she only steadies you.

"melly," you start, but she shakes her head, settling both hands on your waist.

gently, she maneuvers you until your back meets the wall. a hand lifts to settle at the base of your neck, her lithe fingers threading into your hair so that she can cup the back of your head. she’s making sure your head doesn’t hit the stone, sacrificing her own skin to ensure your comfort. the thought makes you warmer than before.

mel watches your face, her eyes almost erratic as she searches for whatever sign she needs. she comes flush against you and your legs part instinctively to make room for her, spread to accommodate the whole of her.

she lowers her head, mouth coming to burn against your neck as she presses a kiss there. you let out a small, weeping sound as if her lips have enabled a release inside of you. in a way they have. you soften, melt into her and find the strength to touch her.

your hands grasp at mel’s neck and she hums in satisfaction, working her teeth into the meat of your neck like a vampire. she pulls back only to look down, freeing a hand from your waist to inch the hem of your dress up.

you moan brokenly as you grow more exposed, your cunt wet against the baby blue lace that holds it. the moonlight sneaks between the both of you and renders the fabric practically translucent, the blue so light in its glow that it seems closer to white.

“you’re so beautiful, baby,” mel whispers and you blink at her, your throat tight. “you always say it about me, and i never understand it. when i look at our pictures, i don’t see anyone else.”

your eyes slip low, going tender, and you cup her face.

“you’re perfect, mel.”

“i guess we’re a good match,” she murmurs and then she’s in you.

the motion is so smooth, so quick. you hadn’t realized she’d peeled the fabric of your panties back, pushed them to the side. you know nothing now except for the steady pump of her fingers. there are two working deep into the heart of you, searching and spreading your slick heat.

you cry out, eyes wide like a doe’s. mel only smiles, predatory and slow. her teeth gleam, two rows of perfect pearls. you feel out of your body, but she brings you back in with every stroke inside of you. her breathing is becoming heavy, labored. her eyes seem a little wild and the hand on your neck moves briefly to squeeze tightly at your waist until you let out a deep “unh.”

mel grins again at the sound and it makes you surge forward, crushing her mouth into a bruising kiss. you bite at her bottom lip until she opens and lets you in, your tongue lapping all over as if to consume her. she slips a third finger inside of you, curling at the walls of your cunt to make you clench down.

you continue to kiss her, tilting your head so that angle is better. you slot together perfectly and she moans into your mouth, increasing the speed of her thrusts. you break away from her and study her face, taking in the way her lip gloss is smeared wickedly around her mouth. her lips are swollen and dark and she takes one in between her teeth as she works deeper into you.

your head falls back and she returns her hand to the nape of your neck, catching you before you can hit the wall.

“you’re okay, mama,” she murmurs and you nod, eyes focused somewhere distant on the ceiling.

she knows how you get, how disassociative you can become when you’re overwhelmed with emotion. she watches as you go somewhere she’s unable to follow. your chest heaves with every exhale and she leans forward to press a kiss to the top of your tits, then another right in the middle of them. her mouth is dusted with glitter when she pulls away.

you fuck down on her hand, an animalistic moan crawling from somewhere deep in your chest. mel fucks you harder, grunting as she shifts you bodily up and down with the effort. you keen as she uses her thumb to rub your clit, the circles tight and concentrated. pleasure arcs white and hot up your spine and you close your eyes, mouth falling open silently.

“that’s it,” she says. “come on, baby. come on.”

“mel,” you gasp and she laughs lowly.

“what happened to melly?” she teases and you whine, a foot kicking out as she presses against your g-spot.

“melly, please,” you whisper. “fuck, please.”

“please what?”

"just please.”

nothing changes. she only watches you squirm and beg like a whore, her face impassive. it was moments like these where you were reminded of her mother. the thought sends another shot of arousal to your cunt and it drools down mel’s wrist, sticky and warm.

“mel, fuck. fuck, i can feel it. i’m almost—i’m right there. just please, baby.” you’re crying now, disoriented and breaking apart with every push of her fingers. “please. please, melly, please."

you drag your eyes from the ceiling to her face, your pupils dilated and bright like stars. her face suffers through a range of emotion before she curses and yanks her fingers out of you.

“no,” you sob, and she sushes you.

“just hang on a minute, mama. hold on,” she soothes, her hands coming to lift you from beneath your thighs.

mel moves quickly and you take comfort in the fact that she needs this as much as you do.

you find yourself draped over the couch, your stomach resting on the arm of the chair. there’s a slight application of pressure as mel forces you into an arch, your ass and cunt pushed up. she nudges your legs apart and then gets on her knees, her hands coming to rest on the back of your thighs as she leans in and puts her mouth on you.

“oh,” you moan and she hums into you.

she’s methodical and precise, her tongue slipping into the mix and filling you as best she can. her pace increases as she licks you front to back, twisting so she can suck and nip on your clit. you let out a high mewl as she grips the plush flesh of your ass, rocking you slowly until you’re able to continue the rhythm on your own.

the heat returns, spirals up from your stomach into your chest and throat. you whimper, letting your head fall forward and down. your eyes squeeze shut as you focus on riding her face, swiveling your hips in small circles to better grind your clit against her nose.

again you can feel it, that call to somewhere distant. mel feels the way you tighten around her tongue, the sudden stiffening of your thighs. she knows you’re just there, right at the golden gate of your private paradise so she removes her mouth and focuses completely on stimulating your clit with her fingers.

“mel,” you breathe. “melly—”

“i know, mama. you can do it. cum on my face. cum all over me, princess. mess me up, hmm?”

you reach down and she reaches up, instinctively understanding what you’re aching for. just as your fingers intertwine, you fall apart. your arch drops and mel hums, closing her eyes as you squirt over her. she can feel you trembling and she opens her mouth lazily, letting your cum drip into it as if it was some sort of sacred rain.

her fingers lace with yours properly now, no more tentative pinky holds. you grip back with the strength of a soldier at war, your eyes rolling shut as you hump against her face and ride out your high. mel only lets you use her, dragging her other hand down to grope at her throbbing pussy.

eventually, you settle and she tugs you down so that you’re sitting dazed and lax in her lap. her hands squeeze your ass as she noses at your cheek, slipping a light kiss onto your cheek.

"hey. hey, baby, look at me. are you with me?”

“ye—yeah,” you get out. “‘m with you.”

“let’s go upstairs," she says softly, and it's not quite a question. "unless—"

"yes," you interrupt, squeezing her hand. "yes."

mel makes no move to get up, however, and you watch her face.

“melly?”

"i need you to know," she says, a hand coming up to trace your jawline, "that whatever happens next… this isn't just because. this isn't just because we were dancing, or drinking, or—"

"i know," you whisper, even though you don't, not really. but you want to believe. god, how you want to believe.

mel shifts, tilts you so that you’re on your back. her braids have fallen from her signature bun, and they block out the little light spilling in from the window.

“baby, i want you. i love you, i need you, and i can’t—i can’t tell you enough how much i’ve wanted this. nothing matters to me more than you.”

“i know, melly. trust me, i understand.”

she shakes her head, opens her mouth. you lift a hand, dig your nails into the sides of her throat as you clutch at it for just one second.

“i understand.”

it feels like she’s been the only thing on your mind since the day you were born. you’ve been waiting for her ever since.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ wife tag: @s-4pphics

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader

[Chapter 22] || [Chapter 22.5] || [Chapter 24]

Pairing: 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.1K~ cw: selfish john price, also john price is a hypocrite/liar? Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: Their drinks + nicotine of choice is fully INSPIRED by this post by @ceilidho

Chapter 23: Kiss and Tell?

Simon, Kyle and Johnny sat outside the base, in the open air, each one of them engaging in their typical vices.

Simon with a milky breakfast tea and a nicotine patch, Johnny with a vape and an Ultra Blue Monster, Kyle with a weird green tea drink and a cigarette.

It’s way too early in the day for them to be doing that… But they are nonetheless.

They’re just having some downtime, talking to one another, shooting the shit… Not at all waiting for you to wake up and text them back, not at all.

John joins them soon after and sits beside them, carrying a cup of black coffee and one of his usual cigars. He sits down with a groan before kicking his legs up on the ledge of the outdoor table.

“Captain.” The men greet him as he lights his cigarette and grumbles a “Lads” in return.

“A word?” John says as he puffs from his cigarette, wet lips and tongue tasting the brown wrapping as he sucks in the smoke.

That attracts the attention of the other three, all of them glancing over with varying degrees of displayed intrigue.

“I’d like in on your little… agreement.” He says casually while exhaling the smoke and taking a sip of his pisswater-like coffee.

The lads look at each other, almost like silently begging each other to say something.

“Why, Captain?” Kyle ends up asking, leaning forward on his knees to glance at John.

“What Ghost said resonated with me.” He explains. “How I enjoyed my time with them as well.” He says simply.

“Right, but that’s different from datin’ them.” Ghost retorts as he sips from his milk tea, brown eyes locked onto John as if trying to read his intentions. “Can’t just force something that isn’t there.”

“I know that, Simon.” John retorts, his eyes boring into Simon’s harshly, causing a blonde eyebrow to raise in response. “But I wanted to talk with you lot about it before I go on pursuing them.” He explains.

Simon can tell John is hiding something, but he knows better than to address it in front of everyone. He knows Kyle and Johnny trust John blindly, and he doesn’t want to ween them of that with a harsh reality check.

“Well…” Ghost says with a shrug, fingers nudging at the nicotine patch on his shoulders while pretending to stretch his arms a bit. He’s been wearing them as an extra ‘pick me up’ for a decade now. “Not like we’re a… ‘closed’ relationship.” He explains.

“We’re not?” Johnny asks playfully. “Ye’re seein’ more people on the side, L.T.?” Johnny quips with a smirk on his lips while setting his Monster can down and taking a hit from his flavored vape.

“Yeah, you cheating on us?” Kyle jokes with a smirk.

“Oh, piss off, both of ya.” The blond retorts and rolls his eyes, sipping his tea once more, earning some laughs around the table. “Bloody insufferable, you are.” He adds, causing the younger sergeants to nudge each other while murmuring “He’s talking about you.”s to one another.

“What I’m trying to say is,” He tells John as he looks the older man in the eyes. “you shouldn’t be askin’ us about this. It’s all on them if they take you into the fold.” Simon retorts.

“Already did.” John replies, eyebrows raising as he takes another puff of his cigar. “Paid them a visit last night, explained what I felt about your situation, they eased a lot of my worries…” He trails off. He’s mostly saying the truth.

“Helped me realize maybe I was just… feeling left out.” He says. He conveniently forgets to mention he spent half of the night rearranging your guts. They don’t need to know that.

“No way, Captain, ye were jealous?!” Johnny teases and then bursts into laughter, for which Kyle joins him.

“Yeah, yeah, take the piss out of me all you want.” John quips and rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, but hiding a little satisfied smirk behind the rim of his mug. He’s not going to deny it.

“Well, I’m fine with it… The more the merrier!” Soap says to Price with a chuckle and a wagging of his brows.

After a sip of his green tea drink, Kyle speaks: “Filthy pig.”, earning a nudge on his side. 

“Haud yer wheesht! I weren’t the one balls deep in ‘em last week.” Soap retorts.

John’s attention is turned to the bickering Sergeants, having been unaware of that detail until now.

“I was just being a good friend!” Kyle retorts as he takes a drag of his nearly-burned-through cig. “Was shaggin’em for Simon.”

“Don’t drag me into this… I didn’t ask you to do that.” Simon retorts as he narrows his eyes at Kyle.

“Oh, please, as if your blood didn’t rush ‘down south’ before I even arrived-” Kyle continues his playful tease.

“Right. Ye’re speakin’ as if ye weren’t jerkin’ off the whole time, L.T.” Johnny adds.

“Wait, he was jerkin’ it?” Kyle asks with a gasp as he turns to his right side to glare at Johnny.

“Aye? Ye didn’t see? Ye were there!” Johnny tells Kyle.

“I was occupied, Johnny!” Kyle replies, though he looks like he’s a bit sheepish about saying it aloud.

“That ye were.” Johnny quips with a smirk. Kyle rolls his eyes. “Didn’t peg ye for a shaver.” He adds.

Kyle groans in frustration, even he getting a bit flustered/annoyed by Johnny’s teasing. He looks over at Simon, as if seeking out help only for the blond to say. “Don’t worry, Kyle, it’s good you shave. You’ve got a really pretty cock.”

“That he does.” Price slips in casually as he sips his black tea again, which causes the other men’s eyes to widen as they stare at him like he’s just said something unexpected.

“What? I’ve seen all of you naked.” John shrugs and smirks playfully under his mustache.

That leaves the other men sputtering a bit, exchanging glances, three pairs of eyes trying to wordlessly figure out if the others know that the Captain isn’t just hinting at ‘locker rooms’, ‘showers’ or ‘urinals’ for all three of them… 

Trying to figure out if the others have figured out that all of them have been below the Captain at one point or another in the last decade.

John knows better than to let them figure it out, so he instead changes subjects: “So… when are you planning on making it official with them?”

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

taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!):

@daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @cod-z , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark

@severenswife , @enarien, @agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind , @neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine , @kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 , @gazspookiebear , @mynameismisty , @reap3erslov3 , @reaper-chan666 , @poohkie90 , @kitwithnokat , @stick-the-dumbass , @mothsdrabbles , @justanerd1 , @thesinsoflust , @thriving-n-jiving , @blckbrrybasket

[kcrossvine-art]

G'morning all! Its nice to get back things,. Theres been some roadblocks with med shortages and life, and also with the material for these recipes. So far we've covered a lot of pastries, not because theyre mentioned more often in the series, but because being mentioned lends them more specificity in flavor than things like gravy, peas, or various meats. The latter can be prepped, seasoned, and served in so many different ways that it feels harder to make them 'faithfully' because a packet of instant potato mash is just as faithful as a pot of buttered potato mash. Baked goods tend towards 1, maybe 2, 'base' recipes that get altered and added to. 

 Today, we'll be making Beorn's Honey Cakes! A dish from one of my partners favorite characters- a delectable little treat befitting the… warm personality of the character.

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes in to Beorn's Honey Cakes?” YOU MIGHT ASKSimple stuff! Simple sweet stuff!

All-purpose flour

Baking powder

Salt

Ground nutmeg

Unsalted butter

Whole milk

2 eggs

Honey

Vanilla extract

The veins of honey cakes ancestry can be traced back to any moment where people began baking bread. Honey is a natural preservative, and sweeter still on its lonesome.

AND, “what does Beorn's Honey Cakes taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASKLike your aching muscles repairing themselves

Tastes like a honey graham cracker

But the texture is softer, wetter- somewhat like banana bread

Oh, and this will make your house smell So So Good

If you can resist the temptation of eating them immediately, they taste even richer the day after baking

Would pair well with milk green tea

Would also pair well with fresh orange slices (or those chocolate 'orange slices' candy)

Genuinely don't forget to flip them upside down when they go to bake the second time, not sure what it is but i was curious and did a test where i flipped half of the batch upside down and kept the other half of the batch right-side up like they cooked in the muffin tin. The ones i flipped upside down universally had a more consistent texture and the honey was able to permeate further.

.where honey called for, used clover honey

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

From start to finish this recipe takes about an hour of work, give or take some negligible time for prep.

The batter is perhaps the babybird of all cake batters. The gloopy, protruding crumbs of butter, not unlike a squabs beady pupils visibly dark under its skin, break up the mass of sickly smooth and reassuringly sweet-smelling oak-colored liquid. You can feel the confusion of bees outside your home, wondering if this your attempt at making royal jelly.

Just like a babybird, it becomes more than the sum of its parts. Layer on that honey drizzle, layer it on thick, theres no risk of drowning subtle flavors. Its crisp edges will keep its form, springy and warm, inviting you as if you're not the one who crafted it (food you didn't cook always tastes better). The bees are sooooooooooooooo jealous of your opposable thumbs and muscular strength.

If you dont have eggs you could try substituting with apple mash. I can't vouch for it in this recipe but replacing eggs with mashed up apples for pancakes gives it adds a nice fruity flavor without changing the texture, and in theory should work here as well.

I give this recipe a solid 10/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) 

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

270 grams all-purpose flour

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1/4 tsp freshly ground nutmeg

1 stick unsalted butter

160 grams milk

2 eggs

110 grams your favorite honey

1 tsp vanilla extract

Muffin tray and parchment paper

Method:

Preheat oven to 350f

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg.

 Add the butter and rub it into the flour with your fingers until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. 

In a small bowl beat the eggs until just combined. Pour in milk and then vanilla extract while stirring.  Keep stirring vigorously while slowly pouring in honey.

Stir until the mixture is consistent in color.

Pour the liquids over the dry mixture and stir until just combined.

Pour the batter into a greased muffin tray, don't use any muffin paper/lining/cups.

Bake for 16 minutes, or until they reach their full height.

Carefully remove from the muffin pan and place the muffins upside down on a parchment lined tray.

Using a silicone pastry brush, generously cover the tops of the cakes with honey. Allow to sit for about 5 minutes to let the honey soak into the cakes.

Bake for an additional 8-10 minutes, or until the cakes are golden brown.

Remove from the oven and allow to cool.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt. Granny al Ghul

Ra's al Ghul believed that there were no former members of the League of Assassins. Maddie understood that perfectly, but it didn’t make her any more prepared when she saw her father.

"Hey, are you my favorite sweet grandpa?" Danny, who noticed his mother freezing in fear after opening the door, immediately stood in front of her. "Want to hug?"

"It was you again! I know for sure." The head of the league hissed in anger. ''Get out!"

"But this is my house." Her son shrugged his shoulders and smiled in a strange snide way. "Do you want me to show you my room or do you want me to chew a cookie for you? You look totally senile. Even your feet can’t hold you."

Ra's Al Ghul was shaking with rage. "Don’t play dumb, I know you’ve been tinkering with water in my Lazarus pits." "They are part of the nature reserve of the Ghost Zone." Danny was rightly outraged. "Write your name on them even a hundred times, they will not be yours."

"But you’ll get a fine for vandalism. You’re lucky I didn’t report you to the authorities." Danny threatens grandpa with his finger. "But it’s only because we’re family, you know?" Ra's frowns but stops arguing. "Would you like a cup of tea?" Danny’s offering a truce. Ra's sighs. "Well, I wouldn't say no."

~~~~~

"Do you like your drink?" Danny asks, pouring grandpa more green tea with milk. "Disgusting." The head of the League of Assassins answers sincerely. "Good." Danny’s smiling like a gremlin. "Hey, do you want to see an album with photos of baby Danny, Ra's?" asks Jack, who doesn’t notice the tension around. "No." Maddie was sitting there with her eye twitching for the last 40 minutes. "I would like to see a family photo album, Madeline." Ra's, who saw an opportunity to embarrass his insolent grandson, did not want to lose it.

~~~~~

"For the last time, why should I participate in this abomination?" Ra's stared angrily at his grandson pushing him into the classroom.

"Come on, grandpa, you saw my photo from kindergarten with a piss on my pants." Danny looked at him, batting his eyelashes.

Ra's rolled his eyes."And why does it mean I have to join this circus?"

"We’re definitely family now! And I promised Mr. Lancer I will take on Career Day this year anyone but not mom or dad. I’m definitely not gonna call Vlad. So that leaves you." Danny pushed him again.

The guard at the Demon's Head got nervous, but Ra’s hand stopped him. "I did not agree."Grandpa moved one of the swords to Danny’s neck.

Fenton just brushed it off with a frown. "Come on, tell everyone a little bit about your plans for immortality and world domination. Maybe I’ll be interested in being your heir then. I promise to listen carefully!"

~~~~

"The most important thing in educating your minions is control. They must feel an absolute fear of your authority." The inspired Ra's continued his speech after the bell. Lancer was taking notes. Tucker looked at it.

"I don’t like it, guys. I stick to the good old-fashioned disciplinary measures, you know?" Techno geek whispered.

"Well, I’m totally fine with it." Danny, who had noticed that after a fascinating lecture about the most effective tortures Dash was sitting two desks further away from him, showed his grandfather fist with the thumb up.

~~~~

"I changed my mind, I’ll kill him." Danny roared, running around the stadium after his thirtieth lap. What idiot from the school board took his crazy grandfather’s advice about organizing extra fitness classes? Next to him Wes fell to the ground. "Do it, Phantom. Avenge us." The boy wheezed at the last breath. "No distractions, five more laps!" Ra's stood on the field with the hand fan. "This bastar-r-rd." Danny roared furiously. "What? My favorite grandson wants to run another ten? Well, I can’t say no, right, coach?" Demon's Head yelled.

~~~~

"You know, it is really nice to take a vacation sometimes. I feel an unprecedented surge of strength." Ra’s reached out to Mr. Lancer standing next to him. "Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?"

"How about Friday, around 7:00 p.m.?" Mr Lancer looked at his schedule. "No, I’m busy at this time." Ra's sighed with regret. "We have a ritual sacrifice scheduled for six p.m." "You have a great sense of humor, my friend." Mr. Lancer laughed. "Who knew Mr. Fenton had such an intriguing and well-read grandfather. You’re full of surprises, Mr al Ghul." ~~~~ Damian, sitting on the roof of Casper High, lays down his binoculars and sighs. "Yes, mother is right, grandfather finally lost his mind." "Well, I’m glad you noticed too." A voice filled with relief rang very close. "Who’s here?" Damian took out the katana. "Um, boo?" Void’s voice answered.

[inkdrinkerworld]

adore your writing and spencer reid <<<333

all i can’t think about is knitter/crocheter reader who makes reid sweaters and cardigans and the first time she does it for him for his birthday. maybe reader works at the bau and manages to get to spencer’s desk early to leave the present for him, which is of course a gorgeous hand knit sweater<33

You and Spencer are a fresh thing. You were never a sure thing at the BAU, being brought in on a case need basis but even those short couple of days had drawn you and Spencer to each other.

Now, you’re almost six months into your relationship and his birthday is fast approaching. To deal with the stress of your job, you’d picked up crochet. A hobby to help you focus a little less on UnSubs and more on whatever you’re making.

You’re almost finished with Spencer’s birthday gift- a brand new sweater. It’s all the colours of autumn, browns and green, oranges and deep mauves. It’ll look great on him.

By the time his birthday rolls around, you’re weaving the ends in and wrapping it all pretty in brown paper with his name written in looping letters.

Everything else was planned out with the team, cake and lunch and even a little gift exchange but you want to give Spencer yours first.

It’s a rush to Quantico, there’s traffic and everyone is driving poorly and you’re panicking because Spencer is always five minutes early and you’re about ten minutes behind him.

In what you can only determine a change in luck and all of the gods on your side, you make it just in time to make a quick sprint in your heels no less to his desk to set the parcel down before he walks in behind you.

“Happy birthday, Spence!” You try for ease and an airy quality to your tone but it fails because you’re out of breath and nervous.

What if he hates it? Now you’re wondering if you got his measurements right- it’s always a gamble.

“Thank you,” he drops a kiss to your forehead and makes for the kitchen. “Did you have your coffee already? You seem wired.” He looks over his shoulder as he opens the fridge for milk.

You just shake your head. You’re trying not to wring your fingers to all hell as you watch Spencer set about making you both cups of coffee.

“There’s something on your desk,” again you try for a little ease, a little casualness but it falls very flat.

Especially when Spencer hums, a pretty smirk on his face. “Is there?”

“Spencer Reid, you can’t do that.” You stomp your foot a little and he laughs, reaching for you just as the kettle goes off.

“I can do anything, it’s my birthday.” You sigh and lean up to kiss his cheek.

“I suppose you can, but would you open it before the rest of the team get here? In case you hate it?”

He tuts, “You know I won’t.” Spencer sets both mugs on his desk, nudging you to have a sip and you frown when you realise it’s herbal tea and not the coffee you’d been hoping for. “Your hands have been shaking and cramping a lot more recently.”

You watch with eagerness as he opens the parcel, a smile breaking out on his face as he realises what it is.

“Do you like it?” You’re nibbling on your lip, ruining your pretty glossy lips.

“Think it would be too much to put it on now?” Your eyes brighten and you squeal.

“Would you really?” Spencer nods, hands already reaching for his blazer to strip.

It’s bad luck that’s just when Morgan and Emily stroll in, a low whistle sounding in the room.

“Oh okay, pretty boy, I see you!” Derek says and Emily laughs while Spencer, even after all the things he’s lived, flushes.

You on the other hand, roll your eyes.

“You know, you could’ve saved it for after the ‘happy birthday’.” Derek only shakes his head.

“I don’t think I need to wish him one if he’s willing to risk an HR meeting.”

Spencer kisses you smack on the mouth which is only fuel to the fire. “I’ll wear it tonight angel, thank you.”

You’re a little dazed and Spencer seems to relish that fact. “You’re welcome, Spence.”

[miss-floral-thief]

lol i was setting it aside for after dinner, it's not bad idk if i taste a distinct 'grape' flavor

[emmg]

“I will be but a moment,” Emmrich says, gracing her forehead with a smooch like he’s heading off to grab milk and not vanishing into the depths of the Grand Necropolis. Off he goes to do whatever it is necromancers find utterly fascinating(debating the emotional integrity of femurs, cooing at runes, reorganizing skulls by sentimental value) while the rest of the world collectively shits its pants at the mere idea.

It is absolutely not just a moment.

It’s a whole cascading avalanche of moments. Hours, really. She’s done everything short of starting a one-woman interpretive dance routine to keep busy, and she is so done. It’s cold. It’s dark. Everyone here is approximately seventeen ancient tomes smarter than she is and smug about it. She’s not even sure they breathe oxygen.

She wants to go back to the Lighthouse, curl up on her unfortunate green settee and pretend the only dead things in her life are the flowers she keeps forgetting to water.

Eventually, she finds Vorgoth.

"Hey, Vorgoth," she says. "Do you think you could, I don't know, send Emmrich a heads up that I'll be heading back soon? I really can't keep waiting for him."

"HE ENTWINES THE FLOWS OF UNSPEAKABLE RESONANCE BENEATH THE SEVENTH STRATA OF THE CHARNAL PYRAMIDS."

"All right," she says, not even listening, "that’s great, I’m thrilled for him, truly, but I am also incredibly hungry, so like I said I’ll be—"

"IT IS DISAGREEABLY CURSED. THE GATES OF BONE MUST NOT GAPE IN THE PRESENCE OF UNVERIFIED WILL. THE SIGILS REMEMBER WHAT THE LIVING HAVE FORGOTTEN."

She takes a moment to stare at Vorgoth, at the tendrils of smoke, or shadows, or possibly some kind of sentient ennui, spilling from beneath their hood.

“Amazing. Well. I don’t plan on poking around in any cursed pyramids, disagreeable or otherwise. I do, however, plan on returning to the Lighthouse and collapsing onto something soft, vaguely clean, and deeply un-haunted. So could you please—"

She’s already turning away. She knows exactly how many steps it takes to reach the eluvian; has counted them, loathed them, prayed over them. Maybe the Caretaker will be in a talkative mood, or at least let her loiter without judgment while she waits for it to ferry her back to the Vi’Revas. She really wants to gossip about that horrendously attractive Antaam stomping around the Crossroads.

Vorgoth catches her off guard.

"THE VESSEL OF FLESH REBELS. HIS BODY PURGES THE RESIDUE OF THE INNER ROT. HE MUST NOT BE DISTURBED."

She falters.

"...What the fuck? Is he—are you saying he’s on a toilet?"

"THE THRONE OF AGONY KNOWS MANY FORMS."

She takes a full step back. “All right. All right, but you’re saying a throne. Like, metaphorical? Or are we talking a literal, haunted latrine situation? Does he need tea? A compress? A medic? A priest? A bucket?"

Should she get Lucanis? Wait, why Lucanis? What is he going to do? Sneak up on the diarrhea and assassinate it? Whisper menacingly to Emmrich’s lower intestine until it falls in line?

Maybe Davrin, then. Maybe he could lend her Assan, and the griffon could majestically swoop through the Necropolis to deliver Emmrich a roll of paper and a heartfelt “get well soon” screech. She could even pack a snack basket. Some dried fruit. A scented candle. A handwritten note that says “please stop being like this.”

Why is she thinking about this? Why is she building an entire rescue operation in her head? Why is this the hill she has chosen to die on today?

"THE STENCH OF PURIFICATION IS UNYIELDING."

"Oh my Maker, he is on a toilet," Rook whines. "He's been gone for hours, Vorgoth. Hours. What did he eat? Was it cursed?"

"THE SACRED INTESTINES OF KORTH’S FALLEN BEASTS—"

"NO. Nope. I don’t want to know. Take it back. I un-ask the question."

There’s a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that suggests even the shadows are contemplating whether to kill themselves rather than continue existing in a reality where this conversation is happening.

"...HE PERFORMS THE RITE OF BINDING. THERE IS NO TOILET."

Her eye twitches so violently she briefly wonders if she’s about to have an aneurysm. She thinks she might be about to throw up. Right into Vorgoth’s hood.

“Why... Why would you say all that other stuff first, then?”

"THE MORTAL TONGUE LACKS PRECISION."

She feels something rupture in her brain.

"I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU, VORGOTH!" she yells, just as Emmrich materializes from thin air and wraps his arms around her middle to start dragging her away from the robed figure.

"Ah, you found Vorgoth," he says. "Did they help?"

"NO."

[cloudyluun]

Rose & Torn | Patreon Blurb

Wondered what I post on Patreon? Curious? Nosy? Need a little push before you subscribe? Okay babe, I got you. This one time… you get the full blurb. For free. Like the spoiled princess you are 💅

Rose & Thorn Summary: You’re just trying to write your silly little stories in peace when Harry Styles—yes, that Harry Styles, with the long hair, soft sweater, and rings for days—walks into your favorite café and steals the seat across from you.

What follows?

Flirty banter

Warm chai (that he hates, rude)

Painfully soft glances

And him saying, “I was gonna write lyrics, but now I kinda just wanna write about you.”

Yes, it’s fluffy. Yes, you might blush. Yes, I wrote it at 1AM while thinking, What if Harry fell in love with me while I was just trying to mind my business???

And you can read the entire thing right now 🫶 Just this once, it’s not behind a paywall.

But next week? We’re back to secret club energy 💌

🔗 [Click here] or read below!

The bell over the café door jingled, but you didn’t look up.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, pausing as you squinted at the blinking cursor on your screen. You were halfway through a sentence, one you’d rewritten three times already, and it still didn’t sound right. You sighed softly, thumbed the edge of your coffee cup, and took another sip of your now-lukewarm latte. Background hums of milk steamers and indie music blended with the occasional murmur of conversation.

This place—Rose & Thorn—had become your usual over the last few months. It wasn’t big, but it had high ceilings, vintage tile floors, plants dangling from copper rods, and deep wooden booths along the back wall. Enough character to feel lived-in, but quiet enough to focus. You loved it here. Not for any grand reason. Just... the peace of it.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Not until the barista stuttered a bit while asking for a name to write on the cup.

Then you glanced up. Casual, curious.

And saw him.

Tall. Slim. Hair long, dark golden brown, pulled half-up but some pieces falling around his face. A soft, oversized green sweater. Black trousers. Rings. A slow smile that looked both unsure and entirely too charming as he gave his name—Harry.

Harry.

Your brain didn’t immediately click. Not until he turned, waiting for his drink, and you caught the sharp line of his jaw. The eyes. The way he looked around the room like he wasn’t trying to be noticed but always would be.

Harry Styles.

You blinked.

You knew it was him. Of course you did. You weren’t living under a rock. But your mind scrambled to catch up with the realness of him. He looked... softer than you expected. A little sleepy, like maybe he hadn’t meant to stay out this late or wake up this early. And he was definitely looking for a place to sit.

There were two open booths. One next to the window, and one—yours.

He glanced toward the front, then toward you.

And started walking over.

You looked back at your laptop fast, pretending to type.

��Sorry,” a voice said, low and warm and just slightly hesitant. “This seat taken?”

You looked up. And there he was, closer now. Tall enough that the light from the window hit his cheekbone just right. Kind enough eyes that it made you forget how unfairly good-looking he was.

“Oh—no,” you said, heart skipping weirdly in your chest. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

He sat, adjusting the chair with a quiet scrape. You tried to act normal. Just some girl in a café. Writing. Not freaking out. Not staring.

He took out a small notebook, leather-bound and worn at the edges, and a pen. No phone. No entourage. Just him, like this was his usual spot too.

A minute passed. Then five.

You tried to focus on your sentence again, but your thoughts were a mess. You could feel him. Not in a weird way, just... there. He had that kind of presence. Big but easy. Confident but not loud. And he was humming under his breath.

You snuck a glance.

He was scribbling something in his notebook. Brow furrowed a little. Lips parted. His tea sat untouched.

Your stomach did a small flip.

And then he looked up at you.

Caught.

You froze.

He smiled, slow and crooked, like he knew.

“Whatcha working on?” he asked, voice still soft. Like he didn’t want to break the quiet of the place too much.

You hesitated. “Just writing.”

“Mm,” he nodded. “Fiction?”

“Sort of.”

He tilted his head. “Sort of?”

“I write articles,” you explained. “But sometimes I write other things. Like... bits of stories. Stuff that’ll never see the light of day.”

Harry smiled wider. “I like that. Secret stories.”

You laughed under your breath. “Not on purpose. Just... never finished anything I felt was good enough.”

He leaned forward a little, interest plain in his eyes. “Can I ask what this one’s about?”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard again. “A girl. She works in a little café. She’s just... trying to keep her life from falling apart.”

Harry looked around. “She work here?”

You shook your head. “Different place. Messier. Bad coffee.”

“Sounds real,” he said, nodding seriously.

You grinned.

He stuck out a hand. “I’m Harry.”

“I know.”

He laughed, and it was a real one—quiet but warm, like it came from his chest. You liked that laugh.

You gave your name.

He repeated it softly. Then again. Like he was trying it out.

“I like that,” he said. “Suits you.”

You looked away, heat crawling up your neck.

This didn’t feel like some celebrity moment. It didn’t feel like you were talking to him, the Harry you’d seen in music videos or awards shows or late-night interviews. It just felt like... a moment. A strangely quiet, perfectly normal moment with a man who was making you smile too easily.

He nodded at your screen. “Can I read it?”

Your heart leapt. “God, no. It’s—just fragments.”

He leaned back, hands up. “Alright. Maybe next time.”

Next time?

You raised an eyebrow. “You planning on stealing my booth?”

He shrugged. “I think I just did.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. “Okay, but I get the plug socket. It’s war if you touch my charger.”

“I’d never,” he said solemnly.

He took a sip of his tea, finally. Grimaced.

“Too hot?”

“No, just… chai.”

You laughed.

“You don’t like chai?”

“It tastes like someone dropped a candle in milk.”

You choked on your latte. “That’s oddly specific.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still grinning. “It’s accurate, though.”

You shook your head. “Blasphemy.”

For the next twenty minutes, neither of you wrote. Or pretended to. The conversation was easy, weirdly so. You talked about little things—books, music, your mutual distaste for small talk. He asked you if you believed in ghosts. You asked him if he always talked to strangers in cafés.

“Not always,” he said. “Just the pretty ones.”

You stared at him.

He held your gaze, no smirk this time. Just honesty. That kind that didn’t feel rehearsed or smooth.

“I mean it,” he said. “You walked in and I... I couldn’t stop looking.”

“I was already here,” you said, trying to make your voice steady.

He blinked. “Wasn’t I here first?”

You laughed, a little breathless. “No.”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Means I really didn’t see anything else. Just you.”

Silence stretched. Not awkward. Just... tight. Charged.

You looked down at your cup.

He tapped a ringed finger on the table. “Can I be honest?”

You glanced back up.

“I was trying to think of something to write when I came in,” he said. “Lyrics or whatever. Been stuck for a while. But now I’m thinking I just want to write about this.”

You blinked. “This?”

He nodded once. “You. Today. The way you looked when I sat down—like you were about to vanish if I stared too hard.”

You swallowed. “That’s... intense.”

“I know,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He smiled, softer this time.

You looked at your screen. Then back at him. “Can I be honest too?”

“Please.”

“This is the weirdest day of my life.”

He laughed. “Fair.”

You hesitated, then added, “But also kinda the best?”

Harry tilted his head, curls shifting. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked down, then back up again, eyes a little shy now. “Would it be okay if I asked for your number?”

Your heart thudded. You didn’t answer right away, but only because your brain had short-circuited.

He waited.

You reached for his phone. Typed it in.

Handed it over.

He took it gently. Smiled as he saved it.

Then he looked at you again, really looked.

“I’ll text you,” he said. “Soon. Like... tonight.”

You smiled. “Looking forward to it.”

He paused like he wanted to say something else. Then stood, tea in one hand, notebook in the other.

“I should go. Leave you to your writing.”

You nodded, though a part of you wanted to ask him to stay.

As he turned, he paused at the doorway. Looked back. Gave you a smile that made your stomach twist in the best way.

And then he was gone.

You stared at the empty chair for a moment, stunned.

Then turned back to your laptop.

And started writing again.

But this time, the words came easy.

Because now, your story had a beginning.

If you liked this and wanna see more blurbs like it every week (plus some ✨spicy✨ ones), you can subscribe here 💌

[eeriepromis]

POV: You're Hugging Your Favorite LI - Here's What He Smells Like

Have you ever wondered what it'd be like to hug your favorite Love Interest from LaDs and catch a hint of their unique scent? (No shame, we've all thought about it.) Well, I couldn't resist imagining exactly how Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, and Caleb might smell in real life. I matched each LI with a perfume that captures their personality, vibe, and overall aura - and let's just say, Caleb’s scent definitely involves apples.

But these are just my takes! I'd love to hear your thoughts too - did I nail their vibes, or do you picture them differently? Drop your own perfume ideas or scent headcanons in the comments! [Original Post on Reddit]

Xavier

Character & Scent Profile:

Gentle, soft-spoken, dreamy, and protective.

Hints of clean, comforting aromas, fresh linen, soft musk, and subtle floral notes that evoke nostalgia.

Light, airy, slightly sweet, and sophisticated.

By Commenters:- Vanilla- Ambroxan based enhancer, you’ll only smell his perfume if you go in and nuzzle him during a nap- Lavender & bergamot

Fitting Perfumes:

Maison Francis Kurkdjian – Aqua Universalis: Clean, subtle, airy; evokes the comforting feeling of freshly washed linens and gentle sunshine.

Byredo – Blanche: Pure, delicate, and soothing, with white rose, sandalwood, and a powdery finish - a perfect reflection of Xavier's softness and chivalry.

By Commenters: - Juliette’s Not - Replica Lazy Sunday Morning - Lake and Skye 11•11 - Clean Reserve Skin - Missing Person by Phlur - since his cards are unexpectedly very sensual, so I would like to highlight this cozy, yet sensual aspect of his personality - Taunt by Dedcool - Kinda musky and very evocative of being cozy in bed

Zayne

Character & Scent Profile:

Professional, composed, yet quietly affectionate. Reserved but with hidden warmth beneath his cold exterior.

Crisp, icy freshness mixed with warm undertones - like fresh snow, juniper berries, cedarwood, and subtle vanilla or amber notes.

By Commenters: - cinnamon- So ideal. So professional. I think he would wear something nondescript.- Subtle scent of soap or clean laundry. The subtlest musk, maybe. An Earl Gray tea scent also sounds appropriate.- Hand sanitizer or antiseptic. Bleach. With maybe a hint of fabric softener. He's a doctor, he's gonna smell like cleanliness.

Fitting Perfumes:

Creed – Silver Mountain Water: Clean, crisp, and icy with notes of bergamot, green tea, and blackcurrant; evokes mountain air and quiet strength.

Dior – Sauvage: Elegant, composed, and masculine, with notes of bergamot, vanilla, and cedar. Matches Zayne’s calm authority with a hint of hidden warmth.

By Commenters: - Diptyque’s Orphéon - It’s a comforting scent but can be most used during autumn or winters, since it’s has that level of spice and gourmand notes to it. It’s musky, sweet and it’s smexy, just like Zayne. - Quasar by Jesus del Pozo - Lait De Chocolat would suit him since it has chocolate notes and jasmine too. - Lush's Sticky Dates is as yummy as Zayne is. - Diptyque Do Son or Eau Minthe or Le Labo Thé Noir - Gentle Fluidity Silver or Gris Dior - Lush’s Flying Fox - honey and jasmine - Not a Perfume by Juliette Has a Gun - since he's a health professional, and that scent is the most subtle, inoffensive fragrance I've smelled. - Penguin by Zoologist - this does not have any of the notes that are deemed canon, but reading some of his lore makes me think this could work - Monday by Arielle Shoshana - Earl Gray tea scent. There is also a milk/caramel note, which his sweet tooth may appreciate.

Canon Scent (thanks to PootyBubTheDestroyer):

MC describes Zayne to smell like jasmine, lavender, and a unique Zayne scent in Everlasting Wish!

Rafayel

Character & Scent Profile:

Playful, mischievous, and artistic, with an underlying seductive, fiery intensity.

Sea salt, ocean air, citrusy brightness combined with exotic spices, smoked woods, and warm amber.

By Commenters:- beautiful, regal/dignified, and playful- sea salt- really in touch with nature and has such a deep respect for it & likes to bathe a lot- like soil after rain

Fitting Perfumes:

Jo Malone – Wood Sage & Sea Salt: Captures the fresh, salty breeze, artistic inspiration, and free spirit of the sea. Playful, invigorating, and effortlessly charming.

Maison Margiela Replica – By the Fireplace: Warm, spicy, smoky, comforting, and slightly sweet. Reflects Rafayel’s fiery passion, artistic nature, and depth beneath his teasing demeanor

By Commenters: - Acqua di Gio - It’s so bright and nautical that it fits his personality so well. The patchouli also harkens to the spice’s use in spiritual traditions, which is w nod towards his Sea God Memories. - CK’s Summer Collection that has that yummy coconut scent just for a fun tropical zing. - TF Soleil Blanc or D&G Light Blue Intense - Dior Bois d’Argent or Replica Sailing Day or Beach Walk - Gentle Fluidity Silver by MFK

Sylus

Character & Scent Profile:

Dark, enigmatic, elegant, charismatic, and slightly dangerous.

Mysterious, smoky oud, dark leather, tobacco, rare spices, deep patchouli, amber, and rich woods.

By Commenters:- I have always imagined Sylus smelling enigmatic and as rich as the night. Maybe some faint burnt petals, too, since his soul smells like flowers.- gunpowder, wine and elegance- mixture of mahogany and sandalwood

Fitting Perfumes:

Tom Ford – Oud Wood: Rich, sophisticated, and deeply charismatic, blending oud, rosewood, sandalwood, and vetiver; a scent perfectly embodying Sylus’s mysterious elegance.

Kilian – Black Phantom: Darkly alluring with rum, coffee, cacao, and dark woods, representing Sylus’s complexity, dark charm, and charismatic dominance.

By Commenters: - Tom Ford, Ombré Leather - it’s a blend of sweet and bitter/masculine. - Memento Mori by Seance or Frustration by Etat libre d'orange, those musky, woody rosey scents - Roja Aoud or MFK Grand Soir or Replica Jazz Club - Dior, Fahrenheit - Tobacco Vanille by Tom Ford - something warm/sweet, spicy, and sensual - Bleu Lazuli by Armani Privé - spicy/sweet/warm scent with tobacco/leather notes - Chanel's Egoiste - Hypnotizing Fire by The Harmonist - smells like roses and matches

Canon Scent (thanks to Hidden--_Sanctuary):

In Ordinary Traces MC says Sylus smells like red wine and fireworks.

Caleb

Character & Scent Profile:

Protective yet obsessive, playful yet dominant, deeply layered emotionally, with a hint of forbidden allure.

Warm apples, cinnamon, tonka bean, vanilla, dark honey, leather, and subtle incense.

By Commenters:- Airplane cabin, oil & metal.

Fitting Perfumes:

Parfums de Marly – Layton: Warm, inviting, and sensual with apple, vanilla, cardamom, and woods, perfectly embodying Caleb's warmth, temptation, and dominant presence.

Yves Saint Laurent – La Nuit de l'Homme: Seductive, charismatic, spicy with cardamom, cedar, and tonka bean. Reflects Caleb’s charismatic, teasing, yet obsessive nature beneath his playful surface.

By Commenters: - Creed Aventus - With hints of apples, birch and musk, this fragrance just screams Caleb to me. Like I can totally imagine him spritzing this in before heading for work, and as the day wears on, it gets mellowed down to mix with metallic scent of some blood and smoke. - Diptyque Tam Dao - Not my recommendation but saw another Redditor stating this would be his go-to. Makes sense to me because the scent is so comforting. This is something he’d wear maybe during the evening, when he’s back home. - Noe’s Citrus Poetry or Armaf’s El Cielo could fit him well. Plus they have green apples in it, which reminds me of his cute apple hugging emoji. (Since he’s such a big fan of sour things. Something to balance the sweetness of apples, vanilla and the richness of wood and spices) - D&G Light Blue - YSL Y or Frederick Malle Promise - Axe body spray - Angel's Share by Kilian - The smell of cinnamon rolls is so delicious and comforting and evocative of simple, childhood delights, but you also get the undercurrent of cognac, which is so mature, addicting, and masculine, and also the perfume smells a bit sharp/refreshing. - Apple Brandy on the Rocks by Kilian - would be a more obvious choice, but I think Angel's Share is just a better, more tempting fragrance overall and fitting the apple representing temptation concept more. - PDM Greenley - Green scents suit him very much and it's also got an apple note - how I imagined he smelled like in Endless Summer. - Old Spice - would probably wear something like it because of how much a dork he is.

_________

Small Bonus: Lost Cherry by Tom Ford for MC?

According to Sylus MC smells like cherry wine. (by _RiverSong) According to Xavier MC smells like strawberries/cherries. (by cooliecoolie)