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push-the-heartbrake · 15 days ago

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𝙄 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝘽𝙚 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

Second instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” — or the one where Spencer finds in himself his first serious relationship and must navigate intimacy for the first time too.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.2k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Virgin!Spencer, dry humping, Spencer cums in his pants bc why not, fingering (f! receiving), some insecurities and sex used as a coping mechanism mentioned but otherwise very fluffy.

A/N: Happy (belated) Valentine! Set in the same universe as THIS, so go read that first if you want to know more about how they met and their dynamic. English is not my first language and please tell me what you think? That's all for now ♡

The early morning light seeped through the heavy curtains—thick and dark, softening the edges of the dawn—yet still, the light found its way, spilling in through the gaps, casting pale, golden shadows across the unmade bed. You stirred beneath the weight of the blanket, tangled around your bare legs, drifting in that fragile space between slumber and waking. The air was cold—the kind of raw, unrelenting cold only January could bring—lingering in the room, palpable even beneath the warmth of the sheets.

Sheets. They were Spencer’s dark green sheets.

You stretched, finally waking up. The room was filled with nothing but the low hum of the radiator and the audible breaths from the man beside you. The world outside is still asleep. Soon, car engines would rumble to life, footsteps would slap against wet pavement, and the sky would brighten into daylight. But for now, your tired eyes had nothing else to focus on but his steady breathing.

You shifted onto your side, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. Spencer was lying there, still soundly asleep. His hair was a mess as it fell over his forehead, lips parted with the slow rhythm of his breath. Your heart did a… thing—an erratic, fluttering thing that Spencer would probably have a precise physiological explanation for. To you, it was just nerve-wracking. You wanted to reach out, to brush the hair from his face, to trace the line of his jaw, to simply exist closer. Alas, a small space remained between you, as if you’d drifted apart in the night. Cuddling wasn’t off-limits, but whatever was unfolding between you two was still new.

So new that it was scary for you both.

New in the sense that touches didn’t come instinctively, that words didn’t fall from your lips without second-guessing yourself—that every. single. advance. felt like a make-or-break moment.

Like—whoops—you kissed him too hard, too long, and now he was going to think that all you wanted was to sleep with him.

You didn’t. Or you did, but it wasn’t why you liked him.

You liked that he was smart, that he could ramble on for hours just like you could—except he usually made more sense. You liked that he was sensitive, that it felt like you could tell him anything (even though you never did). You liked that he was observant, that he noticed the small things most people overlooked. Like how he’d bring you dinner from your favorite restaurant during your evening shifts at the library. How he’d carry your bag on the way home because bringing work home with you meant lugging around a fuck-ton of books. How he knew you liked honey in your tea but couldn’t stand when it was substituted with sugar. The little things.

That he was stupidly attractive and that you had raging hormones inside of you truly came second to all of that.

Right on cue, Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, pulling you from your train of thought. With tired movements, he stirred around in bed, finally finding you to look at.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him.

“Your hair is getting long, Spence,” you mumbled, your voice gruff from not having spoken yet today.

Spencer’s lips pressed together in a small, sleepy frown as he blinked at you in slow, uncoordinated intervals. His hand moved from underneath the blanket to softly tug backwards at the hair that hung before his eyes.

He’d gone from being terrified of you seeing him shirtless to almost always sleeping without wearing anything on his upper body. You heard yourself sigh at the view of his exposed neck and collarbones as the covers slipped down. His skin looked so soft. You knew that it was. Yet it wasn’t just yours to touch. You didn’t dare to.

Flipping onto your stomach, you smushed your face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent he used. A simple, clean, and understated scent that went up your nostrils and clouded your brain like it was a fucking drug.

You saw in your periphery how Spencer rested his hand next to your face on the mattress, casually with his palm flat against it. It almost tickled in your fingers, wanting to reach out and touch him.

A sound slipped from him, something between a sigh and a groan, low and strained. He shifted, but not closer. His hand twitched against the mattress, fingers flexing once before going still. Freezing, almost.

Your brows furrowed. “Why do you look so uncomfortable?”

“No, uhm—”

You pushed up slightly, watching his expression. “Spencer, is something wrong?”

“Stop talking, please,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

You blinked at his sudden plea, concern creeping in just as he bolted upright, sheets falling from his body and landing messily on the bed again.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, brows drawing together. “That’s all?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing his pillow with a clumsy sort of urgency. He held it in front of himself, almost like a shield.

Your gaze flickered between him and the pillow, realization hitting like a slow burn. “You’re taking your pillow to the bathroom—oh!”

Heat flooded your face as the truth settled. A grin threatened to pull at your lips, but you bit down on it, trying to keep your expression neutral. Spencer’s back went impossibly straighter, his grip on the pillow tightening like it had betrayed him. You fought the urge to tease him. His entire body radiated embarrassment, his cheeks a deep shade of red, and for all the things Spencer was—brilliant, logical, analytical—he was also so deeply, painfully shy about certain things.

Morning wood was a normal phenomenon. You knew that Spencer knew that. In a weird way, you felt a sense of pride because of it. It had happened while he was sleeping next to you. Sure, it was an involuntary response many times. But Spencer had also literally asked you to stop talking because you affected him. Didn’t make it any less mortifying for him, though.

“Spencer, you don’t have to be embarrassed,” you said gently.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he all but rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp, definitive click.

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking your head, falling back onto the mattress. “Did you just lock the door?”

From inside the bathroom, you could hear rattling. His voice came, muffled but unmistakably miserable. “Can we please forget that this ever happened?”

“I mean, yeah we could do that. Or we could talk about it like adults.”

Silence.

Your lips formed into a grin.

“Are you at least taking care of it in there?”

More silence.

Then, finally, a defeated, “I’m—I’m gonna wait it out.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up, rolling onto your side to cuddle back into the covers. “Suit yourself.”

A few minutes passed before the door creaked open again. Spencer hesitated in the hallway outside his bedroom, looking both exhausted and like he wanted to disappear. His face was still a little pink, his hair a mess from sleep and, presumably, from pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. The pillow was no longer needed as a shield. No imprint could be seen through the flannel of his pajama pants, because of course, you looked.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Over now?”

“I need to get to work,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “But we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

You sat up fully, resting against the headboard, watching as he moved toward his dresser, already reaching for a change of clothes. “You’ll get a case and be gone for a week,” you pointed out. “I know how this works.”

His hands stilled for a moment.

“So,” you continued, “can I talk while you get ready?”

Spencer hesitated, then gave a slow nod. He kept his focus on his dresser as he changed out his sleepwear for his everyday attire.

You took a breath. “I know that we’ve… experienced different things—”

“I haven’t experienced anything,” Spencer cut you off.

“You made out with Lila Archer in a pool. That’s something.”

He huffed, throwing you a look over his shoulder.

“Okay. Low blow. I’m sorry for that.”

One drunken night out with the team (well, sober for you and Spencer), and you had found out so many things about Spencer that he probably would’ve never told you himself.

You sort of knew to not make fun of him because of his lack of experience, but you also had this thing where your brain just said the first thing it could think of in every goddamned situation. It got you in trouble, but in this case it almost felt necessary to show him how casual a conversation about intimacy could be.

You kicked the covers off of your legs and sat on the edge of the bed before you continued talking. “We’ve lived different lives, done different things, but if we want to figure us out together, then we have to talk about the sexual stuff too—”

“But I don’t know how,” Spencer pointed out, walking around the room to face you, standing so close but not close enough. A few inches forward and his legs would be touching yours.

You sighed. “I’m not saying we do it all right now. I guess I’m more asking how you feel about it. If you can explain it without running off to hide the next time you wake up with a boner?”

Spencer’s face twisted at your direct use of words, and you could easily spot it. All for being casual… when your crude words might actually do more harm than good.

He sat down next to you, still half-dressed with a button-up shirt undone and his tie in a tight grip in his hand.

“I don’t take opportunities,” he simply stated.

You frowned in confusion. “Yeah, you do.”

He hadn’t reached his level of success without recognizing opportunities and pursuing them. His intellect alone wouldn’t have guaranteed anything. He had to view the world as something to learn from, to make something good or at least knowledgeable from it, which he had in your eyes.

“No,” he corrected, turning slightly. “I mean, like social ones. I don’t put myself out there. And now I’m a grown man with no experience. That feels wrong.”

“Wrong in what way?”

Spencer’s jaw clenched as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to where your hands rested in your lap. He exhaled, his fingers curling against his palm. “It feels like I should’ve just gotten drunk in college and gotten it over with.”

A surprised snort came from you before you could stop it. “Spencer, you were a child when you went to college.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted, “the first time.”

You shook your head, smile lingering. “Well, you still shouldn’t have done anything you weren’t comfortable with. And if you aren’t comfortable now either, that’s fine. But please, talk to me about it before you push me away.”

Spencer’s fingers flexed once before he reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. You liked when he was the one to initiate contact because that meant you weren’t crossing any of his boundaries.

“I don’t want to push you away. I’ve just never felt this way before,” he murmured, voice hesitant. His grip on your hand tightened slightly. “And it scares me. Honestly. But the idea of never moving past this, of never trying for something more… that scares me even more.”

You squeezed his hand in return.

“Okay. That’s good for me to know. We can work with that.”

You hadn’t realized how tense the mood was until you saw Spencer visibly relax at your words, his shoulders slouching down as he let go of your hand to start buttoning his shirt.

“I guess I should get ready too,” you murmured.

Before your legs could even hit the floor, Spencer’s palm pressed against your bare thigh, his touch gentle but firm, halting you in place.

“You know you don’t have to leave just because I am,” he said. His gaze, soft and lingering, traced over your face. “You’re allowed to stay. Sleep some more. You’re working the night shift, right?”

You hummed in confirmation, only focused on the warmth from his hand spreading through to your skin, creating a ball of fire in your stomach. Your little sleep shorts did nothing to cover the skin he was touching. He probably wasn’t even aware of how he was affecting you, seeing the contact as simply innocent.

“Mhm, so stay,” he urged. “There’s stuff in the fridge to make breakfast.”

Spencer shifted, scanning the dimly lit room until he spotted his bag on the floor. Leaning over the side of the bed, he rummaged through it before pulling out his keys. With a small jingle, he dangled them in front of you.

“I’ll leave you my home keys. Lock when you leave and throw them in my mail slot.”

Your fingers closed around them, the metal cool against your palm. He had a little keychain with the Las Vegas welcome sign. That the sweetest man you’d ever met was from Sin City was still a juxtaposition you almost couldn’t believe.

“Spence?”

He tilted his head, looking at you musingly.

You smiled, your fingers treading to tug lightly on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Kiss me before you go.”

For a second, he just sat there.

Then, slowly, the bed dipped as he braced himself against the mattress, his palm planting next to your waist. His nose brushed yours, and the warmth of his breath ghosted against your lips. There was a pause—a heartbeat—before he closed the space between you.

He kissed you, soft and hesitant at first.

If you asked Spencer, he probably knew the exact amount of kisses you’d shared. Or he could at least calculate some sort of estimated number. You just knew that it was still a new, almost paralyzing feeling for you. You couldn’t even begin to fathom the nerves that he was feeling.

But when you kissed him back with more intent, when your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, you felt it. The way he melted, just a little.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, breath unsteady.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he straightened, stepping back to finish getting ready. You crawled back beneath the covers, letting your head hit the pillow once again.

You watched him with quiet amusement as he pulled on a sweater, smoothing it down with precise, almost methodical movements. His hands moved quickly—buttoning his cuffs, slipping on his watch—but there was an unspoken hesitation in the air, something that made him pause every so often.

“You’re staring,” you pointed out.

He huffed a small breath through his nose, shaking his head as he picked up his bag. “I’m… acknowledging.”

You raised a brow. “Acknowledging what?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He simply smiled and swung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, adjusting it absently before making his way to the front door. Just as his fingers curled around the handle, he hesitated.

And then, slowly, he turned back.

You were still in his bed, tangled in the sheets, looking entirely at home. He almost wanted to laugh at how it made him feel, seeing your bare foot stick out or how your hair was a little messy from sleep.

Spencer wished he understood why his heart did a… thing every time he looked at you. The thing, where it felt like it was doing somersaults around in his ribcage.

He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “I don’t do this,” he admitted. “I don’t casually wake up with someone and… feel okay about leaving.”

You smiled, smushing your cheek against the pillow. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to work.”

“You don’t mind me rushing out?”

“I love having a big bed all to myself. Go to work, genius. I’m a phone call away.”

Spencer’s grip on his bedroom door tightened before he finally turned to leave. He stepped into the hallway but couldn’t help himself—one last glance. One last look at you in his bed, at the imprint he had left beside you, at the way you had settled into his space so effortlessly.

As he walked to the train station, a pep in his step, he had the time to reflect on what had actually happened this morning and how it was something that he had never actually experienced before.

Someone else seeing him aroused.

And his stupid inability to talk about sex. Well, he’d had to do it for a few different cases. But that was objective facts about the human psyche and sexuality as a concept. This was as subjective as it could be. It was literally about his own… penis.

His inability to have sex was an even worse subject for him to think about. Inability was maybe the wrong word. Was it more about how he hadn’t wanted to?

You were right, though. He hadn’t seen the point in doing it in college, not because he was emotionless and only focused on his studies and career, but because if he had done it, it wouldn’t have been meaningful. He needed sex to be meaningful to serve the purpose he felt like it would have in his life.

It’d be pointless for him to have pointless sex. That was clear, and still true.

But then you’d stormed into his life with your unapologetic way of being—your sharp wit and easy laughter. You had your own layers he had yet to peel back, but it didn’t scare him as much as it did excite him to know you that way. You, with your warmth and your patience, with the way you made him feel wanted without expectation, like he wasn’t some puzzle missing too many pieces to be worth solving.

And you were the furthest thing from pointless to him. Intimacy with you didn’t feel like something to analyze or rationalize. It felt like something to want.

Life felt futile without a sense of contribution, without the feeling that his experiences grew with him rather than passing by like scenery outside the window of a bus. The people around him changed, but he remained the same as he had been at age fifteen—only more rugged, more worn-out, and with a face that now bore the knowledge of what Dilaudid did to the body. He couldn’t let that stay the same anymore. He had to learn to see it differently.

Fuck, he needed to figure this out.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Spencer turned off the engine as he parked, letting the windshield wipers go one more time to take away the last lingering raindrops. It was late in the evening, and the streetlights reflected gold through the windows. He sent you a quick text that he had arrived before stepping out of his car. The cool February air hit him as he adjusted his scarf, his own breath fogging up his glasses that he had to wear when he drove.

He scanned the street for the house number in the address you had texted him, spotting it quickly. The building itself was a modest townhouse. A little worn down but full of character, with overgrown and leafless rosebushes lining the front of it. The windows of your friend’s apartment glowed warmly against the night, the silhouettes of moving figures behind sheer curtains. He could hear muffled voices, occasional bursts of laughter, and the faint notes of an indie song playing scratchily from a speaker. He recognized it as something you’d listen to, but nothing more distinct than that.

He hesitated near the entrance, slowly walking up the stairs to the front door, taking in the view showing through the curtains.

Girls' night. Spencer was no stranger to the concept. He and Morgan had been turned down plenty of times when they’d tried to tag along with the women of the BAU after work. He’d also seen them the next day—giggly, whispering, exchanging knowing looks about whatever had happened. He wondered if you’d be the same. Would you come back all giggly, or did girls' night mean something different depending on the group? He didn’t know your friends, after all.

A second later, the door swung open, and there you were—stepping out into the night, huddled in your coat. You didn’t notice him right away, busy adjusting your bag over your shoulder as you waved something off behind you, closing the door with a thud.

Something being one of your friends that Spencer could just about see a sliver of.

Turning around, he watched as you almost got scared of his presence, not expecting him to be standing so close. You lifted your hands to your face in mild shock, and Spencer couldn’t help but let out a little laugh.

“Red?” he asked, tilting his head in mild curiosity.

Your nails. Newly painted a bright red color. So painting nails was part of girls’ night. For weeks after you started seeing each other, Spencer had quietly wondered how your nails were always so perfectly done. He now knew that one of your friends was training to be a nail technician and would gladly accept anyone whose fingers she could practice on.

You glanced down at your hands as if just remembering them. “For Valentine’s Day,” you replied matter-of-factly.

Spencer hummed, taking the opportunity to hold one of your hands in his own. Was he supposed to ask you to be his Valentine? Before he could respond with anything more, the muffled sound of laughter and movement from behind the door stopped him in his tracks. And he watched you shift uncomfortably because of it.

“Can we walk to the car, now?” you asked, almost dragging him down the entrance stairs, your eyes flickering between the door and where his car was parked.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he croaked out, almost immediately clocking what he thought was embarrassment from your side. Down the stairs, he gripped your hand stronger, making you unable to walk further. “Do you not want your friends to see me?”

The way you instantly turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief, made something tighten in his chest.

“You really think that?” you asked, voice soft, a little breathless, like the idea alone was absurd. “Spencer, no—it’s the opposite, really.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly, but before he could ask what that meant, you sighed and pointed with your free hand up to the apartment again. “My friends are standing in the window trying to get a look at you.”

Looking up, the sheer curtains betrayed them. All of them huddled close to the window to see… well, what were they supposed to see?

“I’ll get a text in approximately 30 seconds where they will guesstimate the size of your penis and how you are in bed.”

You deadpanned the words. Spencer would never understand how you did it. It didn’t faze you in the slightest, as you moved to get your phone from your coat pocket.

Spencer choked. “What? But we’ve never—”

Sure enough, your phone buzzed with a new text message. He didn’t get another word in before you read it out loud.

“Grower, not a shower. 4 inches soft. Probably kinky in a subtle way, like he’ll tie your hands up while asking about your day.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, adjusting his glasses like that would somehow hide the way his flustered blush was spreading up all the way to his ears. He barely managed to form a coherent thought, let alone a response.

Instead, his brain short-circuited, flashing between two equally mortifying thoughts: (1) The fact that your friends—people he had never even spoken to—were speculating about his sex life. And (2), the fact that you were standing here, repeating it all so casually, without any indication that it embarrassed you in the slightest.

Did they really think that? Did you?

And worse—could they be right?

Because, if he was being honest, Spencer had thought about it. A lot. Maybe more than was healthy. He thought about the way it would feel, the sound you would make. The way he imagined your body to look naked was some sort of fictional image burned into his mind like some old TV screen. Would he like to tie you up? Would that hurt your wrists?

He had thought about it so much that the idea of it actually happening made him feel like his entire body would shut down.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He was scared that you were so special to him, and that he could never be special enough to you. Because you’d done it all before. Even your friends knew that. To the point where they expected it from you—that your sexual endeavors were common enough that they became a casual topic of conversation. Spencer believed that Morgan might faint if he told him that he’d been thinking of having sex with you, like obsessively thinking. If it did happen, you’d always be special to him. Hell, even if it never happened, you were special enough to probably linger in his mind for decades. To you, it was possible for him to just be another number. A notch in your bedpost. Not that you’d ever describe it like that. He knew that. But still, the premise remained.

“See?” you said, nudging him lightly, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. “We should’ve started walking when I said it because now you’re all embarrassed.”

“I’m not—” he started, but faltered, because clearly, he was. “Could they really guess all that from just looking at me?”

“I don’t know, you’re the profiler,” you pointed out, trying to drag him closer to the car again, but Spencer stayed rooted. “They’re mostly doing it to mess with me because I refused to share any gossip with them tonight.”

“Is that what girls’ night means? You just sit around and gossip?” he wondered out loud.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Oh, like you don’t know the ins and outs of Morgan’s love life?”

“That’s different,” he argued immediately. “I never ask to know anything, but he tells me anyway.”

You shot him a pointed look. “And you listen.”

He opened his mouth to counter, but quickly shut it again because, well… you had a point. Instead, he huffed, looking down at the sidewalk as he let you make your way to the car.

After a beat of silence, he glanced over at you, still holding your hand in his. “But really, do I look like I would… act like that?”

The hesitation in his tone made you pause, turning your head to take him in properly. He wasn’t just flustered anymore—he was genuinely unsure because he had never even considered how people perceived him in a… sexual manner.

You exhaled, tilting your head at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say—that you practically have a sign on your forehead saying virgin? Would that be better?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I just…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

Your expression softened. “I know that, which is why I wanted us to go immediately.”

He opened his mouth, grasping for something to say that would make him feel like he had some semblance of control over the situation. “You didn’t have to read that text out loud.”

“It’s impossible to lie to you. You know that.”

By the time you both reached the car, Spencer rushed ahead, opening the passenger door for you. It was instinct, something he did without thinking. But when he turned back to see you watching him, something flickered in your expression.

“I should learn how to talk about it, though.” He cleared his throat. “That’d be useful for when it eventually happens.”

He watched you smile as he said it. He hinted at it actually happening. That it was something he wanted.

“We don’t have to hurry,” you assured as you slid into your seat.

Spencer swallowed hard, moving around to the driver’s side. He slipped into his seat, hands gripping the wheel, eyes stubbornly focused straight ahead as he started driving. He could feel your gaze on him, patient but knowing.

You knew him. Even after quite a short time. He couldn’t exactly remember the date on which he first saw you at the library. But it had been 36 days since your first kiss on New Year’s Eve. And you knew him.

He didn’t have to hide a single part of himself from you. Because you seemed to like them all. Or, at least, understand them all. From the shy little boy who was too smart for his own good, seeing his mother get sick and his father turn absent—to the messy adult version of him who had struggled with addiction and closeness in any sort of relationship. You understood them all, though the layers. And you liked some of them to the point where it made you visibly affected. And you protected him in ways that he protected himself too.

Spencer could only hope to get to know you well enough to understand all versions of you. That you’d let him in, even to your darkest corners. Because he liked you so much it hurt, and felt protective over you in a way that wasn’t even comparable to the most helpless of victims he’d encountered.

“Don’t do that thing with your tongue.”

That startled him enough to glance at you. “What thing?”

“Poking the inside of your cheek with it and looking all smug.”

Spencer blinked, confused. He hadn’t even realized that he was doing anything, completely lost in his own head. “Is it disturbing for you?”

“No, it’s distracting. You look hot.”

“Oh.” He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “S-should I drive to your place or mine?”

Smooth segue, Spencer. Really smooth.

“You’re assuming we’re spending the night together? Awfully presumptuous, Spence,” you said, placing a hand on your chest to mimic being offended.

Spencer tried to keep his face straight, forcing a serious answer from you.

“Drive to your place, it’s bigger.”

“But I’ve never even seen your apartment,” he argued.

“For good reason,” you muttered. “It’s messy.”

“I do not care.”

“Fine, my place it is,” you sighed, telling him where to drive. “But if you’re mean about it, I’m kicking you out.”

Spencer only nodded.

He saw you relax into your seat after that, turning the heat down in the car, humming along quietly to whatever was playing the radio. Spencer thought about how he could easily get used to having you next to him, especially in simple moments like this. Picking you up, or coming home from work and seeing you in his space. Or maybe him being in your space. It almost clouded his brain, the easy domesticity. He had to remind himself that he was driving a couple of times.

And then he thought of it. A joke, really. He could do that sometimes—think of something to say in conversations long after they had ended. Usually it was to save himself from remembering something embarrassing or unfitting that he’d actually said, but this time, he just wanted to make you laugh.

“It’s more like 5 inches soft, by the way.”

“Excuse me?”

You squealed, leaning forward while also staring at him with eyes wide open. Your hand gripped the car door, and Spencer was momentarily scared your nails would scratch the interior.

He grinned, acting unbothered. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

You exhaled sharply, your hand still gripping the door, trying (and failing) at holding back a giggle. “I’ll deflower you right in this car if you want to.”

Spencer felt the color drain from his face at the sound of your words. He couldn’t beat you at your own game. That game being dropping the most sexually charged remarks in casual conversation.

“No?” you teased. “Then stop with the dirty talk.”

This was going to be a very long short drive.

.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

On Valentine’s Day, Spencer found himself at the train station after coming home from a difficult case in Detroit. It had been such a long and simultaneously hurried process that he hadn’t even realized that they were coming back home on Valentine’s Day. Garcia’s homemade pink cupcakes waiting for them at the office had refreshed his mind.

So, now he stood at the train station in D.C., unsure of whether to go home, to the library, or to your apartment. Mostly he worried about you picking up his phone call, pacing the platform with his phone pressed against his ear. Or maybe he was worried you wouldn’t pick up at all. Your shift had just ended. You should be able to answer. He really should’ve asked you to be his Valentine instead of waiting until the 14th to even think about it, or what if you found it all to be capitalist bullshit anyway—

“Hi Spence! How’s Michigan?”

Your happy voice coming through the speaker in his phone halted his spiraling thoughts.

“Hi—Uhm, I’m actually home, or at the station. We could wrap up early and not have to spend another night.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Successful case?” you wondered, breathing heavily. He could picture you walking around the library with quick steps, which was what you were doing by the sound of it.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Spencer answered. He’d noticed that you were often too curious for your own good. Every time he could tell you details from a case, you regretted it afterwards, not actually wanting to know such gruesome things. “Why does it sound like you’ve just run a marathon?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “We had a bunch of arts and crafts for the kids today, and they made a whole mess. Glue, glitter, paper scraps everywhere. And I swear, once kids figure out how to use scissors, they think they’re unstoppable.”

A faint smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he imagined it. You were so good with the kids coming to the activities organized by the library.

“Sounds chaotic.”

“Oh, it was,” you confirmed. “Somehow, a three-year-old managed to glue his own sleeve to the table, which, honestly, is kind of impressive.”

Spencer chuckled, rubbing at his temple. “Remind me again why you do this voluntarily?”

“Because it’s cute,” you shot back. “And because somebody has to make sure kids don’t leave libraries thinking they’re just boring old book storage units.”

His smile widened, but before he could respond, you hesitated.

“So, uhm…” you started.

Spencer picked up on it immediately. “You’re running late?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

He glanced at the clock. He hadn’t even made it home yet, and he already knew you were going to exhaust yourself staying behind to clean up. “You know, we don’t have to—”

“But I’ll tell you what,” you interrupted, voice decisive. “Since you’re on my side of town, why don’t you go to my place, and then I’ll show up when I’m done cleaning up?”

Spencer hesitated. He still wasn’t entirely used to the casual intimacy of something as simple as waiting for you at your place. But then again, this—the way you made space for him so effortlessly—was exactly why it had never felt overwhelming.

You didn’t press him for an answer, just kept going, voice slightly distracted like you were already multitasking. “I’ll tell my neighbor to leave my extra set of keys under my doormat right now.”

Spencer nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “That’d be great,” he said instead. “I’ll see you later.”

There was a pause, just long enough for him to picture you—probably still standing in the middle of the library, hands on your hips, surveying the mess before sighing and getting back to work.

Then, softer, “Mhm. Buh-bye, Spence.”

The call ended with a quiet click, and for a long moment, Spencer just stood there, staring at his phone.

Being in your apartment alone? Yeah, no. That was weird.

* * *

Spencer arrived at your building just as the streetlights flickered on, the city settling into early evening. A bouquet of tulips in his hand, clenched in a tight grip as he made his way up to your level. They were a mixture of red, white, and orange tulips.

He remembered Garcia once going on a rant about how no woman had red roses as her favorite flower and that men only gave them as gifts as custom and because they hadn’t cared enough to get to know the woman’s actual favorite flower.

At his quick stop at a flower shop, Spencer had cursed himself for never asking about your favorite flower. But he at least knew he couldn’t buy roses. If not for you, then for the sake of Garcia not being disappointed in him.

So tulips it was. They were a symbol of affection, after all. He’d read about their symbolism stemming from the Persian tale of Farhad and Shirin. A tragic love story not too far from mirroring Romeo and Juliet. And the colors—red was for love, white was for honesty, and orange was for understanding. Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d tell you all of that. Maybe if you asked. But it was still a nice thought for him to know that his gift had a meaning as is, beyond his intention.

He rounded the corner to your door, only to pause when he spotted an older woman standing by it, hands clasped in front of her as if she had been waiting for him. Her hair was a soft gray, pulled back into a bun, and she wore a thick cardigan. Kind eyes appraised him from behind gold-rimmed glasses, and when her gaze dropped to the flowers, her lips twitched in approval.

“Tulips?” she mused. “Good choice.”

Spencer blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Oh—uh, thank you?”

Her smile deepened knowingly. “You must be Spencer.”

“I am, yes.”

She gave a small nod, then reached into her cardigan pocket, pulling out a keyring. “I’m Edith, the neighbor with her keys,” she explained simply. “She asked me to leave them under the doormat, but I figured I’d wait and hand them off in person.”

“Oh, right! Thank you,” Spencer said, taking them carefully from her outstretched hand.

The woman didn’t step away immediately. Instead, she studied him for a long moment, eyes twinkling with something he couldn’t quite place. And then, in a softer voice, she added, “I know it’s not my place to pry, but be kind to her.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “Of course,” he said quickly.

The neighbor hummed, satisfied but not entirely done.

“You’re very welcome to take care of that girl,” she said gently. “Because I don’t think anyone else does.”

It wasn’t pity in her voice. It wasn’t sadness, either. It was just an observation, simple and steady, spoken by someone who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, possibly for a long time.

He swallowed, fingers curling slightly around the keys in his palm, not having the time to overthink what she’d said.

“I will.”

The woman nodded once before turning to walk up the stairs, heading back to her own apartment.

Spencer watched her go, then turned back to your door.

He let himself inside, stepping into your space. Spencer had adored your apartment ever since the first time you had him over, that time he’d picked you up from girls’ night.

It was a small space, crowded with your things. You’d moved in fresh out of high school. It was something about not being able to wait any longer to get out of your mother’s house. Then you’d stayed in the same apartment all through college and when you started working at the library.

And yes, it was messy. But you were a bit of a mess yourself, so it only made sense. It wasn’t unclean in any way, but you placed things around you without any rhyme or reason. You were still able to find everything, though. Spencer had noticed that quite quickly, observing you in your own space. While he’d lounged in the bed after one of your now very casual sleepovers, he’d seen you find your sweater hung on the kitchen door and your favorite tea mug on the bathroom sink.

There wasn’t a pattern. He had a pattern for most things in his own apartment. But this made sense to you.

Spencer dropped your keys in a bowl on a table in your entryway. He didn’t want to feel any responsibility over them. It was weird enough to be alone in your space.

The apartment was eerily quiet as he kicked off his shoes and took a seat on your couch, the tulips placed on your coffee table. He’d wait for you to put them in water, not wanting to go through your kitchen cabinets looking for a vase.

He thought he could read for a while or maybe turn on the TV. But he didn’t end up doing anything. He mostly looked around the room, twiddling with his fingers as his eyes lingered on your bookshelf and on the artwork you had decided to hang on the wall.

The blanket draped over the couch, was it handmade? The coasters on your coffee table, were they souvenirs? The Polaroid pictures blu-tacked to your bedroom door, who were they off?

Spencer could spend hours asking you questions, he thought. He’d find your reasonings interesting even if they weren’t.

If it had gone ten minutes or an hour when you barged in through the door with the loudest sigh he’d ever heard, Spencer couldn’t answer. You didn’t even say hi when you saw him sitting on your couch, you just dropped your coat to the floor and smiled, taking in the sight.

“Tulips?” you exclaimed, dropping your bag on the floor too the second you noticed the bouquet lying on the coffee table. Toeing off your Converse on the way over, you looked at him, eyes wide with excitement. “I freaking love tulips!”

Spencer shifted where he sat, lips curving into a small smile. “I hoped so.”

“But why? For Valentine’s day?”

His face warmed, and he hummed in acknowledgment as you picked up the flowers, inhaling their scent.

Spencer watched as you busied yourself placing them in a vase of water, moving around the kitchen like it was second nature. He was about to tell you to leave them in their wrapping to soak for an hour before cutting the stems, but you seemed to already know that. It was supposed to make them last longer. You loved tulips enough to know that. Spencer saw that as a positive indication.

“I totally didn’t plan anything special for today,” you admitted, walking back into the living room and placing the flowers back on the table. “Did you want us to do something?”

“Not really,” he answered. “I just got home from a case, and you have acrylic paint on your shirt. Safe to assume we’re both too tired to go out?”

You glanced down at your stained crewneck and groaned. “Ugh. Yeah. That tracks.”

Your next move shouldn’t have surprised Spencer as much as it did.

Standing in front of him, you lifted the sweater over your head, the shirt you had on underneath rising with it slightly. The skin of your stomach exposed to him, but what he focused on was how your belt cinched at your waist and how your slacks basically fitted like a second skin before they flared out at the legs.

“How do you get them to fit so well?” he asked before thinking.

With your head peeking out from the sweater as you tugged it off, hair getting messy in the process, you raised your eyebrows in amusement. “Spencer, are you staring at my ass?”

His mouth opened, then closed again. He had definitely been looking.

You only laughed, shaking your head. “I tailor them myself.”

Spencer exhaled, grateful for the shift in conversation. “That makes sense,” he mumbled. “They look nice.”

You walked off to your bedroom, throwing the stained sweatshirt into your hamper of dirty laundry like you were the next big thing in the NBA.

By the sound of it, you were changing out of your clothes completely. If Spencer had stretched his neck, he might’ve been able to see it through the door. But he didn’t. It didn’t feel appropriate even though he suspected that you left the door wide open on purpose.

You tiptoed back into the living room wearing shorts and a big t-shirt, your bare feet barely making a sound across the old wooden floors. Spencer should be used to seeing you look so casual, but he was unsure if he ever would be.

“I got you that book you were looking for, by the way. Someone returned it today,” you started to say as you bent over to rummage through your bag. “And uh… this,” you hesitated, handing him not only the book but also a bright pink slip of paper. “A very insistent little girl told me I had to make my own.”

You’d made a Valentine’s card. For him. You’d made it for him. Holding the pink paper in his hands, Spencer’s heart squeezed at the sight—messy crayon doodles, slightly uneven letters spelling out Happy Valentine’s Day. It was simple, kind of ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.

He couldn’t get a word out, simply staring at it.

You plopped down on the couch beside him, sprawling out with ease, moving pillows and blankets around. At first, you bent your knees to not touch him, but then on instinct you moved them to be in Spencer’s lap as he got the book and card out of the way.

Your toes matched the red nail polish on your fingers. He hadn’t noticed that before.

“Why did you want it, anyway? Didn’t think it was your kind of poetry,” you asked, not bothered by his lack of reaction to the card.

Although, maybe his silence was enough for you to see through him like glass. He’d never gotten a Valentine’s Day gift before. Garcia got everyone cupcakes, sure, but he’d never received one with romantic intentions.

“It isn’t. But you read it and seemed to enjoy it.” Spencer straightened, finally finding something to say. Answering questions was something he could manage. “Also, the poem about being a vacuum cleaner seemed too odd to ignore.”

You’d mentioned it once at the library. The second time you talked to each other. He’d been reading a book on Nobel Prize winners, and you’d approached him, offering him tea and questioning him about his job. A John Cooper Clarke poetry collection in your lap. There was something about a poem and a vacuum cleaner. He remembered thinking that he had to read it, no matter how stupid it sounded.

You snorted. “Yeah, it’s… weirdly moving.”

Spencer placed the card on the coffee table, patting it with his palm like it meant something. He’d have to save it. Put it on his fridge or make a shoebox of memories with you.

He then started going through the book. It was muscle memory for him. If he had a book in his hands, he would read it immediately.

The poetry was so simple, it only would’ve taken him minutes to finish the entire thing. But once he read a line out loud to you, seeing a happy and content smile, he knew he couldn’t hurry through it. So, he read it to you instead.

The couch was just big enough for the two of you—him sitting upright against the armrest, and you sprawled across the cushions with your feet in his lap, half-buried under a blanket. With nervous fingers, he’d started to trace absentminded patterns on your shin.

The air smelled faintly of old books and lavender, your signature candle flickering softly on the coffee table next to the tulips. Every now and then, Spencer would pause between stanzas, glancing over at you like he was gauging your reaction. Most of the time you interrupted him yourself, feeling the need to question something.

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it’s a metaphor.”

“For what? Codependency?”

“Or devotion,” Spencer theorized.

“I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust.”

You squinted. “Is that a reliable car?”

“Pretty sure they’re not. Must be irony,” he answered.

The next interruption wasn’t your doing. You felt the shift before you saw it—his gaze lingering, the gentle press of his fingers against your shin turning more intentional.

“What?” you asked out of curiosity. “Did I miss a spot when I shaved or something?”

“No, uhm…” He ran his thumb lightly over a faint line near your knee. “Is this a scar or a birthmark?”

“Scar, I think.” You twisted slightly to glance down. “Might be from when I tried to pick up skateboarding.”

Spencer’s lips quirked. Yeah, that sounded about right.

“Does it look gross?” you asked.

He couldn’t fathom a scar looking gross. Not when it was healed. Because if he thought that about someone else’s scars, what would they think about his?

“I’m not one to speak when it comes to scars,” he mumbled, hesitant.

“I think yours are kinda badass, from stuff you’ve lived through,” you reassured him, a light sparking in your eyes.

“Skateboarding is cool,” Spencer tried to argue.

“I never even managed to stand on the board,” you muttered, a smile shining through. “I have another scar on my ribs from scratching my entire side on the sidewalk.”

He had momentarily forgotten about the book. His focus was only on the skin his fingertips traced and how the scar made a little indent from where it had been scratched open.

“Can I see it?” Spencer asked without thinking.

“Not without, like, flashing you my boobs,” you answered plainly.

Spencer’s fingers abruptly stopped moving as he first thought he hadn’t heard you right. Then he realized that he had asked to see a scar on your ribs. And your ribs were close to your breasts. That was how the human body was shaped.

“Oh—” His brain seemed to stutter, like a skipping record. “Would that…?”

“You don’t think it’d be a bad idea?” You sat up from your lying position, taking the book in your hands as you bent your legs over his lap. “I could do it. It’s not crossing any boundaries for me. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” he murmured.

You smiled back, shifting so you could press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. He tensed slightly beneath you—not in rejection, but in that way he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Good,” you whispered.

For a second, you just looked at him. He could sense that you were trying to read his reaction. He wasn’t sure he had a reaction. Or at least one that was reasonable.

Tucking your lower lip between your teeth, a small sigh escaped you. Spencer only briefly had time to wonder if you were disappointed, but your attention turned back to the book, a finger tracing the page to find the next line of the poem.

“If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot.”

You snorted. “Okay, now he’s just saying words.”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to concentrate on something other than the fact that you basically wanted to be shirtless in front of him.

“Isn’t that the point of writing? Putting words together?”

“Smartass.” You scrunched your nose at him.

He let his eyes linger on the page for a while before he read the next words. He didn’t realize their meaning until they left his mouth.

“You call the shots, I wanna be yours.”

You were so close to him. He could hear your breaths, feel them if he focused. The bare skin of your legs touching his covered ones, a burning sensation through the fabric. It was like his ears started ringing by how quickly his heart was beating. He could only wonder if yours was beating even half as fast.

Spencer wasn’t avoiding eye contact—not exactly—but he was looking at you like he was working through a puzzle, like he was waiting for the right words to magically fall into place before saying them.

“I have to start thinking rationally about this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You furrowed your brows. “This meaning sex?”

“I guess…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together. “It’s about you, in general.”

“And by that, you mean?”

“It’s biology,” he stated, the beginning of a ramble. “Attraction is a chemical process driven by neurotransmitters. It releases dopamine and oxytocin that are associated with the feelings of reward and attachment. The limbic system is highly active in people experiencing romantic attraction. Essentially, the brain treats attraction like an addiction, reinforcing behavior that leads to emotional and physical closeness.”

You tilted your head. “So… that’s what’s happening here? Biology?”

Spencer let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It is. That’s why you make me incapable of thinking straight and why I get so nervous. I have to realize that it’s biology even though it feels like fiction to me. Does that even make sense?”

“Nope.”

“Great. Well—”

“Spencer.” You sat up fully this time, your legs folding beneath you as you shifted to face him, placing the book on the table with a thud. “There is nothing rational about love.”

Love. You’d used the word love.

He wanted to continue explaining, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to make sense. Maybe you were right. Even though there was a scientific explanation for everything he was feeling, there was also a reason as to why people turned to fictional stories when they searched the matters of love. The feelings were allowed to be so irrational that they felt impossible.

“And that’s not me confessing my love for you, by the way. That’s kind of early, but we’re en route to love, right? Neither of us is in this only for sex?” you continued talking, your hand reaching out to hold his.

Spencer heard himself laugh. It would be the shittiest sex-only relationship ever, because, well, you weren’t having sex. But then he nodded, agreeing with you—you were in too deep to call it casual.

“Morgan called you my girlfriend today, and I didn’t even try to correct him. I used to always do that,” he said, something hesitant in the way he admitted it because he was still trying to make sense of it himself.

With an assertive move, you grabbed his hand. “Good. We’re on the same page.”

Spencer looked down at your joined hands before glancing back up at you. He swallowed. “I’m your…”

“You’re my boyfriend,” you confirmed, and the way his lips parted slightly, like he was tasting the word, made you squeeze his hand again.

“I’m your boyfriend.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. And don’t overthink it, okay? We can just… be.”

You said it so simply. Easiest thing in the world. Spencer wanted to believe it was. His mind couldn’t accept it so easily, though. It worked overtime in general, but he wasn’t sure he had ever thought so much about the same thing. Being in a relationship, having a girlfriend, sex. He almost wished he could preoccupy his mind with other things, some difficult chess strategy or some foreign literature. But no. It was all you up there.

And what did you think about it? He didn’t know.

Spencer cleared his throat, saying, “I’m not sure I’ve asked you how you feel about all of this.”

“How do I feel about sex?”

You made a little confused face, and Spencer nodded as an answer, letting the room go quiet as you thought of what to say. You fiddled with the fringe of a blanket with your free hand, the other still holding Spencer’s.

“I think…” you exhaled. “I think you respect me more than I respect myself.”

Spencer found it miraculous that you were able to keep eye contact with him even though the smallest of tears formed on your waterline.

“What’s it been? Over a month? And you haven’t seen me naked,” you continued, almost a surprised tone in your voice.

45 days. It had been 45 days. He had to force himself to not say it out loud.

“You haven’t asked, or just… done. Nothing. I’m not sure I know how to react to that. I feel like I should have to throw myself at you to make you like me, but you’re not like that.”

“I like you just as you are,” Spencer whispered, unsure if it was the right moment for him to speak.

“I know that, but it’s new for me. I haven’t done all this with someone who actually cares before,” you said, voice sounding like you were constricting the words.

Your grip around his fingers tightened, and Spencer found himself rubbing circles on the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb. He didn’t dare to reach up and touch your face, but he wanted to.

Your lip noticeably quivered as you continued, “I haven’t always… valued intimacy the way I should have. And I haven’t exactly been with men who saw beauty in being with me instead of just lust.

It was strange, the way those words made his chest ache.

You’d mentioned it before—when he admitted he was a virgin, you’d said something about finding it a little amusing that someone could go so long without sex, especially when it had been a coping mechanism for you. He assumed that meant earlier in your life, but truth be told, he didn’t really know.

Spencer thought back to what Edith had said in the hallway. She’d said that no one had been taking care of you. That didn’t necessarily mean you’d been alone, just that you hadn’t always surrounded yourself with the best people.

And yet, looking at you now, he couldn’t see it. You made it look effortless—being warm, being kind, holding him close like it was second nature. How you were so well put together that no one would ever even notice things you’d been through unless you told them. And you didn’t tell anyone.

He struggled to picture it—the same girl who had made him a handmade Valentine’s card, who curled up against him on the couch like she belonged there, had also been the girl who once used to stumble home drunk or high, clinging to some guy whose name would be forgotten in the morning. The thought alone made his stomach twist. Someone having their way with you and your mind having convinced you that you didn’t have a choice—thinking that you were so desperate to be liked that you didn’t even mind if it was only for a moment.

It didn’t fit. You didn’t fit with that image.

Or maybe you did, and he just didn’t know it yet. There was still so much to learn about you, so much you hadn’t yet shared.

Spencer watched as you almost turned on yourself, his silence becoming too much for you to deal with. It hadn’t been his intention to make you uncomfortable, or to make your words seem even heavier than they were because of his lack of reaction.

“You’re not too good at talking about this either, are you? About what you want?” he wondered, keeping his eyes on you, trying to convey that his silence wasn’t judgment. It was attention.

A soft huff of laughter escaped you. “No, I guess I’m not.” You paused for a moment before adding, “But I like taking it slow. It makes it feel… different. Special, like it never has before.”

His chest tightened. Like it never has before.

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know how to put into words the way it made him feel—some odd mixture of relief and sadness. He wished he didn’t, but it was relief he felt when he realized that while everything of this was new to him, some aspects were also new to you. The blind leading the blind in a way.

“I’m sort of scared of being too much for you,” you murmured. “Or for everyone, really.”

Spencer inhaled sharply, shaking his head almost instantly. “But you’re not—”

“And you don’t think you’re ever going to be enough, do you?” you interrupted, watching as the words hit him like a direct shot to the chest.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. He blinked at you, caught off guard, his fingers tightening around yours like he needed something to hold onto. It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was an observation. A fact. One he couldn’t even bring himself to deny. He felt inadequate in every sense when it came to intimacy.

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “We make an interesting pair, huh?” you mused.

Spencer exhaled a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Interesting was definitely a synonym for dysfunctional in this case.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We really do.”

You smiled, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his. You were curled in his arms now, your chest touching his, hand resting on his shoulders as you searched his face. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers came up to rest gently against your jaw, his touch featherlight, reverent.

“Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.”

“I—” He swallowed. “I think I’d like to kiss you for a while. If that’s okay.”

You nodded gently. “Can I sit in your lap?”

Spencer couldn’t form a sentence to answer, but he lifted his hands, inviting you to move closer. Not closer than you ever had been before, but it was by far the most intimate position you’d found yourself in.

You straddled him, knees on either side of his hips and your ass pressed against his lap. Your exposed thighs painted before Spencer like a landscape of skin. Before he could look at your face, his eyes were glued to the slight pattern of your skin, with scattered scars and birthmarks.

Close enough, Spencer snuck in a light peck on your lips. The first of many, he hoped.

Your hands lingered by your side before you lifted them to slowly rest around his shoulders, tickling the skin of his neck, diving your fingers in his hair to stroke his scalp with gentle tugs. He liked it so much that a little noise left his mouth as he couldn’t help but feel his body melt against yours.

Spencer’s arms were stiff, palms pressed against the couch cushion. He didn’t know if or where to touch you.

You started to litter his face with little kisses—on his cheeks, jaw, and mouth. He canted forward to meet you halfway, overwhelmed by the feeling of your chest pressed against his.

Pulling back, you cupped his face, simply looking at him for a moment. “Your face should come with a warning sign. You’ve got bone structure like you were carved out of marble by Da Vinci or something,” you said, leaning back in to kiss him.

“You’re thinking of Michelangelo,” he mumbled, although the words got lost against your mouth.

“Huh?” You didn’t stop kissing him.

“Nothing.”

Yeah, it was nothing to bring up compared to what was going on.

He always felt like he had gotten the hang of kissing someone, but with you it was a new sensation every time. And with your tongue slipping inside his mouth, your teeth grazing his lips—an open-mouthed and messy make-out session—he might as well have been fifteen all over again.

You teased him, and he knew it. Panting in his mouth, gnawing his lips raw. And your hands, god your hands that never stopped wandering. It was innocent, fingers through his hair or running along his arms, but still enough for Spencer’s brain to go haywire.

He wasn’t sure it was intentional the first time you did it, but he felt your hips move against him. A slow brush forward that could’ve just been you adjusting your position. Spencer’s response was instant, a sharp breath leaving his mouth, entering yours. He was convinced it wasn’t intentional when you simply continued kissing him. But then you did it again. Not once, but repeatedly.

Spencer was getting harder with every instant your hips ground against his, and surely you noticed it too, because he could feel you smiling through the kisses.

“You’re allowed to touch me, y’know?”

His head snapped up at your words, stopping the kissing.

“But—uhm, where?”

You gave him a look—one of those knowing, amused looks. “Anywhere. Did you want to see the scar?”

His throat went dry. He managed a nod.

“So, touch my waist and take my shirt off.”

He didn’t expect you to be so direct. Maybe he should always expect that from you.

Spencer took his time, gazing at you sat on his lap. Your lips were wet from kissing, and you had mascara smudged under your eyes. He found you breathtaking, sitting there in a frumpy old t-shirt, smiling at him like he was the dumbest thing ever.

Carefully, he let his hand settle on your thigh, fingers barely touching your skin. He saw how your eyes followed the way his hands moved, slowly upward, sinking his fingers into the skin in a way that made it spill out between them.

When he finally reached the fabric of your shirt, he pushed it up, letting his eyes find yours as a way to reassure that it was indeed okay. You did nothing but nod, helping him slowly peel it over your head. Spencer was too busy looking at how cute your face scrunched up when the collar got caught around your head to see that you weren’t wearing a bra. When you carelessly tossed the shirt onto the floor and then let yourself just sit still in his lap, that was when Spencer took in the sight of you, bare aside from your shorts.

Spencer was pretty sure his eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

Taking him out of his trance, you started talking, doing a little shift with your hips and crossing your arms over your chest. “This might be the first time I’m nervous about being naked in front of someone.”

Spencer tilted his head, talking too fast for his own good. “You didn’t mind getting undressed when you had to help me shower after my injury.”

“Wearing a bra and shorts is not the same as being naked,” you stated.

He dared to move his hands again, finding your arms, absently tracing the skin. You relaxed, uncovering your chest again, letting him see your breasts again. Admittedly, he had a hard time focusing on your face, but he tried his best.

“What are you nervous about?”

He watched you hesitate, your lips pressing together before you shrugged. The movement was small, but Spencer saw through it. You were trying to sound casual, but the slight tightness in your voice betrayed you.

“What if you think I’ve got weird nipples or something?”

“T-they’re not weird,” he blurted, far too quickly, and immediately cringed at himself. He scrambled to recover. “Perfectly normal, in fact.”

“Perfectly normal?”

“Well…” He cleared his throat, cheeks still rosy. “They’re kind of pretty.”

You giggled in disbelief. “You think my nipples are pretty, Spence?”

“I think you’re pretty,” he corrected. “And they’re attached to you, so yeah. Pretty.”

“Well, why don’t you touch them, then?”

He couldn’t argue with that. As his hands traveled up the sides of your body, he began to stroke the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted to his touch.

That was when he saw it. The entire reason you were in this position. A puny little scar on the right side of your ribs. Scratched your entire side on the sidewalk. No, it wasn’t longer than an inch.

Spencer could feel the faint ridge of the scar beneath his touch, but he wasn’t thinking about that anymore. He was thinking about how warm you were, how soft. He was thinking about how insanely close you were to him, how his breaths hit your skin as soon as they left his mouth.

He cupped your breasts fully, admiring the way they fit in his palms and how the ample skin felt malleable to the touch. Your nipples pebbled under his touch, and your breathing turned quicker as he twiddled them slightly between his fingers.

“You can kiss them too, y’know.”

Spencer took in the feeling of having some sort of control over his emotions and over the situation. Fuck yeah, could he kiss them. He started at your sternum with a soft peck, then traced down the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you through heavy eyelashes, his warm brown eyes staring you down as his lips explored. Your jaw slackened, nodding at him reassuringly.

When he took your nipple between them, he heard you hiss at how he purposely teased you. He sucked on the tender skin, mouth on one as he cupped the other. Spencer felt so lost in what was happening that he didn’t even realize he was almost biting down on your skin, grazing your nipple with his teeth until a high moan escaped you.

Your hips rutted forward again, his boner now something that couldn’t be ignored. And by the look of it, the friction was enough to cause you pleasure as well. Spencer wasn’t even sure he’d seen that as a possibility before. But your shorts were thin, and the material of his pants was rough enough to rub your heat every time you moved.

Spencer only pulled away when his lungs burned for air, releasing your nipple with a soft, wet pop. For a moment, he stared, mesmerized by the way it glistened with his saliva, a fleeting mark of what he’d done.

You looked at him, grinning.

His hands found a comfortable space in the divots on either side of your waist as he watched your hands fall from his shoulders down between you. You didn’t touch, or take things any further. They just simply rested on him—on the prominent tent in his slacks.

“Was, uhm… was this all that you wanted for us to try?” Spencer whispered.

The air in the room had somehow turned harder to inhale. Humid.

“I thought I’d start with something less explicit before I tell you that I want your dick inside of me.”

Spencer now forgot how to breathe. Completely.

A little giggle escaped you as you took his face in your hands, your palms cold against his skin. Or maybe he was just impossibly warm. He didn’t want to think about how he must have looked—hair a tousled mess, skin pinking, probably blushing all the way down to his toes.

You pushed his hair off his forehead, tilting your head as you asked, “I’ve made you all flustered, haven’t I?”

Spencer groaned, pressing his head back against the couch like he was seeking divine intervention. His boner, the elephant in the room, lodged in the space between your bodies, wasn’t enough for you to notice?

“Do you enjoy torturing me?”

You laughed, hands placed aimlessly on his chest. “I don’t. I just think it’s cute.”

He opened his eyes, peering at you warily. “What’s cute?”

“You.”

Spencer let out a long breath, shaking his head. “You can’t just call me cute after—” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile, leaning in again, your nose brushing his. “I mean it, though.”

His hands, which had remained mostly still against your waist, flexed slightly. “Me being cute?”

“No.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That I want you.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he wanted to capture exactly how it felt to have you in his lap, saying things that he never thought he’d hear from you. Or anyone for that matter.

“We don’t have to be nervous,” you murmured. “I think we’re both allowed to want each other.”

“I do want you,” he admitted. “I just… I want to do this right.”

“You will. Let me take care of you, Spence.”

He didn’t have much else to say when your lips were back on his, tongue slipping into his mouth. Your hips, god your hips, began to move with more intent, practically squeezing his bulge between your crotch and himself. And your tits, moving with every bounce you made.

Every inch of his skin turned to goosebumps as your fingers sneaked under his shirt, ripping it from where it had been tucked in to his pants. You scratched his skin, and he could imagine the contrast between the red polish and his pale complexion.

Spencer no longer hesitated to explore you. His hands were in tight grips on your hips, wandering to the curve of your ass as he helped you move in rhythm. Glancing down between you, he swore he could see a damp spot blooming on the fabric of your shorts—but that wasn’t what captivated him most.

The best part was when you broke the kiss, gasping for air, your lips parted in a breathless moan. He could shamelessly watch how your face twisted in pleasure. You had an innocent delicacy to your facial features despite the raw need in your body’s movements.

Oh, was he really watching an angel…

The both of you quickly got lost in the hazy feeling of not knowing where his hands on you started and where your hands on him ended. Spencer heard how he whined with each of your movements, but he couldn’t have cared less, hips bucking uncontrollably, canting forward to meet your thrusts.

“Does it feel good?” you murmured, grazing your teeth against his lips.

A strangled breath was all he could reply with, his hands roaming endlessly for something to grab, something to ground him.

“Don’t stop, p-please.”

So he could form words, only that they were pathetic.

It didn’t take long between when Spencer realized that the friction alone would be enough for him to orgasm and it actually happening. He’d been too pent up for too long of a time to even think about holding it back. The feeling so rushed that he couldn’t warn you, or even say something to you. All that left his mouth were stuttered moans and curse words. He normally wasn’t one to use rude words, but this was uncontrollable.

“Oh god, oh fuck—”

He felt a warm liquid spreading from where his cock was tucked in pants, soaking through to stain the fabric. His body froze, and he tried his best to stop his panting breaths as ropes of cum continued to leak out. Out of instinct, his hands left your body, flying up to his achingly blushing cheeks.

You abruptly stopped moving at his reaction, taking in the sight for a second before your hands clutched around his wrists, moving his hands from covering his face.

“No, no. I’m not even giving you the right to be embarrassed right now, Spence,” you said sternly, your eyes flickering between him and evidence of his release. “That was like the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He kissed you to shut you up. Soft, gentle kisses that calmed him down and made you rest your weight back down onto his thighs. Lost in the fact that he’d just had his first orgasm in front of someone else, his mind wandered to you, and if you’d enjoyed it as much as he had. But… you hadn’t finished, had you?

Spencer pulled away, distraught at the thought of taking but not giving. “You didn’t—”

“No, but that wasn’t the point of this,” you cut him off, further explaining, “Sex isn’t always about making the other person cum. This time, for instance, I think it was mostly about us getting more comfortable with each other.”

“But we still didn’t have sex.”

“Sex is whatever you want it to be.” You let out a little sigh, not out of annoyance but out of amusement. “If this is all that you’re comfortable with, then this is sex to you.”

That made sense, even to him. But now that he had gotten a little taste, he couldn’t wait to be comfortable for more.

“B-but I do want more,” he argued. “More of you.”

“We’ll get there.”

“You don’t want me to help you out now?”

He wasn’t sure where his sudden confidence came from, and by the look of it, neither did you. Your eyes went a little wide as you struggled to answer. Spencer felt a sense of pride at the fact he could make you nervous.

You shyly looked away, mumbling, “Only if you’re comfortable.”

“I am. I promise you that I am,” he assured you, turning your face by a light grip on your chin.

You could move your hips against him with all intent to make him feel good, but you got visibly flustered at the thought of him doing the same to you. Adorable.

“How—I mean, I could continue getting off on your thigh,” you said quickly, tucking your hair behind your ears in a practiced, nervous manner. “Or you could use your fingers.”

“Fingers. Can I use my fingers?”

You hummed while nodding, agreeing immediately, kissing him quickly.

Making room on the couch, you both tossed some of the decorative pillows on the floor before Spencer laid you down on your back, him halfway spooning your side so that you both would fit.

The kissing continued as Spencer thought of what to do. He’d read a lot about it. He should be able to figure it out. His hands found home, massaging the plush skin of your thighs, thinking that was a simple way to start. Your chest rose as his fingers trailed over your body. You were desperate.

But maybe so would anyone be if they’d essentially been very close to climaxing and then having it all ripped away.

Spencer felt so unconvincing as his fingers fumbled with the elastic waistband of your shorts. You were about to be so naked, and he was still fully dressed. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Actually, you were very quick to untie the shorts yourself, pushing them down your legs and then onto the floor.

Your panties were a simple white with little floral lace details. And he’d been right; you’d soaked right through them. He looked at you carefully, his brown eyes studying yours as his hand played with the lacy upper hem.

“Keep them on, just—fuck, touch me.”

He looked at you, twisting and turning under his touch, words falling out of your mouth carelessly.

Then his hand made contact with your warm, sticky skin.

First over your pubic bone and then over a slight thatch of hair.

Spencer brushed what he thought was your clit with featherlight touch, taking in your reaction before delving his fingers between your folds, a surprising feeling with how velvety smooth the pooling wetness he found was. His digits circled down over your entrance before retreating.

You bit your lip to the point where it looked painful, keeping everything on the inside, turning your head into his chest.

Spencer stopped moving his hand, using his free one to tilt your head right back, forcing eye contact. “I wanna hear you. Tell me what to do.”

“Move a little higher,” you said, a whine coming from your throat as soon as he followed suit. With a little calculating, Spencer concluded the little bud he was touching was your clit. “Oh, fuck—right there, Spence.”

He used his pointer and middle finger to slowly explore, moving in gentle circles, touching a place that made your stomach tense and breathing sharpen and separate. Spencer could look at you all day as you enjoyed yourself, letting out a little floating laugh between moans, crinkling your nose as he touched the spot again and again.

“Kiss me,” you asked between breaths, your eyelids getting heavy the faster his fingers moved.

His free hand stroked against your jawbone before he leaned down to kiss you, not knowing if he was doing it right. But apparently he was, by the way you whined under his mouth, eyes rolling back.

“Should I—” He swallowed. “Should I do something more? I read that many women can’t climax from penetration and that clitoral or oral stimulation is easier—”

Your eyes went wide as he spoke, interrupted by his continued movements. “Fuck, Spence—You wanna use your mouth on me?” You shook your head, hiding into his chest again. “No, this is enough. You’re enough.”

His fingers slipped between your folds with more ease, hearing the wet sounds he could bring from your pussy. The more he moved, the more he wanted to turn you into a sweet mess at the touch of his fingertips.

“God, you’re gonna make me—”

You tensed up, and Spencer felt it. And then you let it all go.

It was like you lost all stability in your bones, turning into a fluid source of warmth in Spencer’s embrace, as his fingers slid messily over your clit, losing momentum, your underwear soaked and stretched out over the back of his hand.

Spencer had been unsure of if he could notice if you faked an orgasm or not. He now knew that there was nothing fake about you. You let out a last, long breath, and Spencer slowly circled your clit before he pulled his hand away, letting it linger on your naked stomach.

“Was that okay?” he felt the need to ask.

You looked up at him, breathing still uneven and your eyes slightly dopey, practically collapsing in his arms. “Okay? Spencer, you were fucking amazing.”

As Spencer held you, right there on your couch, and you slid your palm over his his chest, resting it tight above the place where his heart was still erratically beating, he felt himself lose control over basically everything. The world narrowed down to you—your skin, your scent, your breathing. Not that much else mattered to him. He wasn’t sure it ever would again.

“I wish I met you earlier in life.”

The words left him before he could stop them, and maybe it was a little ridiculous—like meeting you earlier would have suddenly made life easier, like it would have changed anything at all. But still. He truly wished that.

You kissed his neck, murmuring, “We’ve got all the time in the world, Spencer.”

His fingers skimmed along your arm before settling at your waist, holding you close. You felt so softagainst him, so warm, but after a moment, he felt the residual stickiness of sweat and everything else clinging to both of you. His nose wrinkled slightly, and he knew you caught it before he even spoke.

“Do you wanna go change? Wash your hands? Can’t imagine it’s comfortable being sticky.”

You probably felt just as sticky as he did, but Spencer could tell—he knew—your suggestion had less to do with yourself and more to do with him, his germaphobia, and his sensory issues. Because you were always thinking about him, about the things that made him uncomfortable, about the ways you could make things easier for him without making a big deal out of it. And wasn’t that just the sweetest thing? Spencer thought so.

“Mhm,” he hummed, helping you stand from the couch, legs looking a bit wobbly. “And you should go pee. Prevents UTIs.”

“I know that,” you muttered.

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched. Sitting up himself, he let you slip away, watching as you padded across the wooded floors. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing your body being so casually naked. But he would love the future time he’d spend trying to get used to it at least.

“You wanna watch a movie?” you asked, voice sounding almost drowsy, as you picked up your shorts and t-shirt that had been thrown on the floor. “I got The Princess Bride on Blu-ray, and we could order Indian food.”

Spencer could do nothing but smile, his mind echoing empty of thoughts. “Sure thing.”

Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think ♡ And yes, for those of you who didn't know, the Arctic Monkeys song is originally a JCC poem.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #dr reid

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ceilidho · 5 months ago

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'still wakes the deep' au

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. First Meeting masterlist

Choppy waters like Neptune’s eye meet your gaze when you look back at where you came from, the land on the other side but a beige striation on the horizon.

“Afraid of heights, doctor?” your escort asks, his amusement borderline distasteful. It must stroke their ego to watch newcomers come aboard and flounder, gawking at the swells and waves crashing against the oil rig, each wave so cataclysmic that it’s a wonder the structure stays upright. A wonder of engineering, that is.

The rig manager stands closer to the railing, staring without fear out into the ocean surrounding you. His sea legs are likelier studier than the ones that wash up ashore every fourteen days when he’s due for his OSHA mandated break. His knees don’t even buckle at the sight of the barnacles clinging nerve-wrackingly high up on the rig legs. Far too high up for comfort.

“No, sir,” you reply, shaking your head. “Just water.”

He barks a laugh at that. “Plenny o’ that around here. Wouldn’y go leaning my head over the rail then, if I was you.”

You take another look down, balking at the frothy white streaking the latticework barrier around the jacket legs. No worries there; there isn’t a chance in hell you’ll be going anywhere near the rails. You’re too high up to know for sure, but you wonder if there are sharks plumbing the depths beneath the rig, excited by the noise and activity on board.

You’d be shark chum if you went overboard. Beyond that, you’d be fish food; no sympathy from the sea to be found this far from land.

“Where should I set up?” you ask instead.

Sensing your eagerness to get started—and to get away from the edge of the rig—he gestures for you to follow him and sets off towards the door closest to you, leading you into the interior of the rig. “This way, doc—got a room already set up for ye. Cozier in there than out here.”

The first few days aren’t so bad after that. You spend the first day getting unpacked, your suitcase already waiting for you in your quarters, which doubles as your office, and then turn in early after prepping for the next day.

As anticipated, you spend the next day hunched over the toilet bowl, stomach roiling from spending too long staring at the turbulent waters below. You’ve done this before but it never gets any easier. Despite your chosen field of research, you’re suited for dry land, not the sea. It’s the price you have to pay though.

No coffee that first morning. Just tea to help settle your stomach. And it does for a bit—lets you get through your first day worth of tests without you upchucking while collecting water samples from the discharge point. You’ll save your indoor work for the days when the crests of the waves are high enough to spray the working deck. By dinner, your stomach is a little more settled, but still you elect to eat in your quarters instead of with the workers in the mess.

You haven’t been on the rig long enough to have made any enemies, nor do you think that’s something that’ll happen during your brief time on board, but you definitely haven’t made any friends. It comes with the territory. The men that work on these rigs out in the middle of the ocean—even the ones on land, for that matter—tend to view your kind with distrust at the very least, if not outright hostility.

It’s hard to blame them. The purpose of your visit isn’t to shower them with praises. You’re stationed on the rig for the next few days to collect data and samples to assess the environmental impact of the rig’s operations. It puts you somewhat at odds with them, the outcome of your work being potentially to the detriment of theirs.

Some whisper the word like blasphemy. Government worker. They say it like you’re the Baba Yaga or a witch living in a cottage at the edge of the village, like uttering the word too loudly will summon you. There’s too much work to do around the rig for them to cluck their tongues like gossipy hens, but the men find time for it anyway. You’d roll your eyes if you were any greener.

The truth is though, you’re used to it, and at this point in your career, you don’t have it in you to act like it’s such a shock that they wouldn’t give you the red carpet treatment. All you need is a hot cup of coffee, an office (or even just a desk) to write your reports, and some space to conduct your research without being badgered with questions.

Most of the men tend to blur together, a medley of fluorescent yellow hard hats and navy coveralls, respirators strung around their necks and goggles covering their eyes. It’s easy enough to mistake them for one another.

Only one of them has managed to catch your eye so far, though you can’t say it’s for a particularly good reason. Of the lot of them, he’s the loudest. Which is saying something, considering that the crew tend to speak in shouts and hollers to make up for the crashing waves beneath them and the howling winds above them. He’s also among the tallest, broad shouldered and muscled—a former first responder or military, if you had to guess, though you keep your assumptions to yourself.

You know better than to ask questions around him because you’ve learned in the short time that you’ve spent on the rig not to give him—Soap, they call him, or MacTavish when the rig manager is particularly pissed off—even an inch.

It’s another crew member that gives you that heads up. “Din’y pay him any mind.”

“Who?” you ask, looking up from your work.

The crew member nods to the man posted on the other side of the main deck. “Soap. Bit of a showboat, that one. Always stirrin’ up the boys, gettin’ ‘em all riled up. Din’y let him distract ye too much.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You look back down at the data sheets in front of you. “I’m not worried though. He hasn’t been too much trouble.”

Famous last words.

He isn’t too much trouble until he suddenly is; until he’s suddenly everywhere, always in your way somehow. Not so much underfoot as just always around the corner waiting with his stupid smug smirk that you’ve grown to despise and half-lidded electric blue eyes roving up and down the length of you. Aggravating you at every turn.

Your first meeting is an accident. At least, it seems that way, and likely is—he seems too blunt for coincidences or chance meetings, happy to tell you to your face that he manipulated the situation in order to get you on your own.

You’re wandering down one of the many circulatory hallways and slightly lost when a door suddenly opens, blocking your way. A jumpsuit-clad man twice your size walks out, his hair just brushing the top of the doorframe. Though you recognize him instantly, you’d never gotten close enough for the details to cement in your mental image of him. Up close, you get a better look.

The faint lines around his eyes and mouth betray either his age or the life he’s lived. Weathered; bronzed from days at a time spent under the sun. You’d noticed the mohawk earlier, but staring at the side of his head now, you can see the faint puckering of a healed wound splintering out from his temple into his hairline. Though the sides of his head are freshly shorn, the scar looks old—maybe a year, maybe more.

When he notices that he’s not alone in the hall, his head turns in your direction and he stops, one foot still in the other room. Two thick brows go up at the sight of you standing there with your tablet clutched to your chest.

“Hullo gorgeous,” Soap purrs, pupils suddenly pinpricks and your stomach drops.

Because of course he would. You’d long figured he might be an arrogant piece of work from what little you’ve observed of him from across the rig, but you should’ve known he’d also be a flirt. He’s too good-looking not to be one. Tall and broad, with biceps the size of your head. You’re sure he rolls his shirt sleeves up just to feel them strain against the muscles of his arms. You certainly can’t help the way your eyes are drawn there.

“Ah ken who ye are,” he says, taking a step towards you until the tips of his boots nearly touch yours. The door is still wide open behind him, swinging slowly towards the wall behind it. Soap towers over you easily, tipping his head to stare down at you. Your lips press into a tight line when his eyes drop to your chest, staring at the outline of your tits through your cardigan.

“Okay,” you say through stiff lips.

“Yer that lass from the government. Ah thought ye'd be auld,” he jokes, shit-eating grin on his face.

You nearly groan. It’s too early for this shit and you’re too tired from being up all night working on your report on the rig’s discharge water quality.

“Well, I’m not,” you reply woodenly instead, altogether unimpressed with him.

For as fit as he is, you’re not here to flirt or hookup, and you’re good at separating work and your personal life. If anyone manages to get under your skin enough to tempt you, it won’t be the man undressing you with his eyes while covered in a thin layer of grime and sweat.

“Nae, yer no’,” he agrees, voice a low burr. His eyes flick up to meet yours. “I’m John, by the way.”

“I know.”

“…It’s polite tae give yer name when someone introduces thersel's tae ye.”

“I’d rather you just call me doctor.”

“Doctor, eh?” Soap purrs, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Dae ye dae house calls, doc? Hae been feelin’ a wee bit feverish lately.”

You can’t help the way your cheeks heat at his comment. “Not that kind of doctor. Do you mind getting out of the way?”

“Jesus, I din’y ken ye’d be so fuckin’ prickly. Thought ye government workers were cheery a' the time.”

“Not when we have work to do,” you bite out, decidedly uncomfortable with his shameless perusal and eager just to get on with your day. “Can you move please? I have somewhere to be.”

All that does is force him to take another step closer, toe-to-toe with you now. You should’ve known he’d take that as an invitation. He reeks of grease and brine, the smell pungent and clinging to his skin and clothes. Almost like he sleeps and works in the same pair of coveralls instead of bringing his dirty clothes down to the laundry facility like everyone else at the end of the week.

You tell yourself to stop staring at where his coveralls open to a sweat-slicked chest, dark hair poking up over the neckline, but your eyes don’t comply. A small cross dangles from a chain around his neck, nestled in the hair just above his pecs.

“Good Catholic lass, are ye?” Soap asks, noticing the focal point of your gaze.

You scrunch up your nose at that. “No. I didn’t—it’s none of your business anyway.”

The stutter is where his eyes light up, a little gleam in the blue that lets you know you’ve caught his interest. Like seeing a storm well off in the distance and bracing for it anyway, knowing that you’re in its path no matter what you do.

“A’right, doc, Ah'll leave ye tae it. Gotta get back myself anyway,” he says, rolling his shoulders back and standing up taller, and it’s only in that moment that you realize how low his neck had been bent in order to get closer to you. “Wait. I can’y let ye go lookin’ like that.”

You’re about to ask him what he means when he suddenly grabs you by the front of your cardigan and pulls you towards him, getting the grease on his hands all over the fabric. Your eyes nearly bug out of your skull as he pops the topmost button into its corresponding hole, the only one you’d left purposefully loose.

The only reason you don’t snap at him to take his hands off you is because your tongue is a knot in your throat.

“There we go,” Soap coos when the button is in, looking down at his handiwork all over the front of your shirt. “Lookin’ like part o’ the crew already.”

Your heart pounds in your chest long after he lets you go. When he steps to the side, the door flush with the wall by now, you dart around him, walking away as fast as your legs can carry you without sprinting. You ignore the way he belts out a laugh at your swift departure. Ignore the way your stomach cramps at the sound as well.

He might end up being more trouble than you thought.

#ceil writing #soap x reader #cod x reader #soap/reader #soap x you #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader

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navybrat817 · 9 months ago

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Hold You Tight: Part 1

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Series Masterlist | Part 2

Chapter Summary: You encounter an unexpected visitor in your home.

Chapter Word Count: Over 2.8k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, breaking and entering, stalking, coercion, threats (not against reader), creepy and unhinged behavior, flashback, possessiveness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: Welcome to the Turn It Up AU! Thanks to @starlightcrystalline for helping bringing this unhinged Bucky to life and @targaryenvampireslayer and @tavners for the support. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You yawned as you flipped on the light switch in your apartment and set the keys on the table. It was early, but you were ready to settle in for the night after a busy shift. Maybe you could make a cup of tea and curl up with a book to unwind after dinner. Or maybe even a nice, hot bath and a glass of wine.

If only Addison could hear your thoughts now. She’d tease you for not living it up and enjoying the single life. Nothing new.

Your mouth fell open as you walked into the living room, but no sound came out as you skidded to a stop. Your heart nearly burst out of your chest and plummeted to your stomach at the same time as your phone fell from your hand. It was like you couldn't breathe. Because a man was sitting on your sofa.

And you lived alone.

“What…” you exhaled, no louder than a whisper.

The man didn't speak as he stared at you. He didn't even blink. The staring contest gave you a moment to take in his appearance. Intimidating even though he was sitting, his dark suit looked tailored to perfection on his broad frame. Dark brown hair framed his face and matched the stubble on his face, with the exception of a few gray hairs. The dangerous glint in his hard blue eyes did little to put you at ease, but there was something soft there as well.

In any other circumstance, you would've said he was handsome.

You bent down to pick up your phone before he let out a tsk, a subtle warning for you not to try anything. “Who are you? Why are you in my home?” You asked as you straightened up, hoping your tone didn't betray how terrified you were.

Nothing looked out of place. If he was there to rob you, there wasn't much worth taking. While you weren't struggling, you were far from rich.

He smirked and leaned back further into the cushion, his eyes roving over your body. You hadn't noticed right away, but the hand draped on the back of the sofa appeared to be metal. Or was it a glove? He didn't have to stand for you to know he was larger than you. If things got physical, you wouldn't stand a chance.

“Okay…” If he wasn't going to give you any sort of answer or clue as to who he was or why he was there, you’d just leave. You could go to a neighbor’s place or Addison’s to call the cops. But he didn't seem to like it when you took a step back since he pinned you with a glare and crooked his finger, beckoning you to go to him.

Your legs wobbled with the first step, but you righted yourself as you continued to move forward. If he noticed your misstep, he didn't acknowledge it. You swallowed, worried that bile would rise to your throat from how sick you felt when you stopped in front of him. That feeling only grew when he leaned in to grip your waist and roughly pulled you toward him.

A scream escaped this time around, but his hand clamped over your mouth to smother the sound. The cold fear that trickled down your spine would stick with you for days to come as he pulled you onto his lap and shook his head with another tsk. There was no mistaking the evident lust in his gaze as his eyes bore into yours.

What was he going to do to you?

You put your hands on his shoulders to push yourself away, but the hand on your hip held you tighter. You squirmed in his lap before you brushed against the outline of his cock, your body stiffening when he let out a low groan. With wide eyes, you decided moving wasn't a wise decision.

“Keep moving your hips if you want, but don't scream again,” he warned, his deep voice rumbling from his chest as you breathed through your nose. “There’s time for that later.”

Blood rushed to your ears as your heart pounded faster. You wished you could've stopped the tears from filling your eyes, but you weren't that strong. Was he going to hurt you? Kill you? If so, why?

The brunette cooed as a tear slid down your cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? But I will gag you if I remove my hand and you scream again,” he promised, his tone lighter than a moment ago. “Blink once if you promise not to scream.”

You blinked, another tear falling from your eye.

A pleased look crossed his face when he removed his hand and you complied. “Good girl,” he whispered and you ignored the new kind of shiver that rolled down your spine. “I didn't mean to startle you, but I couldn't wait any longer to see you.”

You exhaled as he used his thumb to wipe the tears away, your body still stiff as you focused on trying to stay calm. Couldn't wait to see you? You had never seen this man before in your life. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Bucky Barnes. And don't worry. I already know your name.” He smirked as he rested his hand on your cheek. You managed not to flinch at his calloused touch. “Did you have fun at my club?”

Confusion flickered in your gaze. “What?”

“My club, The 107th. I own it. Did you have fun?” He asked again, looking at you expectantly.

The 107th was the most luxurious and expensive nightclub in the city. Chic and glamorous in design with a friendly staff who waited on people hand and foot, you felt like royalty as you hung out in the VIP section. The upscale venue wasn't one you frequented often. In fact, you had only been once.

For Addison’s bachelorette party.

“Y-Yeah,” you replied, still confused as to what he wanted. “It’s a nice club.”

He hummed, his thumb brushing across your trembling lip. “I’m glad to hear it, but you didn't seem to have as much ‘fun’ as your friends. Did you?”

You nursed your drink as you gazed out at the dancefloor from your seat. The place was packed, the strobe lights flashing over the crowd in various hues as they grinded to the beat. You adjusted the hem of your short black dress as you debated going out to dance. You decided against it since you weren't looking to hook up.

“Come on! Another shot!” Addison yelled, adjusting her tiara on her head. She was lucky the “bride to be” sash was still on straight. “Shot, shot, sh-sh-sh-shot!”

You giggled as she plopped down beside you. “I did a shot. I'm fine,” you hollered back.

Your best friend grumbled something you couldn't make out as she put her head on your shoulder. “But you aren't even driving.”

“I don't want to deal with a hangover tomorrow,” you argued, thanking the server as she brought another bottle.

“Ugh. If you won't drink, at least get laid,” Addison whined a little. “You're wearing a slutty black dress and everything.”

You looked around at the group. Addison was the only one in white since she was the bride. Everyone else wore black. They looked great, but you weren't dressed to get any sort of attention.

“Yeah! Get fucked!” Dana shouted.

“Is that encouragement or an insult?” You teased, glancing at the small blinking light in the corner of the VIP section. You didn't notice it before.

“Raise your hand if you think our girl should get laid!” Addison announced, raising her hand high and spilling some of her drink on the seat. “Whoops.”

The group raised their hands as you attempted to clean up the small mess. “I’m not hooking up with anyone tonight,” you said to their disappointment. “This night isn't about me and my love life.”

“Your love life? Babe, it doesn't exist!” Addison grabbed your left hand and held it up to stare at your bare ring finger. “I don't get it. You're the only one not engaged or married yet. And you're, like, the sweetest one in our group. And you're so pretty! It’s not fair that you don't have a man. You deserve one.”

“And sex!” Dana chimed in. “You deserve lots of sex!”

You gently pulled your hand away and pushed down the sadness that surfaced at the reminder that you were the only single one left of your friends. You didn't know why you hadn't met the right one yet. It wasn't like your standards were too high and you were a good, loyal partner. You wouldn't say you were supermodel gorgeous, but you were pretty. You knew how to have a good time.

Right?

Addison's lip wobbled when she saw the look on your face. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m sorry. I didn't mean anything by it,” she rambled, hugging you from the side. “I just want you to have what Brady and I have. I want someone to love you.”

Guilt crept in before you shook your head and flashed your best smile. You know she wasn't trying to make you feel bad and you didn't want to ruin her night. “And one day, I will. Someone will love me the way Brady loves you and I’ll love him, too,” you assured her, giving the other girls a shrug and wishing they'd stop with the pitying stares. “Shots?”

“Shots!”

Your eyes briefly went back to the blinking light before you put a small smile back on your face. Addison was having fun and that was what mattered. You could worry about yourself and your feelings tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, but did my friends and I do something wrong?” You asked, dodging his question. You booked and paid for the section well in advance. Your group danced around in the area, and behaved overall and kept to yourselves. The server got a nice tip at the end of the night.

So what was the matter?

“Not at all,” he said, tilting his head. “I’m just sorry I couldn't introduce myself to you that night.”

“I don't understand. You broke into my home just so you could introduce yourself to me?” You asked as he traced small circles on your hips, the motion making your head spin a little. “How do you even know where I live?”

He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, before he got serious again. “I have my ways. And I can be a little intense and forward at times, but you’ll get used to it,” he said, your eyes wide again. What was wrong with this man?

“Okay, Bucky,” you said slowly, seeing something wicked flash in his eyes when you said his name. “Being intense and forward doesn't excuse breaking into my home. And since my friends and I didn't do anything wrong at your club and you formally introduced yourself, I think it's time for you to leave.”

A second passed before he shook his head. “No, doll. It’s time for you to get the love life and man you deserve.”

Fingers brushed your throat as you struggled to take your next breath. “What did you say?”

“I'm going to take you out to dinner tomorrow so you can get to know me and you’re going to wear the dress I bought for you,” he explained as if he didn't hear you, nodding toward the hall. “It’s waiting for you in your bedroom and, yes, it’s your size.”

How did this man have the nerve and how long had he been in your place? “You went into my room? You-”

“And I bought you that perfume you recently ran out of. I know how much you love it. I know everything about you,” he continued, running his nose along your neck as your blood ran cold. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun together.”

You moved back, desperate to get away as your stomach twisted. He didn't let you get far, easily yanking you close again. How did he know anything about you? How did you catch his eye?

The blinking light in the corner of the VIP section …

“And if I say no?”

Bucky pulled back, his eyes calculating as he studied you. “I’m not going to force you into going out with me. It’s your choice to say yes or no, but I want you to think carefully about that choice.”

Dread pooled in your gut. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I obviously know where you live and I can get in and out undetected,” he pointed out. You wondered now if this was the first time he had been in your place. “I also know where your friend Addison and her fiancé, Brady, live.”

A wounded sound escaped at the thought of anything happening to your friends. “Please, leave them alone.”

“And the shop you work at, I know where it’s located. Those floral arrangements you make are stunning. Your boss even gave you a raise recently. You should be proud,” he smiled.

Your eyes watered again. The man was certifiably insane. Maybe this was a sick joke or a bad dream. Soon you'd wake up in your bed.

But the iron grip on your body reminded you that this was very real.

He waved a hand dismissively. “But we both know you’ll make the right choice because you're a good girl… a smart girl,” he said like he hadn't just threatened your friends or livelihood. “Just take the night to think it over. Have a glass of wine and draw yourself a nice bath while you do.”

He surprised you by moving you from his lap to the sofa. His hands and eyes lingered on you momentarily before he released you and stood up. Towering over you, he gave you a tender smile as he buttoned his jacket.

“I’m going to lock the door behind me when I leave and I’ll be back tomorrow at 7pm so you can give me your answer. And if you try and tell anyone I was here tonight, I’ll know about it,” he said, grasping your chin when you tried to look away. “It’s taking all of my control not to drag you to bed, but I can wait a little longer.”

Fear prickled the back of your neck as you tensed up. “You couldn't just ask me out like a normal person?”

You almost regretted asking when he narrowed his eyes, but he huffed out a laugh. “Where's the fun in that?” He winked as you shrank back in your seat. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won't hurt you. And you know what? I just thought of something. You still need a plus one for the wedding. I’m free. I’ll get a suit to match your bridesmaids’ dress. We’ll look perfect together. And Addison will be so happy that you aren't going alone.”

His tone was light and happy like it was a suggestion and not an order, but the ferocity in his gaze had you trembling. “Why are you doing this?” You asked above a whisper.

“Because I want you and I get what I want,” he said as a matter of fact, releasing your chin. “Like I said, it's time for you to get the love you deserve. And I know you'll give it to me in return.”

It was like your spirit floated out of your body as he bent down to kiss your forehead. You couldn't move or speak. Was this what shock felt like? Or was it complete and utter fear?

You stared ahead as he picked up your phone and unlocked it with your passcode. He knew that, too? “Can’t leave without giving you my phone number,” he smiled, putting his information in before he set the device down. You didn't respond. Once he was gone you could scream and cry. But you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking down in front of him. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, 7pm. Get some rest. You'll need it.”

Even as he left you alone and locked the door behind him as promised, you didn't move from your spot as tears streamed down your cheeks. You didn't dare go to your bedroom to see the gifts he left for you, your hand shaking as you wiped at your face. The scent of his cologne lingered, as did his touch. It was like his shadow covered you, leaving you cold and afraid. Your home was no longer safe.

You weren't safe.

With his subtle threat looming over your head, you’d have no choice but to go out with him. Maybe he’d get bored of you quickly and move on. Or maybe not. You had no way of knowing. All you knew was that your average life was upheaved by the owner of The 107th.

And you were going to be his girl whether you liked it or not.

Bucky isn't wasting time. Where is he taking you on your first date? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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nsharks · 1 month ago

Text

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children, or SA, triggers you do not read. I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.

The world sharpens as your senses return, zeroing in on the empty, crumpled sheet where Blue had lain beside you. She’s gone. Your deadened limbs failed her. Guilt rises, choking your dry throat. When your hands can move, you grab the pillow, pressing it to your face. A few hot tears escape. It smells like her hair.

They took her.

She's gone—

A gentle voice speaks, and a hand settles on your shoulder. Only then do you notice your body trembling. You lift your face from the pillow, staring up at Nereida. Her lips move, but her words don’t reach you. Something stirs inside you, deep in your chest, clawing its way toward your mouth. When the door creaks open and Salome steps in with a tray of dinner, it finally bursts free—a roar of pure rage.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t tell me where she is.”

Salome startles, nearly dropping the tray as you fling yourself at the bars.

“I-I understand you’re upset, and I’m sorry we had to subdue you again, but it was only—”

“I don’t give a fuck! Answer me! Where is she?”

Her knuckles whiten around the tray, eyes darting away. “The child has... her own job, as we all do.”

Your lip curls. “Are you brain-dead under that stupid veil? Why take her? She’s a child! Why not one of us?” You lean closer, voice breaking. “If you want me pregnant so badly, fine! Do it now! Just bring her back—bring her back!”

Salome blinks, unnerved, her composure slipping.

“If you’ve killed her,” you hiss, heat flooding your face, “I swear to God, I’ll kill myself—”

“No!” she interjects, stepping forward, wide-eyed. “Don’t speak like that, I beg you. She... She’s alive. For now.” Her voice drops, reverent. “But Maman has plans for her. You must understand—Maman knows the Lord’s will. It is not our—" her throat bobs with a swallow,"Our place to question her decisions.”

“Alive for now ?” you snap. “What plans does that bitch have for her?”

Salome hesitates. For the first time, she looks uncertain.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. “I can’t... I mustn’t say. In time, you’ll understand.” She lowers the tray onto the floor and nudges it closer, staying out of your reach. “Please. You must eat. It’s only food this time, I promise. And the tea is for your bodies—to prepare you. Maman insists you drink it all.”

“You really think we’re stupid enough to eat or drink anything you give us?”

Her voice dips into a whisper. “I fear I... I must insist. If you refuse... I’ll have to tell Maman. She’s chosen to keep the males you came with because they are healthy and strong. But if she hears of your disobedience...” Her voice falters, and she tucks her hands into her sleeves. “There needn’t be any unnecessary deaths.”

Unnecessary deaths.

The door clicks shut behind her when she leaves. You sink to your heels, spine against the bars, as Nereida reaches for the tray. Closing her eyes, a single tear escapes before she rubs her chest and exhales. With no choice, you both eat the braised beef and roasted carrots, though you bitterly imagine it tastes like the unseasoned squirrel meat you're used to.

The tea smells herbal and bitter. On your tongue, the taste makes you recoil.

"I think it's turmeric and parsley," Nereida says softly, taking another sip. "It's good for... regulating our cycles."

You stare into the mug, swirling the warm liquid inside. The urge to dump it on the floor flickers, but the risk of someone noticing holds you back. Instead, you take another sip, chasing it with food to mask the taste. Your thumb brushes the rim, finding a sharp chip in the ceramic. Pressing it deeper, the sting hums as a bead of blood wells up. You suck on it, brows furrowed, a half-formed plan taking shape. Without hesitation, you finish the tea and smash the mug on the floor, startling Nereida.

"Why did you—"

You gather the two biggest shards. "We have weapons now. Break yours when you're done."

"So what’s the plan? Stab her with it?" She shakes her head, frustration clear in her voice. "She’s dumb, but not dumb enough to get close enough for that—not after you just said you want to kill her."

"Well, it's something." Your lips tighten along with your hand on the sharp edges. "At least I’m trying to think of an idea instead of just—just praying my military husband comes to save me."

Her eyes flash with hurt. "I'm trying to think realistically instead of acting rash." She gestures to the broken pieces. "She just threatened to kill them if we do anything to upset this Maman person, and you go breaking the cup. You think they'll be happy about that?"

"I'll say it was an accident. I'm a clumsy female who just couldn't help myself."

"You're not thinking clearly, Twix. I know you're upset about Blue—"

“And you’re not?” you hiss. “We failed her. She’s just a kid, and we failed her. Who knows what they’re doing to her right now. We don’t have time to sit around waiting for Price. He’s not coming! Even if they don’t kill him now, you really think they won’t at some point? These people are insane.” Your voice drops lower. “They’re going to rape us, Nereida. Don’t you see that? They’ll wait for us to ovulate, then breed us like livestock to feed into their delusions. What happens when they find out you can’t have kids? You think they’ll keep you around? You think they’ll still ‘covet’ you?”

Moisture wells in her eyes, and she blinks. "I don't—I don't know. But what can we do? We can't reach her, and they won't open the cell without drugging us again. Even if we could get out, we can't handle everyone out there with just pieces of a broken mug." The tears spill quietly, and she stuffs her face in her hands. "You're right. I've always relied on him. I don’t know how to survive any other way."

Your face softens a little, and you breathe deeply to regain some composure. "I shouldn’t have said that. We’re both scared."

She whispers through the gaps in her shaking fingers. "I was never supposed to live like this."

You reach for her hands, holding them tight. "You were, or you wouldn’t still be here."

The words offer fragile solace despite how steady you force your voice to be.

The rest of the meal is in silence.

The helplessness in the room is suffocating, reminiscent of the week you spent alone in the woods, sleeping in trees and dreading the break of dawn. No—it’s worse than that. It feels more like when Ghost broke your bow and left you for dead, chewing on pine needles to soothe your empty stomach. Funny how this time there’s a delicious meal in front of you, and you’re swallowing it down only because you’re forced. You even have a real bed to slip into, a yielding pillow to rest your head on, yet the helplessness remains, unwavering.

"I'm sorry, Blue. I'm trying," you whisper, clutching the shards of ceramic and slipping them under the pillow.

You replay everything in your head: the lack of items in the room, the bolted cell door, and what Salome said— Maman has plans for her. The moon rises, and you remain awake, even as Nereida succumbs to fatigue. You force your eyes to keep scanning the dark surroundings, despite the lingering effects of the drugs threatening to pull you into sleep. There has to be something you're missing—maybe not in the room, but in Salome's words. What else did she say? You were so angry, you can hardly remember.

It feels like well past midnight when you hear a male voice outside the door and the shift of footsteps.

"Trois minutes, Hugo."

A low chuckle. "Trois minutes, c'est tout ce dont j'aurai besoin."

"N'oubliez pas de ne pas toucher. Et ne vous en vantez pas auprès des autres. La nouvelle se répandra et Maman ou Alexandre l'entendront."

The air shifts when the door parts. You launch up, inhaling sharply when a shadowy figure enters along with the faint scraping of boots. Salome? But broad shoulders give way to an unfamiliar man that steps into the sliver of moonlight, and panic sets in quickly.

Breathless, you rip the sheet from your body.

Nereida stirs. "Twix—?"

You rise to your bare feet, standing a meter from the bars as you take him in. A light smile plays at his lips, which might’ve seemed friendly if you weren't poorly covered by the barely-there slip dress. Unlike Salome, his face is exposed beneath the hood of his grey cloak. You make out a strong nose, ashen brows, and blonde hair. He looks to be in his thirties, much shorter than Ghost. He murmurs something in French beneath his breath that makes your hands clench, then reaches into a pocket in his cloak.

He retrieves three metal chains.

In his upheld hand, the dog tags quietly collide.

Your breath hitches as his eyes flick to yours, and the moonlight catches on the engraved names.

"I'm a friend of your friends," he greets coyly in a hushed, strong accent.

"John," Nereida whispers, ripping herself up from the bed.

The man nods, the subtle smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, but it fails to reach his eyes. They remain cold. "Yes. We've all grown rather acquainted."

"You've hurt them," you snap, grabbing Nereida's wrist and pulling her closer. "Cut the bullshit."

He wraps the chains tightly around his wrist before tucking them away, then looks at you in a way that leaves your mouth tasting like the dinner you just ate. "A female who bites. I will look forward to making you submit as a God-fearing woman should."

You clutch at the hem of the gown, terror whispering in the back of your mind from his words. Something feels wrong.

"Why are you here?" you ask measuredly. "I thought... it isn't the right time for us to... to get pregnant. I thought only women are allowed to see us right now."

"I've heard whispers of the new beautiful women God has gifted us," he says, his English choppy. "I wanted to see for myself. I've been... working hard to please the Lord, you see. Your friends are not so easily broken. Surely, in His eyes, I've earned just a glimpse."

Nereida tenses beside you.

You rear a snarl at him. "Where are they?"

He holds up a finger. "Ah, ah, pretty face. You will have to let me see more if you would like to know. I have just three minutes with you. Two now that we've been wasting time."

Cold sweat coats your palms as his request sinks in, and you glance at Nereida. "I'll do it," you whisper. "You can just... just look away."

"No," his growl interjects. "Both of you, or nothing."

Even in the dark, her face pales. But when he pulls the chains back out and waves them around harshly, her hands dart to the hem of the dress and she peels it up without the chance to rethink it. You follow in stride, teeth gritted, as you scoot a step away from her and do the same, feeling the chilled air brush sickeningly against your bare skin. You've done this before, yet this time you are wholly naked under the stranger's gaze, and your hair is not long enough to conceal your breasts.

When you hear him unbuckle his belt, you remove yourself from your body, mentally retreating to a far corner of the room to block out the horror.

"Tell us where they are," you press.

He chortles, breath catching when he grabs himself. "This land belonged to Maman's husband. It is a farm. New men we keep in the old slaughter house, by the barn, like the swine they are."

"And what about the girl," you interrupt urgently, "The young child who was with us. Why would Maman want to take her? Where else would she be keeping her?"

He grunts low. "I never said I'd answer about the girl, but if you touch yourself, I will consider it."

Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding. Nereida breaks, folding into herself and whispering, "I can't. I can't."

"I will," you whisper, your hand already sliding down your stomach, your eyes locking on his. "If I touch myself, will you tell me?"

His eyes narrow to where your hand dips unthinkingly between your thighs. You keep it there, doing what he wants, putting on the show that will make him talk. His shoulders ripple at the sight and audible groans bounce off the walls.

He clears his throat, voice rough. "I haven't heard nothing yet about the girl. But Maman says God’s punishing us... the land’s... sick. The wheat grows less and less. Only way to fix it—feed God's enforcers."

"His enforcers?" you question.

"The démons."

"The Greys," you whisper, confusion flickering before clarity dawns.

A flash of the vermin-filled chapel plays through your mind—the bites in the corpse—and your hand jerks away from your thighs. The horror clicks into place, slow and suffocating, until all the color drains from your face. Blue... Is she an offering? An offering to God, just like the one you saw. They think the Greys are His enforcers. They will feed her to them. The thought claws its way through your head, and you feel a fresh wave of cold horror crash over you.

"When?" you croak. "When would Maman— feed them?"

"God's wrath... started on the sixth day," he murmurs absently, eyes rolling back. "That’s when we seek His forgiveness."

With a final grunt, his body jerks, and the spill lands on the floor. Bile rises in your throat, but you can’t even register it as you watch him stuff himself back in his pants and smear the mess with the sole of his boot, muttering something under his breath. You snatch the dress from the floor and stuff it over your head, legs wobbly. Faintly, you hear him laugh quietly.

"I can only pray I'm deemed worthy come the next coupling season. And when that time comes, I will be sure to choose you."

Warm water kisses the back of her neck, and gentle fingers scrub soap through her hair. The woman bathing her hums softly, matching the rhythmic pulse in Blue's arm. As Blue closes her eyes, she tries to separate reality from nightmare, pressing two fingers into the clothed wound as if the pain will help her understand. She remembers the Greys coalesced in the old building, the chains used to restrain them, and the terror-blurred walk back to the small commune. After that, everything becomes hazy. She slept a little, she thinks. Was made to eat again. Then somehow, she ended up here, submerged in a wooden tub of lukewarm water, while a young woman quietly encourages her to dip her hair back to rinse.

"There. Time to dry off now."

There is the shuffling around as she fetches a towel. Blue crosses her arms over herself as she accepts it numbly, the air prickling her wet skin. Her feet land on cold tile floor as she dries off, the woman lingering beside the bathroom door with her head bowed. Blue feels like someone has strings coiled tightly around her limbs, puppeteering her.

"Put this on for now." A light smile is offered as the thin gown is placed in her palms. "Maman will have a much nicer dress for you to wear tomorrow."

A puppet string is tugged, making her nod. "Can you... can you look away please?"

The woman turns and stares at the back of the door while Blue drops the towel and changes.

Then she is taken back to the room she came from. The one she first woke up in, where the old woman's knitting needles still rest on the table. Morning light caresses the paintings on the walls, all oiled landscapes of land that looks similar to the one outside. The woman, whose name Blue thinks she mentioned to be Eloise, shuffles around the room, tidying things, before collecting the tray from breakfast. But when she glances back at Blue on her way out the door, her lips part in concern.

"You're bleeding."

Blue looks at the bandage on her arm, where red blood oozes in a trail, a bead dripping onto the floor from the tip of her finger. She frowns, confused, when Eloise sets the tray down to tend to the cut—as if they aren't the ones who caused it. As if the blood smearing her skin when she unwraps the cloth isn't the same blood they used to draw out the two Greys they brought back to the commune and locked up in a small shed.

"I know you're frightened," the young woman whispers, her voice carrying an understanding that feels deeper than anything Salome ever said. Behind the veil, her eyes flick up to meet Blue's. "I can only pray God's mercy makes it quick." She dabs Blue's arm gently and rewraps it with a fresh strip of cloth.

"You mean they are going to kill me, right?" Blue whispers distantly. "With the Greys from yesterday?"

A glint passes through the woman's eyes, and she lifts her hands. "Yes," she says quietly, then leaves the room.

Blue stands in the silence, eyes fixed on the drop of blood. She presses her heel into it, smearing it across the floor. Then, she moves. The fear she's carried since the old woman led her into the trees claws at her chest, but she swallows it. Trembling hands sweep over the room—checking the window, the locked door. The bed, the table, the paintings. Beneath the bed, only cobwebs.

A helpless croak escapes her lips as she collapses onto the bed, teeth clenched against the tears. Her father would never accept her giving up. Tomorrow they will kill her. She sits up, palms pressed to her forehead, knees drawn tight, dry sobs wracking her body. Through her tears, she notices the smear of blood from her heel left on the white linen. She flips over her foot and traces the dried blood with her finger, then digs her nail into the broken skin where the gravel road tore into her feet, seeking more pain—urging fresh blood to rise from the indent she leaves behind.

The last time Ghost was chained, he hadn’t known about the little girl who shared his blood—someone who truly needed him. Tommy was still alive then, of course, but he had his own family. If Ghost had succumbed to Roba’s torture, his brother and mother would have mourned briefly, held a small funeral, then moved on. The world would have forgotten his name. Part of him would have been pleased with that—but somehow, Simon Riley’s more stubborn side had survived.

That stubborn part of him refuses to close his eyes, not even for a second, because this time, he is fully aware of the girl who needs him.

With no windows to mark the time, Ghost can only gauge it by the man who beats him. The man alternates between striking him with a metal bar and taunting him with food and water, tossing them just out of reach so the smell can ignite pangs of hunger. There was once he showed up with an old woman, who clinically poked and prodded at Ghost's arms and abdomen, as if in approval. The longest absences of visitation likely indicate the man’s sleep, meaning two nights have passed since Ghost woke up here. His increasing difficulty in keeping his eyes open confirms it.

Even through swollen eyelids, visions invade the darkness—four faces merging, their screams echoing, sharp and pleading. First, his mother. Then Sara. As they turn to ash, the two other faces remain, their screams fading into buttery laughter. Water splashes his cheek as they play in a creek, then their lips fall silent, and their faces sink below the surface. He reaches for them but can only stare as their eyes drain of life. Still, they remain accusatory. Disappointed.

A slam of the door shatters the images.

"I think you will be pleased to hear the news I bring, Brit."

It must be morning. Ghost's gaze drops to the floor in persistent defiance, refusing to acknowledge him. His muscles loosen in preparation for the bar's routine assault, but a vein in his jowl ticks when he detects a new sound; the quiet slither of a whip against the concrete.

Without warning, it recoils and lashes out with a sharp crack. The sting spreads through every nerve-ending, and he feels a gush of hot blood from the newly opened wound. A quiet, strained grunt slips through his teeth, and his chin dips to his sternum as pain robs him of the ability to hold it up.

Casually, like a friend, the man hums, only his boots visible in Ghost's vision. "I saw them. They are well-kept, you should know, and they are indeed beautiful. A gift from God." The tail-end of the whip caresses Ghost's shoulders then slips to the floor soundlessly. "The child, though, I am disappointed to say she wasn't there."

Ghost stiffens.

His nostrils flare.

"Why wasn't she there?" he forces out.

"Ah. The child is yours, yes? The... fierce one was concerned for her as well." He bends, rubbing his jaw callously. "So concerned, in fact, that she was willing to show me more than I had even come for. Quite eager, too. Let me tell you what I told her—I know nothing of the plans for the girl. I can only guess, as you can, that they will not be pleasant."

"I will... kill... you," Ghost manages, his low voice thick with fury, each word a strained rasp through clenched teeth.

When his fingers twitch, weakly forming fists, the man pats his shoulder with a light laugh. "I will say, I am sorry you do not have a son, instead. Maman says daughters are the purest, most God-abiding of us all. With all due respect to her, this is where we disagree." He tilts Ghost's head back, locking eyes with him, his breath brushing against Ghost's face."They’re whores, all of them. Waiting to be bred. That's why the fierce one was dripping wet when she touched herself—"

In one swift motion, Ghost sinks his teeth into the first piece of flesh he can reach, tearing through skin. Blood fills his mouth, spilling between his teeth. The man jerks back, part of his cheek torn away, his eyes flashing with pure rage as he clutches the bleeding wound with his hand.

"You fucking, lowly swine." He spits out a mouthful of blood, then retracts the whip with a savage snarl. Another strike lands on Ghost's back—harder this time. Another follows. The blows come faster, until blood pools beneath his boots, and his eyes finally close no matter how much strength he tries to muster to keep them open.

The sixth day.

If the Sabbath is the seventh day, then the sixth day would be Friday. The outbreak began on a Friday; God's wrath.

You trace the wrinkles in the sheet, trying to count back to the last day you can remember—back when Blue still announced the dates from the calendar Ghost kept track of. You recall it was the 12th of April, weeks ago. But what day of the week was it? Frustration bubbles up as you tear at the sheet, the harsh reality sinking in: you don’t even know how many days have passed since then.

Morning breaks in washed-out hues, accompanied by the low call of a nearby dove.

Growing content with the regular feedings, your belly hums in anticipation against your will.

"Ask her what day it is when she comes for breakfast," you tell Nereida. "We need to find out when Friday is, and you... you're better at talking."

Luckily, Salome either doesn’t notice that one of the mugs is missing or is willing to keep the fragile peace by not mentioning it. Again, she lowers the tray at an unreachable distance and slides it over. She lingers for a few minutes this time as you nurse a bowl of fresh fruit and sour yogurt, more mindful of how it tastes. But you don't suspect they have a need to drug you this morning—not with Blue already taken.

Nereida manages a bit of small talk, flashing a friendly smile you envy her for. It's enough to get a few pieces of information from Salome—mostly useless. She's about six months along, Maman suspects. There are two other pregnant women, and three infants already born over the years. A few have died during harsher winters, including this past one. The land is sick, that man mentioned. With a flicker of sadness, Salome adds that she had a miscarriage, and for a moment, you almost feel sorry for her.

But when Nereida asks about the day, Salome tenses, wariness creeping into her eyes. "Well, I forget the name in English, but it is the fifth day following the Lord's day."

"Thursday, you mean?" you speak up for the first time since she walked in. "I mean, Saturday is the seventh day. So the fifth would be Thursday."

Salome nods. "Yes, Thursday. Jeudi."

Then tomorrow is Friday.

The weight threatens to crush you.

When she finally leaves, you fling the pillow off the bed and flip the mattress, screaming soundlessly into it.

"We have one fucking day, and I have no clue how to get out of here."

Survival hinges on not panicking. Panic makes you weak. But still, your fingers curl into your hair, tugging desperately, trying to silence the hysteria rising inside you. For a moment, a silent prayer takes hold in your mind, mimicking the ones you overheard from Nereida. You screw your eyes shut in a pathetic hope that maybe when you reopen them, Ghost will materialize with the key on the other side of the cell. When he doesn't, you grab the nearest shard from the mug you broke. Nereida tugs on your shoulder, trying to calm you down, but you furiously press it against your wrist.

It's the sight of blood, not the pain, that makes you freeze.

Suddenly, your panic smooths into a fresh memory.

"She panicked, didn't she?" you whisper, lifting the shard and gently thumbing the shallow cut you've created in its wake. "When I threatened to kill myself. Her eyes—they held fear. Fear for what?"

You turn to Nereida and swallow thickly.

"Fear of... fear of us dying," Nereida finishes slowly, a pinch in her forehead.

"Fear of what would happen to her if we died," you say. "She seemed... scared when she spoke of Maman. Of course she is. She's the one responsible for us right now. What would Maman do if she can't take care of the two new coveted women?"

You reach for the next largest piece and place it in Nereida's hand, tightly closing her fist over it.

"It might not work," she whispers, eyes darting across your face.

"It's the only idea I've got."

Over the next few hours, you smooth over the details in whispered exchanges. These are the only cards you have to play: the value of your bodies here and the power Maman holds. Nereida is uneasy at first but eventually grows convinced. Speaking through the plan helps soothe your nerves, keeping the walls from fully closing in. You remember that Salome usually arrives before the sun sets to bring dinner. So, when the window casts amber shadows across the walls, you suck in a breath, dig the shard into your wrist, and watch as blood spills onto the white linen.

“Three minutes, Hugo.” “Three minutes is all I’ll need.” "Remember not to touch. And don't brag about it to others. Word will spread and Maman or Alexander will hear it."

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #cod #simon ghost riley #zombie apocolypse au

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heavenbarnes · 11 months ago

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need our simon to come home from deployment IMMEDIATELY 🫶🏼 | p1 p2 p3 p4

your older bf!simon comes home from deployment at dinner time on a tuesday.

herb alpert on the kitchen radio, knife tearing through a bunch of parsley, garlic and onion simmering on the stove behind you.

simon can hear it- smell it through the mail flap.

smells like home.

your ears prick at the sound of the door swinging open, the hinges alerting you to a secondary presence. back tensing for just a moment before you hear steps you could pick out in a lineup.

he sees your fluffy slippers first, then your little shorts, then his t-shirt. finally, he’s met with wide eyes and the kitchen light hits the curve of your face so nicely.

simon could cry.

you already were.

“oh my god, si”

he doesn’t really want to touch you with his outside clothes, tactical gear smelling like the back of a cargo plane and you’re so soft and lovely he’s afraid he might mess it all up.

but there’s nothing stopping the way you leap at him across the kitchen and swing your entire self around him and he’s forgetting what he’s wearing and he’s wrapping his arms around you like he knows you won’t break.

his tongue is immediately in your mouth and he’s taking one gasping breath and filling his nose with the scent that’s overwhelming him.

simon realises right then that the house smells like dinner but you smell like home. you are home. he’s home.

when he finally lets you let him go you’re telling him to leave all his gear by the washer and you’ll sort it all out tomorrow but right now he needs to sit down so you can feed him.

he’s back in the kitchen with a sweatshirt and shorts on and he’s never found his own clothes so comfortable. maybe it’s because he can smell you on the fabric.

you’d only been cooking enough for one but at this point, you’re so happy to have him home that you’re plating up the whole thing for him as he sits at the dining table.

his chair scrapes back along the floor and he’s patting his thigh, simon eats his tea with you curled up in his lap telling him everything he’d missed.

apparently, old-mate next door broke up with his missus and it was quite the scene.

apparently, they finally finished the roadworks on the junction at the end of your street and there was no longer a blur of orange cones on the drive to work.

apparently, there was going to be a barbecue at the house down the street and the two of you were invited. you might make a salad to take with.

you could’ve been reading him the phonebook and simon would be a happy man. his hand was holding under your thigh and your face was in the crook of his neck.

he was home.

dishes done (together) and tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him, simon isn’t sure this couch has ever been this plush. he could melt into it, as long as it was just like this.

bare feet up on the ottoman and one arm wrapped around your side as your head lay against his chest. you could hear his heartbeat and he could hear the football you’d recorded for him whilst he was away.

deployment was fucking rough, seen and done things he didn’t even want to think about. but this is what he comes home to.

you.

you who curls up in his lap and idly twirls the drawstring of his shorts round your finger.

you who offered up all of your food to him to fill the pit that’d been growing in his stomach over the weeks.

you who couldn’t give less of a fuck about the football on tv but watches in quiet contentment for the sake of being closer to him.

you who doesn’t ask once about what happened while he was away but will always listen without judgement if he needs to get something off his chest.

ideally, simon would like to give you the world in return. then again, he doesn’t think even that’d be enough.

instead, he takes you up to your shared bed and, miraculously, he doesn’t fall asleep as soon as his back touches the mattress.

he could, very easily, but instead he pulls you down on top of him and gets his lips back on yours. the kiss when he came through the door had been passionate but it’d been fleeting.

simon had kept it like that, knowing if he spent a second longer with your tongue on his then he’d have you over the kitchen bench and that wasn’t what he wanted.

really, he wanted this. the full weight of you on top of him and your hips rolling messily against his as his hands went up underneath your his shirt.

he wanted to run his fingertips along your bare back and feel skin so soft he almost couldn’t remember the things his hands had done just last week.

he wanted to map out every spot, every freckle, every ridge across your shoulders and commit it to memory so the next time he had to up and leave he could trace you like a constellation in the night sky.

truthfully, simon didn’t want to leave next time. he wanted to get the call from price and tell him that he was sorry but he couldn’t do it any longer. he now had something- someone to live for and he just couldn’t gamble odds like he used to.

he wasn’t entirely sure he’d still hold the sentiment on the other side of blowing a load so simon put those thoughts in the back of his head and decided he’d work them out on tomorrow morning’s run.

right now, simon felt the soft skin of the inside of your cheeks and your spit tastes like the nectar those gods harped on about and he’s pulling hard on your hips as he rolled something hard between them.

you were moaning, whimpering, whinging into his mouth while you ground yourself into the hard line of his cock. raging erection didn’t even cover it and his head was tipping back as a-

yawn, deep and all consuming broke from his throat.

simon was fucking knackered.

exactly what he didn’t want to happen was happening in front of him, you were sitting up and cooing at him so fucking sweetly.

“si, you’re exhausted- we’ll go to sleep”

strong grip around your waist was anchoring you to the spot so you couldn’t climb out of his lap like you were currently trying.

“sweet’art”

you could hear it in his voice, he couldn’t even lift his head off the pillow. you conceded, however, letting him rub soft little circles into your hips.

“jus’ gimme’ one and then we’ll sleep”

laying back down against his chest, you felt the air woosh out of him as you relaxed your body on his. face fitting into the crook of his neck like you were made for him (you were) with a hand running along his collarbone.

“we’ve got tomorrow”

you knew it was futile, he was already slipping your shorts to the side. head tilting just a little to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“and i need you tonight”

settled.

you felt one large hand lift you up as his other freed his cock out his shorts. just enough, just enough to get the job done because any extra effort was going to render him unconscious.

bringing a hand to his mouth, he spit in his palm quickly before rubbing it along the head of his cock. deep groan rumbled beneath you as you felt him pressing against your entrance.

“lift y’top up, sweet’art- wanna’ feel y’on me”

you did him one better, leaning up enough to slip the shirt over your head and onto the floor. forcing him to hold his arms up for just a second, you pulled his sweatshirt off and discarded it in the pile.

bare chest to chest, you could feel simon shudder beneath you. snaking one arm under his armpit and the other around his ribs, you snuggled in tight as you felt him slip right in.

that’s all he wanted.

weeks of photos, videos, imagination to go off of. this was all he ever wanted. you so close to him that it was entirely possible to imagine the two of you as one. that there was no version of reality without you together in it.

lazily rolling his hips up into you as you met him halfway, rolling yours back down to share half of the load. simon’s arms wrapped around your back, keeping you close and keeping you moving against him.

“sorry love, s’not gonna’ be a long one”

you could only respond with a whimper, gently nodding your head into his neck as your lips press soft little kisses into the skin. you didn’t need a long time, you just needed him.

unable to help yourself from noticing the couple new scratches he’d come home with, your fingers idly traced along them as he sucked in a breath at the feeling.

what you wouldn’t give to keep him home and keep him safe.

a thought for another day as you felt yourself constricting around his cock, grinding yourself into his lap as firm muscle rubbed against your front.

tiny little gasps flitted from your mouth and into his ear, you could feel his body tensing up beneath you. it wasn’t just with sheer tiredness, you knew this man like the back of your hand.

left hand coming out from under where you’d buried it behind his back, you ran the tips of your fingernails down simon’s chest. you stopped at his nipple, gently scraping along the peaked flesh until you heard him.

“need y’to cum right now f’me please”

slipping your other hand between the two of you, you let your fingers wander against yourself until you could feel the tide breaking in the pit of your stomach.

body clenching involuntarily, your mouth dropping open against his skin. no doubt drool pooling against his collarbone as you came with a pathetic whimper. hips bucking a little crazy in his lap as his hand ran the length of your back.

“god that’s it, sweet’art”

simon went rigid, gripping you tight like you might go somewhere as the dams broke and he filled you up. hot and sticky and dripping out of you and onto the waistband of his shorts.

he fell so still the only way you’d know he was still alive was the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. his arms were already starting to fall limp around you.

coming back from the bathroom, slipping off the rest of your clothes and adding them to the pile. simon wasn’t asleep, there were no snores, but he had been rendered totally immobile.

pulling the remainder of his clothes off for him and settling in beside, you pulled the sheets up over the both of you as his arm began drawing you in.

draped across him, you could feel his lips pressing against the crown of your head.

“m’gonna’ rock y’world in the morning”

you snorted a little laugh, nuzzling in closer as his breathing starts to even out. no use in replying, snorings about the only answer you’re going to get.

not that you’d mind.

he was home.

#im sorry i went for realism- we’re not getting crazy out of him the first night home #i just need him so carnally i would accept anything he had on offer #older bf!simon #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #ghost smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley drabble #simon riley blurb #simon ghost riley drabble #simon ghost riley blurb #ghost drabble #ghost blurb

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pomefioredove · 7 months ago

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if its ok can i request a overblot boys and ruggie and kamil with a reader that just forgets to eat? like they can go the whole day without eating then suddenly they just get dizzy cause they haven't eaten and when they get asked why they passed out/not ate they're like "lol yeah i forgot to eat my bad gang🧍🏻" they're just so nonchalant and act like its whatever😭its ok if not if this makes you uncomfortable!! Love your blog pookie and make sure YOU eat properly💥💥

ahh... just like me fr. this ask actually reminded me to eat, thank you!

summary: reader who forgets to eat type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, ruggie, azul, jamil, kalim, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, mentions of food and not eating!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Riddle is also guilty of this

it's not that he's neglectful, it's just that...

...well... he's a little neglectful

it's usually Trey who has to remind him to take breaks from studying

none of that will stop him from scolding you, though

"What were you thinking, going a whole day without a meal? It's no wonder you're always so tired!"

expect lots of snacks from him after he's done berating you

he sends someone every day to make sure you've had something

(both a blessing and a curse)

you'll be in your room then suddenly Che'nya is there asking if you had lunch yet

and if not, you'll be recieving an invitation to Heartslabyul for tea

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona can't be bothered to ask why you're always so... out of it

he just assumes that's your personality

he even teases you for it, once or twice

then Jack offhandedly mentions that you rarely eat until dinner, and he gets all... worried

Ugh

suddenly, his room is always stocked with your favorite snacks from Sam's

what? no, they're not for you. he's just taken a liking to 'em. but you're welcome to have some if you'd like

his act is unconvincing

"What? Stop looking at me like that. I'm not some sap. I'm just making sure you don't go passing out on me,"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ruggie is worried that Crowley's cut your food rations

he'd been mooching off of you for a few months now, after all

plus, he knows what it's like to go hungry

of course, he doesn't outright ask. he doesn't want to embarrass you or anything

he just... casually offers to split meals and comes over once a week with half of his forage greens

"What, this? Nah, I just had extra. What, you're complaining about free food? Shishishi,"

you repay the gesture by making him a few meals, and it becomes a little tradition between the two of you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

why, oh why, does Azul have to care about you so much?

he's become familiar that exact look on your face; distant, dizzy, disoriented...

and he's caught himself mid-scold far too many times

"Have you no sense of self-preservation? You can't keep relying on others to care for you; you'll only be taken advantage of,"

...and, of course, he's the poor soul who cares for you

he convinces himself that verbal reminders cost nothing

then he starts sending the tweels to make sure you've eaten

and then he insists you drop by the Mostro Lounge at least once a day

it's not that he's giving you his time and energy for free

he's just making an investment in you!

that's it. NOTHING ELSE! (<- lies)

(cue tweels giggling in the background)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

poor Jamil

first Kalim, and now he has you to worry about, too?

of course; he has no obligation to help. that's what he tells himself

nothing will happen if he just ignores you

...except that sinking feeling in his stomach

Sevens, help him...

he starts letting you help around the kitchen

just... tidying up, doing the dishes, etc

and if you happen to want a bite of what he's cooking? ohoho, who is he to deny you the chance to test for poison?

(feigns to mention that these dishes have already been tasted)

"Good? Why, I'm flattered. You're welcome to help any time- how about tomorrow?"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kalim will never pass a chance to host

you offhandedly mention that you forget to eat sometimes? just come over for breakfast!

and lunch

and dinner!

and you'll stay for dessert, too, won't you?

he's nothing if not gracious, and he has a penchant for taking care of others

he likes feeling useful, after all

just be ready to give him your full thoughts and feelings on every dish; he's already making a mental list of your favorites to serve every time you come over

"Hungry? No problem! We have all your faves waiting for you. What music do you want to listen to while we eat?"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you know that Vil loves you, right?

so, so much?

good. because that love makes him want to shake you

of all the stupid things...

it's no use trying to hide it from him; you could look and act completely normal and he'd still see right through you

he can just tell

he has to restrain himself from threatening Crowley into letting you stay at Pomefiore so he can care for you

Vil believes you're capable, after all. you just need a little push

"I've set a daily reminder and stocked your kitchen. Remember that some food is better than none. If you need me for anything, I'll see to it as soon as possible,"

you can expect Epel and Rook to ask if you've eaten, on his behalf, every time you run into each other

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Idia sets like, 30 reminders in your phone

he knows as well as you do that three measly alarms won't be enough

...he, too, is guilty of forgetting to eat

he probably makes you a custom alarm sound and everything

a little pavlovian conditioning never hurt anyone, right? it's basically no different than training an AI

...or something like that

will send Ortho over to check your vitals every once in a while

"it's NBD. can't have u losing all your lives on me. who would tolerate me then?"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

thank your lucky stars it's Malleus who notices your drowsiness first and not Lilia

Malleus, at least, will find you something edible to eat

he's trying to keep you alive, after all

he's very sweet and gentle about it

soft little reminders, nudges to keep you awake... he will up and leave a dorm meeting if he realizes he doesn't know if you'd had anything yet today

Malleus is very conscious about human mortality, and is very... delicate about it

he's just a little overprotective, that's all

it mostly comes to sharing little treats together every now and then. it feels less awkward when you're together, after all

"There is no need to thank me. I'm simply happy to spend my time with you,"

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar #ruggie bucchi x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #jamil viper x reader #kalim al asim x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #idia shroud x reader #malleus draconia x reader #queued

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bluetimeombre · 6 months ago

Text

༊*·˚ 𝓕𝓮𝓮𝓵𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮

You, Logan, Laura and Charles have to pretend to be a family with the nice people but Logan can’t help thinking what could have been

Warning/disclaimer: strong language, cursing, sexual themes, angst, follows the events of Logan

The silence was the eighth guest at the table. It sat just as stiff as the rest of you.

The lovely family you’d helped at the roads invited you all back for dinner and Logan who was hesitant to accept the kindness of strangers denied, but Charles insisted. Even you didn’t want to turn down a hearty meal. It made a change from the bars of granola and chocolate you’d been eating like it was your last meal the days you’d been on the road.

Logan watched as you coaxed Laura into using a fork and not her fingers and as you told her not to pile too much on her plate.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

You and Logan sat at the dining table at the school. Everyone else was asleep and it was just the two of you in the dead of night, lit only with the dim kitchen lights.

The two of you sat facing each other, you cradled tea while Logan had a soda. Your legs were thrown of his lap as you talked about something, he wasn’t even sure what it was because all he was focusing on was his hand caressing up your leg and how sweet your skin tasted as he nipped and licked at your neck.

You tried to keep talking but he was oh so distracting. “Logan.”

He hummed, kissing that sweet spot behind your ear.

“We’re in a school, stop trying to take me on the table,” you said, amused.

“I’m not trying to take you on the table,” he denied, lifting his head to look at you. “I’m trying to take you on the kitchen counter. C’mon, you know you want to.”

His hands slipped under your shirt that was really his, pinching and groping any flesh he could. He chuckled as you shivered, kissing your lips and trying to slide his tongue in.

“Anyone could walk by,” you argued against his lips.

“Well, they didn’t find us the first time. Or the second, or the last time, or the time before that,” he listed.

You giggle quietly as he groans playfully against your neck, gripping your thighs until he had you straddling him, the chair groaning under the weight of you both. “We can’t break another chair,” you mumble.

“Then we better take it slow, bub.”

He kissed you sweetly before giving into the heat that crawled in his stomach and down to his cock. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

“There’s plenty more if she wants,” said Kathryn, bringing Logan from his daydream.

He looked at you, none the wiser he wished he could still love you freely and not pay the price later. Then he looked to Laura who was shoving corn in her mouth. “She’s fine,” he grumbled.

“Where are y’all heading?” Asked Will.

Logan said ‘Oregon’ the same time Charles said ‘South Dakota,’ and everyone looked between the two.

You clear your throat. “Oregon then South Dakota.”

“Vacation?” Asked Kathryn.

“Yes,” said Charles. “Long overdue, we’re city folk. Always wanted to go out and see the country, meet the people who live in it.” He smiled, as if this was all his plan.

Kathryn nodded. “That sounds lovely. Been trying to get Will here to take a vacation for years now.”

“You don’t like to travel?” You asked.

Logan remembered traveling with you once. To Canada.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

The two of you were hiding from the frigid snow in a bar, where Logan could keep himself warm with whiskey and where he could keep you warm all evening.

The two of you had sat at the bar, talking with smiles on your faces, almost passing for regular people.

When Johnny Cash started playing ‘Give my love to Rose’ you had dragged him out to the floor. It was empty besides an old couple swaying slowly. He followed after you grudgingly but his hold on your hand was firm. He dared glare at any man that looked at his girl.

When you were in the middle of the floor you threw your arms around his shoulders as his hands fell to your hips, helping you move.

“Smile,” you told him.

“Why?”

“I wanna see if your face cracks.”

He squeezes you and pulls you in closer, biting down on his lip as he looks at you.

“I thought you’d be happy to be out of the school for a bit,” you said. “I know you don’t like being cooped up all the time.” You caressed his cheek.

He moved to kiss your palm. “I am happy, bub. M’always happy with you.”

“Well, would it kill you to show it,” you tease.

“I can show it to you,” he mumbled in your ear.

You smile and rest your head on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.

Give my love to Rose, won’t you mister. Take her all my money, tell her buy some pretty clothes.

Logan hummed the song, chest vibrating with it.

“We could do it, if you want,” you said.

Logan hummed.

You moved away from his chest and looked up to him. “We could leave the school if you wanted.”

He looked at you. Sure, he’d thought about it but never said it out loud. He knew the school was your home, the only place you’d ever known. He wasn’t going to ask you to leave it all behind, even if he was at home with the mountains. “You’d leave?”

“Well we’d have to talk to Charles, and we’d visit of course. But I’m not against the idea, Logan. I want a life with you.”

His arms circled around you. “I want you, forever, bub.”

“You have me. Forever.”

He raised his brows. The two of you could live a long, long time. With both your healing factors. “And ever?”

You rolled your eyes. “And ever.”

He grinned, something only you could make him do. He took your hands and kissed the backs of them before pulling out and bringing you back in.

And ever.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Logan felt your foot nudge his under the table and he thought he’d missed a question or something.

You glanced his way. “Sorry,” you mumbled.

Logan chewed and moved his foot closer to yours, your feet together. Color tinged your cheeks. When had the two of you gotten so cold with each other? He couldn’t pin point when the little touches between you two became miracles.

Was it when you lost half your family? Or when he realized he wasn’t getting better?

“And if we go out trapesing the country who’s gonna take care of this place?” Will proposed.

“Exactly, I say let it go,” said Kathryn.

“And live off what?”

“The lord will provide.”

“Well, I’m still waiting for him to provide me with a new thresher.”

Kathryn ignored her husband and smiled at them. “All the same, I’d love to travel someday.”

“And I bet you will,” Charles assured her.

Logan looked to him, wondering if he was getting too comfortable in using his powers again

“I could drop out of school,” suggested their son, Nate.

“Ok let’s not go that far,” said his mother as a couple chuckles passed the table.

“Careful,” you warned, “you’re talking to a guy who ran a school.” You nodded your fork to Charles.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Logan wasn’t one for teaching, mainly he was a sub and would take some danger room sessions. Everyone knew he stuck around for you.

As classes were coming to an end he walked the corridors, nodding to those that said hello to him but he wasn’t stopping for a chat. He kept going until he came by your class. Kids were still leaving, a few young men loitering to ask you questions.

He watched amused as they thought they had a chance before he waltzed in, making himself known with the sound of his boots on the ground. “Hey, sweetheart,” he came up behind you as you straightened the papers.

“Hey,” you mumble.

The three students were still loitering and Logan glared at them. “Beat it.”

Quickly, they scampered.

“Logan,” you chastised.

“What?” He settled in your chair, fingers messaging into you.

“They were asking me what they’ve heard on the news,” you told him, distracted.

Logan sighed. He knew what the news was saying, the wonder and concern why there were less mutant births every day. He didn’t care. Less mutants, less students, more time spent with you.

But you were worrying. You watched the news every day, was reading reports and doing your own research.

“Listen, bub,” he said, trying to get your focus on him and not the desk. “Stop, look at me.”

He turned you around, trapping you between the desk and him. You seemed tired, you shoulders slumped. He went to message them, rubbing away the stress. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, couple months ago about leaving. Well, maybe we should.”

“Now?” You ask. “Logan, things aren’t going well for the mutants, right now Charles needs us here-”

“Things never go well for mutants,” he said. “You’re having second thoughts.”

You sigh, looking up to him. “I’m not having second thoughts. All I’m saying is we just need to wait a bit, to see what happens.”

Logan didn’t want to wait. He was stubborn, he wanted to act. While you had been looking into what was going on with the mutants, he had been looking at places in Canada to live. Little towns, little huts in snowy mountains.

“Soon, ok?” You pecked his lips and moved from his grasp as he watched you go.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

“It was a um… a special needs school,” Charles fumbled on his words.

“That’s a good description for it,” said Logan as you chuckled.

Charles looked over toward you and Logan. “They were in it,”

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Logan mused. “I got kicked out a few times.”

They laughed at that, even Laura.

“I wish I could say you were a good student but the words would probably choke me,” said Charles, a sly smile on his lips.

You took a drink, hiding your smile.

Kathryn gestured between the two of you. “Is that how you met?”

You looked at her, stuttering.

“Oh yeah,” said Logan, looking at you. “I remember it like yesterday.”

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Logan remembered finding himself in Charles class room, barefoot, a random hoodie thrown on. He was confused, and angry.

“I’m Charles Xavier,” said the Professor, wheeling out from behind his desk.

“Where am I?” He asked.

“Westchester, New York. You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention.”

“I don’t need medical attention,” he said.

“Yes, of course.”

Logan looked around, he knew none of this. “Where’s the girl?”

“Rogue? She’s here, she’s fine.”

Logan raised his brows. “Really?”

The door opened, starting him. “Ah, Logan. I’d like you to meet Ororo Monroe also called Storm. This is Scott Summers, also known as Cyclops.”

‘Cyclops’ put his hand out for Logan. “Hi.”

Logan stared at him. Mainly, at his glasses.

“They saved your life,” said Charles. “They’re in my school for the gifted. For mutants- ah, y/n! Come here please.”

You had been walking by the door when he called for you and ushered you in. You smiled at both Storm and Cyclops but walked around Logan with side steps. He watched you go to the professor and you looked back to him once.

“This is, y/n. This is Logan.” He introduced.

Logan stuck out his hand to you, earning a scoff from Scott.

Whatever else happened that day, Logan could not tell you. He only knows that’s the day he met you and nothing else has mattered to him since.

Logan looked around at them all, still holding your hand. “Cyclops? Storm? What they call you, wheels?”

The Professor bristled but you laughed.

Logan smirked at you.

You met his gaze and took you hand away. “Nice meeting you, Logan.”

As soon as Logan was done. He sort you out, and every time after, he sort you out.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

“Are you married?” Asked Kathryn.

Her husband scolded her.

You clamped your hands between your hands, blushing as even Logan took his time chewing. “No.”

“Never got round to askin,” said Logan.

“Then you had a kid right?” Asked Kathryn, smiling at Laura who watched her with curious eyes. "Ain't that always the way."

You glanced at Logan. You watched him with just as much curiosity. Did you really think he wasn't planning on proposing? That he didn't want to spend the rest of his life with you like you'd always planned. You shook yourself out of your daze, back to eating. "Something like that."

"Well, there's still time," said Kathryn as her son and husband laughed at her. "Sorry, i'm a romantic."

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Logan might not remember the last time he kissed you, but he remembered the first. You'd gone on a mission, saving some mutant kids that had been taken. He hadn't gone obviously cause why would he care, he hadn't realised you were going. If he had, he would've jumped on that jet.

He'd heard it had gone wrong. That someone had been hurt.

He was waiting outside when the jet landed. Scott and Jean hurried to check the kids as soon as they stepped off.

Logan growled under his breath and pushed past them all, trying to find you.

You were in the jet, scrubbing yourself clean of blood. You must have heard him coming as you turned quickly. "Hey Logan."

"What happened?" he asked. He could smell only iron, not you. It drove him crazy.

You shrugged, tugging off part of your suit, you wearing a vest underneath, tying the arms around your waist. "The kids are safe."

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

The two of you had been dancing around each other for months. With Logan's blunt flirting and your smirks and long-lasting glances, your coming together was a ticking time bomb.

"I'm fine."

You weren't meeting his gaze and he wondered what he'd done to get you annoyed.

He strode over to you, grabbing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him.

You took his wrists from you. "No," you said, grumbling.

The two of you fought, trying to grab and push at each other until Logan got the upper hand and pushed you against the wall. "What?"

"You!" you snapped. You were panting, looking up to him as he bared his teeth, confused. "You couldn't get your head out your ass long enough to give me a hand? To help?"

"I didn't know- I didn't know you were going!" he argued. "If I had do you not think I would've come with, eh bub?"

"I don't think I ever know what's going on in your head." You tried to push past him but Logan grabbed you again and kissed you.

Neither of you knew what was happening. All you knew was that Logan was against you, bodies pressed together, lips moulding together in anger and need. It was more than he'd hoped, more than he'd imagined.

His fingers dug into your skin, sighing against your lips as your hands grasped at his shoulders in fury and want. "You," he mumbled in your skin. "All my head is filled with is you."

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Logan had grudgingly agreed to stay the night at the family's house, after Charles and you had made him. He'd settled Charles in his room and Laura- well, he didn't know where she was and he wasn't sure he cared all that much.

He was looking for you and he found you in the bathroom, washing your face. The droplets of water ran down your neck as you brushed your hands over your head. Slowly, giving you enough time to tell him to fuck off, he stepped in and closed the door behind you.

"What's up?" you ask quietly, dabbing away the water.

He watched you and sighed. The two of you used to just move around each other, understanding without words. Now, he couldn't even stand in the same room as you without you assuming he needed something. "When did this happen?" he mumbled.

"What?"

He shook his head. "When was our last kiss?" he asked, looking at you.

You met his gaze, holding onto the sink to purchase you.

"When was the last time we made love, y/n?"

"Was it ever love?" you mumbled. "It was over very quickly, if it was."

He grumbled under his breath, complaining. "You think i'm not doing all of this for you?" he asked, limping closer. "You'd have left and gone off yourself if I hadn't taken that fucking kid in and gone on this damn ride."

"I want you to do it for you, Logan," you whisper, not wanting to let the house know you were talking. Or arguing. "All you've ever done is to keep Charles safe, or to do it for me, I want you to have some purpose. I want you to have something in your life."

You'd gotten closer to him. He could smell your scent, beautiful, never dulled by the days spent cooped up in a van.

Logan scanned every one of your features. You hadn't aged a day since he'd known you while he was old, greying and gruff, a collection of wrinkles and pain. What did that loving family see when they looked at you? A beauty and its beast?

His hand drifted up to your cheek, cupping it and running a rough thumb over the smoothness of his cheek.

Your eyes flickered around him as he brought his head lower until his lips, chapped and cut, were against yours, wet and soft. You didn't move to hold him, or push him away and for that he should have been thankful. You let him wrap his arms around you, caging your body against his as your nails dug into his forearms. Your lips parted as his did, as he licked your bottom lip and as you gave into him.

He used to be able to kiss you until the air was out of his lungs, but just as his tongue met yours, he had to pull away and suck in a deep breath.

That was your last kiss, and he'd always remember it.

Taglist (thank you! some of y'all wanted Hugh, some wanted Logan, let me know if you wanted to be added or removed): @oatmilkriver, @angstdaddy, @chronicallybubbly, @white-wolf-buckaroo

#deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #logan howlett #wolverine #deadpool #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #x men #marvel #old man logan #logan howlett x y/n #wolverine imagine #logan imagine #wolverine x y/n #logan angst #logan fluff

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loveesiren · 1 month ago

Text

𝙼𝚢 𝙼𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎

Thanos x american!reader | Forever Masterlist

a/n: i told ya'll i wasn't done writing for them! there's still more to come for this series as well as a new series! i linked to the series masterlist but if you haven't read it before thats okay! enjoy :)

synopsis: (a continuation of Forever) Thanos still struggles with his anxiety a year after the game. Being sick only enhances his panic.

warnings: anxiety, panic attack, symptoms of ptsd, fluff

wc: 3.4k+

It was a dreary, rain-soaked day in Seoul, the kind of day where the sky seemed to blend into the ground, gray and heavy. Thanos lay curled under a thick, knitted blanket on the couch, the soft crackle of the fireplace the only warmth against the chill in the air. A hot mug of tea sat untouched on the coffee table in front of him, the aromatic steam curling like ghostly fingers toward the ceiling.

“Drink your tea, baby,” you said gently, your tone carrying both affection and a hint of sternness. You knew how stubborn he could be, even when he was clearly suffering. His only response was a low grumble as he tugged the blanket higher, hiding himself from the world. His cheeks were pale, flushed only by the fever he’d been battling for days now. Strep throat—the doctor’s words still echoed in your head from the day before.

“T, please,” you coaxed, your voice softer now as you adjusted the blanket over his shoulders. “It’ll help your throat. Just a few sips.”

He didn’t respond, his focus fixed on the TV. South Park blared in the background, the absurd humor earning him a weak giggle, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Even sick, Thanos was a child at heart.

“I’m heading out to grab your medicine and stuff for dinner,” you announced, slipping on your jacket as you gathered your things.

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide with sudden concern. “Wait—you’re leaving?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, and the vulnerability in his tone made you pause.

“Yes, hon. I have to get your antibiotics.”

“I can come!” he blurted, sitting up too quickly. The effort seemed to zap what little strength he had, and he slumped back against the cushions.

“No,” you said firmly, crossing the room to kneel beside him. “You’re staying right here and resting. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Thanos hesitated, his brow furrowed as anxiety flickered in his eyes. You reached out, cupping his face in your hands. The warmth of your palms seemed to anchor him, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been here for two years now, remember? I know my way around, and it’s just a quick trip. I promise.”

His lips trembled as he opened his eyes, and for a moment, the mask he often wore—stoic, unshaken—crumbled. “Be back soon… please.” His hand reached for yours, pressing three soft kisses to your palm like a silent prayer.

You smiled, though your heart ached at the worry etched into his features. “I promise, honey.” You leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Try to rest, okay?”

He nodded reluctantly, sinking back into the couch as you draped the blanket over him once more. His eyes followed you to the door, and you gave him one last reassuring glance before stepping into the elevator.

The moment the door clicked shut, the silence pressed down on him like a weight. Thanos tried to focus on the TV, on the cartoon chaos playing out on the screen, but his mind refused to stay still. His hands began to tremble, and a cold sweat formed on his forehead despite the heat of the fireplace.

The thoughts came, sharp and relentless. What if she slips in the rain and breaks her arm? What if she gets in an accident? What if someone hurts her—what if she doesn’t come back?

His chest tightened, his breaths growing shallow as panic clawed at him. He clenched his fists, trying to ground himself, but the memories of the games came flooding back—each moment of helplessness, every second of fear that had taught him the world was cruel and unpredictable.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his body shaking as tears slipped down his cheeks. “She’ll be fine,” he whispered to himself, as though saying it aloud would make it true. “She promised…”

But promises didn’t always hold in a world that had taken so much from him.

And so, Thanos sat there, the blanket wrapped tight around him, a storm raging inside to match the one outside. All he could do now was wait—and hope.

You darted up and down the aisles of the grocery store, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor as you tried to gather everything on your list. The rain outside had seeped into your sleeves, chilling your arms, but you barely noticed. All you could think about was getting home—to your boyfriend. The small orange bottle of antibiotics in your purse felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric, a constant reminder of how fragile he seemed today.

The weight of his pale face and hoarse voice lingered in your mind, pressing against your heart. You moved quickly, grabbing vegetables and broth for the soup you’d promised to make him. Thanos didn’t often ask for much, but when he wasn’t feeling well, he needed you in ways that pulled on something deep within you—an instinct to protect him, to wrap him in warmth and make the world feel less harsh.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you swiped it open to see a message from your grandmother.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t want me to come by? I can bring food, or even stay and help out for a few days.”

You smiled faintly at her offer, warmth blooming in your chest. As much as you appreciated her kindness, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something you wanted—needed—to handle yourself.

“Thanks, Halmeoni,” you typed back quickly, “but I’ve got it. I want to take care of him. I’ll call if I need anything, promise.”

She responded immediately with another offer, and then another, peppering her messages with instructions for dinner and well wishes for Thanos. As you tossed a bundle of rosemary into your cart, you texted her back between stops: “Okay, okay! I’ll remember the garlic. Love you!”

Finally, after what felt like ages, you made your way to the checkout counter. The hum of the conveyor belt and the beep of the scanner filled the air as you bagged your groceries, mentally double-checking your list. The moment you stepped outside, the rain greeted you again, its cold droplets pricking at your cheeks. You slipped your AirPods in and hit play on your comfort playlist, the familiar melodies keeping you steady as you clutched the bags tightly and made your way to your car.

Meanwhile, Thanos was falling apart.

He sat on the floor, the blanket that had once been wrapped around him now pooled at his feet. His head rested heavily in his hands, his fingers tangled in his dark, sweat-dampened hair. His phone—he couldn’t find his phone. He had looked everywhere he could think of, but in his feverish haze, he couldn’t focus, couldn’t remember.

“Where is it?” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking as his hands fumbled around him. “I need to—” The words caught in his throat, replaced by a rising panic that clawed at his chest. He needed to call you. He needed to hear your voice, to know you were safe.

But the thoughts were already spiraling, pulling him under like an undertow he couldn’t fight. What if she slipped and hit her head? What if someone followed her? What if the rain made her car spin out? His breath hitched. Each imagined scenario was more horrifying than the last, and none of them felt far-fetched—not to him, not in the world he had lived in.

His body betrayed him, trembling as the adrenaline surged through his veins. His heart raced uncontrollably, pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. He pressed his hands against his chest as if trying to physically hold himself together, but the pressure only seemed to make it worse.

The room spun around him, the edges of his vision blurring as he squeezed his eyes shut. She’s fine. She’s fine. She’s fine, he chanted silently, but the words felt hollow, swallowed by the louder voice in his head screaming that something was wrong. His breaths became shallow and desperate, each one harder to pull in than the last.

The tears came next, hot and relentless, streaming down his face as he rocked back and forth on the floor. He hated this. He hated the way his mind betrayed him, the way his body refused to listen to logic. “Why can’t I just be normal?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Why am I so fucking weak?”

Memories of the games flashed behind his closed eyelids. The helplessness, the fear, the constant sense of waiting for the worst to happen. It had rewired something in him, left him with a heart that couldn’t rest, a mind that couldn’t stop bracing for the next blow.

Curling into himself, he pressed his forehead against his knees, his breath hitching with every sob. He wanted to be better—for you, for himself—but the spiral felt endless. His fever blurred reality, making everything feel bigger, heavier.

Minutes felt like hours as he sat there, shaking and broken on the floor. The only thing keeping him tethered was the faint hope that you’d walk through the door soon. He needed you. Desperately.

And so, he waited, the storm inside him raging as fiercely as the one outside.

Pulling your car into the reserved parking spot in the underground garage always brought a small smile to your face. It was a privilege you hadn’t grown used to, no matter how many times you parked there. You would live in a tent if it meant being with Thanos, but you had to admit, the perks of his luxurious life didn’t hurt. The sleek penthouse, the reserved parking, the polished floors of the building’s lobby—it all felt like a dream, even after all this time.

Grabbing the grocery bags from the trunk, you made your way toward the lobby, your arms full but your steps light. The doorman greeted you with a bow, and you returned it politely before continuing to the private elevator that led to the penthouse. You swiped your card, the quiet beep granting you access to the place you now called home.

The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped into the warm, quiet space of the penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the city skyline, streaked with rain that blurred the twinkling lights outside. The soft hum of the heating system was the only sound. Relief washed over you.

“God, the store was a madhouse!” you called out, setting the heavy bags down near the kitchen and peeling off your rain-soaked coat. You brushed your damp hair out of your face, ready to share a laugh with Thanos about the chaos of the day. “You’d think—”

Your words froze in your throat as your eyes fell on him.

Thanos was curled up on the floor near the couch, his body trembling violently. His blanket lay discarded nearby, and his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if trying to hold the pieces together.

“T!” you screamed, dropping everything as you rushed to his side. You fell to your knees beside him, your hands instinctively reaching out to pull him into your arms. “Baby, what’s wrong? What’s happening?!”

He didn’t respond immediately, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His skin was burning hot, his face pale except for the fevered flush across his cheeks. His glassy, unfocused eyes darted around the room before they landed on you, and you saw a flicker of recognition break through the panic.

“Y/n?” he croaked, his hoarse voice cracking as he clutched at the fabric of your shirt like it was his lifeline.

“I’m here, baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you held him closer. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.” You ran your fingers through his messy purple hair, the motion soothing for both of you.

He clung to you desperately, his body still trembling as he buried his face in your shirt. His breaths were shallow and ragged, but he managed to inhale your familiar scent, grounding himself in the safety of your presence.

Tears stung your eyes as you tried to stay strong for him. You knew how much he struggled with his past, how the memories lingered like shadows that refused to leave. He never talked about it, not really, but moments like this revealed the scars he tried so hard to hide.

“You’re here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as if he needed to remind himself that it was real.

“I’m here,” you repeated, pressing a soft kiss to his damp forehead.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled weakly, his voice laced with shame.

The apology shattered you. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “You have nothing to be sorry for, honey. Nothing.” Your voice cracked as you spoke, but you meant every word.

For the next twenty minutes, you cradled him on the floor, murmuring soft reassurances and stroking his hair as his breathing slowly evened out. You whispered about the soup you were going to make, about how you’d stay with him until he felt better. Gradually, the tremors subsided, and his body relaxed against yours.

Finally, you coaxed him back to the couch, wrapping him in his favorite blanket and tucking it securely around him. His tired eyes followed you as you stood. “I’m going to make my Halmeoni’s famous soup, okay?” you said with a small smile. “It always made me feel better when I was sick.”

He nodded reluctantly, his eyes still glassy. “You’re here.”

“Yes, baby,” you said, brushing your thumb gently over his flushed cheek. “I’m right here. I’ll just be in the kitchen, okay?”

Before leaving, you grabbed the bottle of antibiotics and shook one pill into your palm, handing it to him along with a glass of water. “Take this,” you said softly. He hesitated for a moment but then obeyed, swallowing the pill and offering you a faint, tired smile.

“Good boy,” you teased.

As night fell, the sound of rain against the glass walls of the penthouse became a comforting rhythm. You stood over the stove, stirring the soup carefully as you tried to follow your grandmother’s recipe. Every few minutes, you texted her for guidance, and her replies were quick and filled with concern.

How’s Su-Bong? Does he still have a fever? Should I come over?

He’s fine! you reassured her. I’m making him dinner right now.

You smiled faintly as you read her reply but focused on your task, determined to get it just right. The aroma of garlic, ginger, and simmering broth filled the air, bringing a sense of warmth back into the apartment.

Soft footsteps behind you caught your attention. You turned to see Thanos shuffling into the kitchen, his blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders like a cape. His hair was still messy, and his cheeks flushed, but there was a softness in his tired eyes as he approached.

“Hi, baby,” you said, glancing back at the pot as you stirred. “How are you feeling?”

Instead of answering, he came up behind you, resting his hands lightly on your hips and letting his head droop lazily onto your shoulder. “Miss you,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your shirt.

You couldn’t help but smile at his clinginess. “Food’s almost ready, hon. Go sit down, okay?”

He whined softly, reluctant to let go, but eventually shuffled back to the couch as you gently shooed him away. The corners of your mouth lifted as you watched him retreat, blanket trailing behind him like a child dragging a beloved toy.

Even as you finished the soup, ladling it carefully into bowls, you couldn’t help but feel grateful—for the warmth, for the love you shared, and for the quiet moments like this where you could remind him that he was never truly alone.

With a careful grip on both bowls, you shuffled across the polished hardwood floors, your sock-clad feet making soft, whispering sounds as you moved. The aroma of the soup—ginger, garlic, and the herbs your grandmother insisted were essential—wafted through the air, mingling with the warmth of the fireplace. You placed your own bowl on the coffee table, turning to Thanos with a soft smile as you offered him his.

“Eat up, baby,” you said gently, your voice carrying the kind of warmth only reserved for him. “It’ll help you feel better.”

His tired eyes softened, the corners of his mouth curving into a small but genuine smile. Despite the fever still painting his cheeks pink, there was a flicker of gratitude in his expression.

“Thank you, angel,” he said, his voice still hoarse but laced with affection. He took the bowl from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Your heart squeezed at his words, and you leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his damp forehead. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve me, T,” you murmured. “Just be here.”

He gazed at you with an almost boyish awe as you sat down beside him, curling your legs beneath you and leaning back against the cushions. The flickering light of the TV danced across both of your faces as the silly, absurd humor of the cartoon filled the room. It wasn’t your usual choice, but the way Thanos chuckled weakly between spoonfuls made it worth every ridiculous joke.

Thanos was quick to finish his first bowl, the warmth of the soup visibly helping to ease the tension in his shoulders and the rasp in his voice. You noticed the way his movements seemed less lethargic, his hands steadier as he held the bowl. Without a word, you rose and brought him seconds, knowing the nourishment would help him fight off the lingering illness.

“More?” you asked, holding out the freshly filled bowl with a raised brow and a teasing smile.

He nodded sheepishly, his lips twitching upward. “You really are an angel, you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned it,” you teased lightly, leaning over to kiss his temple before handing him the bowl.

Dinner passed quietly, the clinking of spoons against ceramic mingling with the occasional chuckle from the TV. When he finally set the empty bowl down, his movements slow and careful, you gathered both bowls and carried them to the sink. You stared at the dishes for a moment before deciding they were a problem for tomorrow. Tonight wasn’t about chores—it was about him.

Returning to the couch, you grabbed the blanket and nestled yourself beside Thanos. He shifted to accommodate you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. The weight of his arm was comforting, grounding.

The blanket was warm and soft, cocooning you both as you sank deeper into the cushions. Thanos’ fingers found their way to your hair, lazily twisting and untangling strands in a soothing rhythm. His touch was absent minded, but it carried so much tenderness that it made your chest ache.

The cartoons faded into background noise as your eyelids grew heavier. You turned over, your body curling into his chest, your ear pressed against his heartbeat—a steady, reassuring sound that lulled you closer to sleep. Thanos tightened his arms around you, his lips finding the top of your head.

He pressed a long, meaningful kiss there, his lips lingering as if the act alone could convey all the love he didn’t have the words for.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he whispered into your hair, his breath warm against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to glance up at him. “I’ll always take care of you, T,” you mumbled, your voice soft and drowsy. You tightened your arms and legs around him, as if holding him closer would keep the world at bay.

Thanos rested his cheek against your head, his fingers continuing their gentle path through your hair. The sound of your steady breathing soon turned to soft snores, and he couldn’t help but smile.

The tension in his chest eased completely. The panic and fever were no match for the warmth of your presence, the way you fit so perfectly in his arms.

As he held you, his own eyes growing heavy, he thought, This is the only medicine I need.

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