#she’s very dear to us tbh | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fioiswriting · 1 year ago

Text

Muña | one shot

Summary : Marrying your bastard nephew to mend fences between your families wasn't exactly what you had planned. But when you realise that Jace has grown into a strong and handsome man, you might be ready to rethink your plans.

Rating : Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Pairing : Jacaerys Velaryon x Aunt!Reader (Reader is Alicent and Visery’s daughter. She’s one year younger than Aegon)

TW : p in v sex, mommy kink, sub!Jace (kinda), Dom!Reader (but they both switch tbh), inappropriate use of the word muña, oral (f receiving), afab reader, incest, unprotected sex, not proofread

Words count : 8064

AN : hi everyone!! I’ve been very busy lately so I haven't had time to update BUT I’ve been working a bit on various fics. Sorry to all my Aemond girlies but today it’s time for some Jace x reader. It’s a fic I’ve written for my gf who’s turning into a Jace girlie 🤭 It's full of indecency and inappropriate things.

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

The gardens had become your refuge over the past few days. Under the shade of the trees, on the soft grass, you had found a peaceful haven away from the excitement caused by the arrival of your half-sister and her herd of bastards. The Red Keep made you feel suffocated. And seeing your mother pacing back and forth, running left and right, didn't help. You had to calm her down. You had to keep an eye on your older brother, making sure he didn't slip away into the maze of Flea Bottom for the umpteenth time. You had to hold your family together, and you were tired.

You almost envied Daeron, in Old Town, away from the hustle and bustle of the court.

At least no one would think of looking for you where you were now. And you could enjoy a moment's respite, poring over the thick book you had borrowed from Aemond's library. Had he known that you had entered his room without warning, had he known that you had dared to disturb the perfect tidiness of his precious bookshelves, he would probably have threatened to feed you to Vhagar. But what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. Besides, you could perhaps find a way to pay him back later.

For now, you just needed to be left alone.

You stretched out, arms reaching for the sky. The sun's rays crept through the leaves, their warmth leaving a pleasant sensation on your face. Summer was back and you were delighted. The gentle breeze that ruffled the corners of your book and occasionally lifted the silver curls around your face gave you a sense of freedom. You deftly kicked off your shoes and lay back for a moment, your eyes closed.

Footsteps echoed on the cobbled floor, and you sighed in annoyance. You didn't have to open your eyes to see who it was. You recognised his footsteps. So, you kept your eyes closed. With any luck, he would continue his way and leave you alone to find someone else to annoy.

"Hey, my favourite little sister," Aegon exclaimed as he landed heavily beside you, his body brushing against yours. You opened one eye to acknowledge him, then closed it again, your arms crossed behind your head. "Aren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on me?" he insisted when he saw you weren't answering him. "You know, make sure I don't run off or end up drunk somewhere…Stuff like that. Which our mother probably asked you to do."

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. It was true that Aegon was terribly annoying. But of all your siblings, Aegon was still your favourite.

You resigned yourself to rolling onto your stomach, your chin resting on your hands and your head tilted sideways to face him. "My dear brother," you replied sarcastically. "Unable to occupy yourself, as usual." He rolled his eyes before reaching out to remove a leaf that had gotten caught in your hair. He subtly ran his fingers through one of your curls, his touch as light as a feather. "And why have you decided to come and disturb my moment of peace, tell me?"

He blew the leaf away and you watched as it flew away on the breeze. Your big brother's eyes shone with mischief. "Why would I need a specific reason to spend time with my favourite sister?" he added, and it was your turn to roll your eyes. He moved to lie next to you, his body practically pressed against yours.

If you moved a few centimetres, your elbows would touch his.

You'd always been inseparable, and the habit had stuck over time, even when the teenage years had driven you apart. But in those moments, you were like two children again, ready to run away from Septa lessons to get into mischief in the castle.

“Because you always have a reason for everything,” you replied, and he looked at you with a fake hurt look that was greatly exaggerated. With Aegon it was easy. It had always been easy. He wasn't as serious as Aemond, he wasn't as strange as Helena, and he wasn't as far away as Daeron.

"I just wanted to make sure my little sister was all ready to meet her betrothed tonight." He paused. "And also, that she hadn't suddenly decided to become a pious woman and follow the path of the Seven." His voice lowered. You poked him in the ribs. "See? I'm a caring big brother. I care about you."

"Shut up, Aegon," you replied. He laughed. Then he rolled onto his back, arms crossed behind his head, one leg bent, and he closed his eyes. The golden rays caught in his long lashes made him look like an angel.

Everything he wasn't.

'Well?' He added. “Excited to see Jacaerys Strong?”

You sat cross-legged. The bracelets on your wrists clinkled. Aegon knew how much the idea horrified you. You had no desire to marry Jace, to sacrifice your freedom for your half-sister's bastard eldest son. You had no desire to leave the Red Keep, to follow him to Dragonstone and spend your life bearing him children. It was your mother and Rhaenyra's idea, of course.

The union of the eldest daughter of one and the eldest son of the other, as a way of repairing the rift that has grown between your families over time.

As if you were destined to mend fences, to undo the mistakes of your own parents.

It wasn't that you hated Jace. But he was your older sister's son, a bastard who had pretensions he shouldn't have precisely because he was a bastard. He was the model son, the perfect son, the prodigy son, the one who always did everything right. It irritated you. He irritated you with his brown curls and his awkward posture.

It wasn't fair that your father showered him with praise when he could barely remember your own name.

You stood up, smoothing the folds of your red dress to make yourself more presentable, and you caught your brother's eyes on your body, his eyes riveted on the thin fabric that revealed your delicate shapes. God, you loved to play with that. You knew how to get men wrapped around your finger with your sweet, innocent air, and Aegon was the first victim. You approached him and held out your arm to help him up, which he accepted by pulling himself to his feet heavily. After putting your shoes back on, you bent down to pick up the thick book in your arms. If you lost it, you could be sure that Aemond would be angry with you. And that was a risk you didn't want to take.

"Perhaps you're right, lēkia. I'd better go and make myself more presentable for my betrothed. I wouldn't wish to disgrace our family." And with that you turned back, your hair swirling in the air behind you as Aegon watched you go with a small smile on his face.

You knew how much Aegon hated being ignored, and even more so when it came from his little sister. You knew that he would return with his tail between his legs and a pleading look on his face. Between his constant whining and his dirty jokes, he gave you little respite, but it was a game that had developed between you; a game that, deep down, you enjoyed.

He was so predictable.

“If I had known you liked strong men, I would have dyed my hair,” you heard him shout from behind you. Aegon wasn't the least bit shy. You shook your head, your silver locks bouncing.

"Get lost, you moron," you replied without even turning around.

The meal in honour of your betrothal promised to be exciting.

***

As soon as he saw you, your nephew rose to pull the chair beside him in a gallant gesture, and you found yourself watching him. Really watching him. His long, broad fingers on the back of the chair. His dark locks falling around his face. His precise features; his straight nose and deep eyes and square jaw. You hadn't realised how much your nephew had changed. He'd grown up too, and he was now a good head taller than you.

He had become a strong man, indeed.

But you refused to admit that Jacaerys Strong had become quite pleasant to look at.

"Princess," he said, pushing the chair back for you to sit down. Fingers brushed the skin of your partly bare shoulders. The touch had lasted a fraction of a second, enough to make you wonder if it had been a figment of your imagination.

"Lord Strong," you replied in greeting. If the words hurt him, Jace didn't show it. Always the perfect son. What would it take to push him over the edge? To crack the shell he'd built around himself? To shatter the image of the gentleman?

To your right, Aegon was already seated. He was holding a glass of wine between his fingers while Aemond seemed to be lecturing him about something you couldn't understand. The exchange between you and Jace had obviously not escaped his notice, and the corner of his mouth had already curled into a smirk. You knew what it meant.

His silence was full of implications, louder than any words.

Your mother had lectured him before dinner, warned him to behave because that was what was expected of him, and she was counting on you to make him obey.

But your older brother didn't say anything. He simply raised his glass in your direction, his lips forming a word that you couldn't read. You weren't sure if you were relieved or disappointed.

You looked at your nephew. He had donned a gambison in the colours of the Velaryons, and you couldn't help but smile at the irony of the situation.

After all, a bastard in blue was still a bastard.

"Enjoying King's Landing?" you asked your betrothed, in an attempt to start a conversation. His attention turned to you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“It's quite different from what I remember,” he replied, his voice a little lower than usual, his warm eyes meeting yours. “But of course it all depends on the company you are with."

You hesitated, suddenly unsure.

You hated what the sound of his voice did to you. You hated the way his eyes suddenly made you feel vulnerable.

Fuck.

“It all depends on the company, indeed. And do you find yourself in good company tonight, nephew?" You gave him a defiant look, as if to judge his reaction.

As if to unveil what he held within himself.

“I'm not quite sure. Should I?” He paused, one eyebrow raised. He had taken the bait. “What would yousay?”

His eyes sparkled with something you couldn't quite put your finger on. It wasn't the malice you usually found in Aegon's eyes when he wanted to tease you. It wasn't the gleam that animated his mind when he came up with a new plan for you to cover.

"I would say I'm in pretty strong company," you replied as you took your cup, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of your lips that you hid behind the glass.

You were cruel, giving him no respite, you knew. But you admired his composure. He hadn't cracked yet.

You knew men who were less patient.

Jace leaned towards you. A slight tilt of the head, just to make sure you were the only one to hear him. As if he wanted to share a secret with you. “Careful, Aunt,” he began, his voice suddenly quieter than before. It was almost a whisper. “I might begin to think you enjoy my company.”

You know I don't, you wanted to reply, but Jace had already straightened up as if nothing had happened, his head turned away from you. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Baela give him a questioning look, and an unfamiliar sensation stirred in the pit of your stomach.

An unpleasant heat.

A hint of irritation.

You were annoyed, and you didn't know why.

“Look how handsome your betrothed has made himself for you,” Aegon sneered as he reached for the decanter and leaned in close to your ear. “A true Velaryon, isn't he?” He huffed.

You wanted to slap him on the thigh, make him swallow his mockery.

“If you think he's so handsome, I can happily leave him to you,” you replied, and Aegon's eyes widened. You saw him take a sip of wine, and something deep inside you told you he probably wasn't opposed to the idea. His usual mischievous smile was hidden behind the wine glass, but there was no mistaking his eyes.

Aegon had that tendency to give himself away, and you could read him like an open book.

The meal proved to be as boring as you had imagined. Small talk exchanged over fake smiles. An illusory moment in which everything seemed to be going well for one evening.

You weren't fooled, and you knew it was all a facade. You knew your family well enough to understand that the slightest spark could set things alight. You knew your brothers well enough to realise that all it would take was a simple glance between them to liven up an evening they found dull.

You just hoped they wouldn't cause too much trouble tonight.

To your left, Jace was still deep in conversation with Baela. They had that kind of complicity that made your blood boil inside; a shared laugh that sounded in your ear like the squeaky music you hated. You frowned. It was you, his betrothed. It was you, not Baela, and you didn't understand why that statement was suddenly so important.

After all, you despised this union. You hated Jace. You had no desire to promise him the rest of your life.

Jace was a bastard, and you deserved better.

So why did the sight of him touching Baela's hand cause a twinge of jealousy in your body?

His fingers brushed over hers absently. A light touch on her knuckles.

And all you felt was fire.

And then. Then, your fingers slipped under the wooden table.

You knew you were playing with fire. And you knew that if anyone paid too much attention to what you were doing, they would see that you weren't exactly behaving like the perfect Princess Targaryen you were supposed to be.

But you didn't care.

You let your fingers wander, running along the outside of Jace's thigh before moving up to settle in the hollow that connected his thigh to his hip. With a faint touch, your fingertips brushed the inside of his thigh, and then lower, tracing small circles through the fabric that was already beginning to tighten.

Jace almost choked.

He spat out the contents of his glass, his dark gaze fixed on you. Everyone had fallen silent, their heads turned towards him. Rhaenyra's eyebrows were furrowed in concern.

And you hadn't removed your hand.

An innocent smile lit up your face, your eyes sparkling with mischief. You wondered if Aegon could read you. If he could see that look on your face, so similar to his own. That distinctive feature you shared.

Deciding to play with your prey a little longer, you put on your best fake concerned face, pretending to be worried about his health.

"Are you all right, Jacaerys?" you asked, your voice a little higher than usual as your nails dug into the fabric of his breeches. Not to hurt him, of course. Just enough to wake a certain part of him, just enough to remind him that you were his betrothed.

He cleared his throat and coughed again.

“I swallowed wrong,” he replied.

Your fingers crept a little higher, trying to explore his upper thigh, where you knew your nephew would be sensitive. You didn't want to be rational tonight, you wanted to let the fire take over and consume you.

You wanted to let the sleeping dragon within you awaken.

The taste of the forbidden was divine, and the heat spreading through your lower belly was too delicious to stop now.

"Be careful, mandianna. We're not married yet." you said. We're not married yet and look where I've got my fingers. You kept your thoughts to yourself. "I wouldn't want to find myself a widow already," you replied in High Valyrian, amused, and Jace looked at you with his big brown eyes, somewhere between anger and excitement, embarrassment and curiosity.

Under the table, out of sight, your hand brushed the stretched fabric where you could read the confirmation of what he was feeling, the manifestation of his desire.

He was hard.

Perfect.

It was you who provoked this.

He responded to your touch.

You felt a familiar breath on the back of your neck and realised Aegon was leaning against you again. He was pretending to serve you some of the vegetables that had just been brought in for the starter, taking the opportunity to whisper in your ear as he did so well. "Try to be more discreet, little sister," he chuckled softly, his voice nothing more than a whisper to make sure no one heard you. Discreetly, he nodded to where your hand still rested on your nephew's thigh. He tilted his head. "Rhaenyra is right in front of us. Do you think she can see what you're doing to her son under the table?"

He put on his best disinterested face. As if the words exchanged between you were nothing more than banalities.

As if he weren't commenting on the indecent deeds you were doing under the table, unworthy of a girl of your rank.

"Shut up, Aegon," you replied, trying to keep a straight face. You didn't want him drawing any more of your family's attention to you, especially when you hadn't finished playing.

Your big brother gave you a knowing wink, as if to promise you that your secret was safe with him.

And you decided to continue entertaining yourself with the new game you'd invented.

You were bold, and you decided that if Jace didn't already know it, he would find out soon enough.

***

It wasn't that Jace was disappointed with his betrothal. You were divine, and the dress you wore made you so regal that he couldn't keep his attention anywhere but on your body, on your cleavage so gracefully offered to his gaze.

It was precisely why he had turned to Baela, why he had tried to distract himself with their conversation, why he had desperately tried to find something else to hold on to.

Because you were making him lose his footing. And that was a feeling he hated.

No, Jace did not regret his betrothal. You were everything a man could want; you were beautiful, you were regal, you were clever, and above all, you were a Targaryen. A princess. The king's daughter.

The only problem was you were distant and elusive.

Jace remembered your pretensions and mockeries from his childhood. He remembered the little brat you were, following in your older brother's footsteps. He remembered a little girl with a strong temper, who knew what she wanted. He remembered the pranks, not just the ones he'd taken part in, like the Pink Dread, but the ones that had turned against him because of you and Aegon, too.

It was clear that the little girl you had once been, taller than him, with long silver curls and an air of self-assurance far too confident for her young age, had grown into a beautiful young woman.

And that was something Jace hadn't considered.

He couldn't concentrate on his conversation with Baela, not when your fingers were digging through the linen of his breeches into the flesh of his thigh, as if to remind him to whom he had been promised.

Your fingers, slender, light, burning against his inner thigh.

He clenched his jaw.

All around him, the words and faces of the guests mingled in a swirl of sound and colour. Fuck.

Fuck.

His breeches were really becoming too tight.

You'd dared to do that. You'd dared to slip your fingers under the table, in front of everyone, and Jace didn't know whether to admire your audacity or wrap his fingers around your wrist and force you to take them off.

Suddenly he felt hot, a familiar warmth spreading between his loins.

He wasn't sure he could get up, not with his member pulsing between his thighs.

Fuck. You weren't supposed to make him feel like this. He wasn't supposed to feel such a desire for you when you weren't officially married.

This dinner was about officially declaring your betrothal, not consummating a union not yet pronounced.

He was trying to calm down. He tried to ground himself back into reality. Perhaps by staring intently at the contents of his plate he could ignore the sensation of your fingers rising dangerously high; the desperate need to finally have your fingers wrapped around his manhood.

His knees slammed into the table in a sudden movement.

Your fingers had just brushed the bulge that had formed between his thighs.

And he needed more, infinitely more.

You couldn't have the cruelty to arouse such lust in him and then leave him like that. He would never forgive you.

"Stop that," he growled in your direction, low enough for no one else to hear.

But you still had that damn innocent smile, that damn audacity to act as if nothing had happened.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mandianna." Nephew. The sound of the High Valyrian rolling off your tongue sent a wave of heat between his legs. Seven hells, you were going to be the death of him.

He wanted more.

He needed more.

More of your fingers around him, more of your tongue against his length, more of that innocent look on your face as you knelt before him, more of your tight cunt.

Jace was on the verge of losing it. You'd made him a slave to his own desire. You had closed your claws around him and he knew there was no turning back now.

“If you play with fire too much, you might get burned, muña," Jace retorted, leaning towards you, and he felt the imperceptible movement of your hand twitching at the threat. Aunt.

Despite his dwindling strength, King Viserys tried to make a speech about family, betrothal, and a whole host of other undoubtedly honourable values, but neither you nor Jace paid any attention. You were caught up in your own game.

Then Jace stood up, forcing you to remove your hand.

You could see he was uncomfortable, for you knew where to look, for you knew what you had done.

You knew he had a painful erection between his thighs, and it was all because of you.

But you could only admire your nephew's composure.

“To my uncles, Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. I have fond memories of our shared childhood.” His glass between his fingers, he raised it in the direction of his uncles, then turned to you. "And to my sweet and beautiful bride-to-be, who I'm sure will never cease to surprise me with her daring and surprising side. May our marriage be filled with joy and satisfaction".

The toasts continued, as did the meal. The servants had brought the rest of the dishes consisting of steaming meat and tasty garnishes. It was almost too joyous, almost too happy to be real. As if there was a threat lurking somewhere in the corner.

But Jace still had to teach you a lesson.

The music started, the sound of instruments filling the room. Jace apologised to Baela and walked over to his aunt. His other aunt. Your sister.

And you felt the anger return; the same inner turmoil as before.

Jace had held out his hand to Helaena and led her to dance a little further away. You immediately exchanged a questioning look with your brother, who had also stared at Jace in disbelief as he had walked away on your little sister's arm.

"So?" Aegon began. "It seems your betrothed didn't appreciate your little game?" You glared at him, but he just scoffed. "If he changes his mind... You know I like it."

You wondered if you could do the same. You wondered if you could ask Aegon to dance and if Jace would feel the same bubbling inside him, the same jealousy coursing through his veins.

You hated that feeling.

You shouldn't feel that kind of emotion, especially not for him.

You obviously didn't see it, too focused on your own annoyance, but Jace kept glancing in your direction, as if to make sure you saw him.

He wanted to make you jealous. He wanted to fuel the feeling he'd identified in you. He wanted to catch you at your own game. And one thing was certain, Jace hadn't played all his cards yet.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

After a moment that seemed an eternity, your betrothed returned to sit beside you, Helena going back to her own seat. You were less and less able to hide your annoyance, and no doubt Jace noticed, for he leaned towards you, a satisfied look on his face. "Your sister is very sweet," he murmured. He knew very well that this simple phrase would be enough to send you over the edge.

You liked attention. You liked compliments. You liked to be praised.

You said nothing back. But Aegon had his trademark grin, the one that stretched his lips when he had a devious plan, and he was already getting up on the pretext of serving Baela some wine so he could whisper in his nephew's ear. "I know my little sister can be particularly demanding.” He paused. “And difficult to tame. So if you ever need any advice... Or demonstrations…"

Jace was fuming, but he knew he had to keep his cool. It was Aegon, typical Aegon, to push his buttons, to succeed in making him suddenly unsure of himself, to make his mind confused. His fingers closed around his cup, his jaw clenched, and it took all his self-control not to throw the contents in his uncle's face.

He didn't even look at Aegon, who had returned to his seat with a triumphant smile.

But you felt something under the table. Something slipped between the folds of your dress, along your skin, discreetly, lightly, a delicious touch against your skin that made you want more.

Your eyes widened.

Jace.

Jace the perfect son. Jace the model son.

Jace slipping his fingers under your dress, touching the skin of your thigh, rising dangerously high where you could already feel the wetness forming in the crease between your thighs.

This was the moment he snapped, you knew it. You hadn't heard your brother's words, you had only seen him lean towards your betrothed, but you knew he must have struck a chord with Jacaerys Velaryon. That he had probably touched his weak spot.

Or perhaps you were just getting your comeuppance. After teasing him, after making him hard and desperate.

Jace moved his hand, tracing the space where your skin was soft and tender, all the way up your thigh, with a slow, gentle touch. His hand moved further towards the centre of you, where you were sensitive, and he brushed against your crotch. He didn't even need to apply any pressure with his fingertips to tell that you were wet.

Your hips automatically moved towards his hand in search of more contact, causing you to wiggle in your chair. All you wanted to do was grab his wrist, force him to slide his fingers under the fabric separating you, force him to touch you right here. But you were still at dinner and the game was becoming far too dangerous.

"I told you to be careful," Jace whispered as he withdrew his fingers and resumed his serious gaze, his fingers fidgeting on the wood of the table. “Two can play at this game.”

And then perhaps the Seven heard you. Perhaps they were offering you a way out. To be honest, you weren't sure if it was a miracle or a curse. For Aemond had risen, and he had done what he did best; he had made a mocking and provocative speech to his nephews.

Everything happened quickly. Jace and Luke leapt to their feet to answer the provocation, Aemond and Aegon were ready to fight back, and even Baela and Rhaena were prepared to defend their family. You had no time to move, no time to react, for dinner was already over, and so was your little game of cat and mouse with Jace.

This was your way out, you knew it. You were tired of sitting around a table listening to boring speeches. And the entertainment that had consisted of sliding your fingers under the table to push Jacaerys Strong over the edge had now turned against you.

"I shall rest," you warned your mother, who was deep in conversation with Rhaenyra, her features wrinkled with worry. "Tonight's events have left me somewhat tired. And I think a night's rest would do me a world of good." She nodded, stroking your hair, and you knew instinctively what she was thinking. Always the perfect daughter.

And as you passed through the heavy door of the dining room, you hurried off in a direction that was not that of your room.

Oh, but if she knew.

***

Thankfully, the corridor was deserted. You didn't have the slightest desire to run into a guard who would ask you where you were going or escort you to your room for security reasons.

Your steps were as discreet as possible on the stone floor, like those of a small mouse. You moved quickly, stealthily, almost on tiptoe.

Only the crackle of the fire broke the heavy silence between the cold walls, where the dancing shadows of the flames distorted.

You slowed your pace. You had a doubt. You weren't sure which door was the one you were looking for.

And then suddenly, as you reached the end of the corridor, you felt a hand grab your wrist and pull you against the wall, away from prying eyes. A strong grip, as if it didn't want to let you vanish again.

Jace was holding you between the wall and his own body. Despite the darkness, you could see his eyes shining in the candlelight, fueled by a devouring hunger you didn't know he possessed. He stared at you for a moment. His eyes in yours. A tension hung between you, burning, ready to consume you both, and you were completely willing.

Gently yet firmly he turned your body. Your chest against the cold wall, your back against his warm chest, and you pulled your hips back to provoke him. You wouldn't succumb so easily, not to Jacaerys.

He pressed himself against you, moving his pelvis forward so you could feel his hard member against the top of your buttocks.

"Do you feel what you're doing to me?" Another thrust of his hips. "Can you feel the effect you're having on me?" He pressed harder against you. Through the layers of fabric between you, you could almost feel him throb. Gods, he seemed big. "Teasing me all evening... Such a tease, aren't you?"

If it wasn't the consequence of your own actions.

You stifled a moan with your arm so as not to attract any patrolling guards. What you were doing was dangerous. At any moment you could be caught. At any moment you could be in big trouble.

But you couldn't stop now. Not when the best was yet to come.

You moved again, seeking more contact, seeking to make Jace harder and more painful than he already was, and you turned your head to challenge him. "What if it's you who's just too weak?"

You felt his hoarse breath against the back of your neck, at the base of your hair. He seemed to be hesitating, thinking. About what he was going to do to you, about what he was going to do to make sure you were responsible for your actions. Again he turned you so that you had your back to the wall, facing him, and you recognised the gleam of desire in his eyes.

Towering over you, he lowered his gaze to you, your faces inches apart. For a moment he let his eyes devour you, wandering from your eyes to your lips, from your lips to your breasts, visible through the fabric of your dress. He wanted to keep this image printed behind his eyelids; your half-open lips, your pleading gaze, like that of a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

You looked ravishing.

"Tell me to stop," Jace murmured. And you knew it was the sensible thing to do, you knew it was better to stop everything now, while it was still possible to turn back. For you weren't married yet.

But you had no desire to be responsible.

His fingers curled around a lock of your hair and tucked it behind your ear, waiting for your answer before continuing.

"What if I don't want you to stop?" you replied, your eyes locked with his. He felt your hand against his cheek as you detailed his face, tracing his well-sculpted cheeks, and he longed for more contact, his face seeking the warmth of your palm.

You put your arms around his neck to draw him closer, to close the distance between your lips, to feel his warmth against your body.

To quench this desire, this need that was becoming uncontrollable.

And your lips met in a feverish, urgent kiss. He pressed you further against the wall, his fingers running down your sides, brushing against the breasts he so craved.

He found your hips and his fingers worked frantically up the bottom of your dress in a crumpled ball of fabric to reach your core. "Look at how wet you are." His fingers brushed your folds through your undergarments. "All of this just for teasing me." He pressed one hand against the wall, still leaning against you, but not giving you what you wanted: his hand had stopped, and you tried to wiggle your hips to force him to continue, to force him to give you what you wanted.

Deep down, you loved the way he was losing control.

You loved that side of Jace you didn't know.

So you grabbed his wrist, guiding his fingers under the last barrier that separated his skin from yours.

The sensation was delicious.

The touch of his warm fingers against your folds sent a wave of heat from your lower belly through your entire body. You didn't want him to stop. "Here." You breathed against his lips. "This is where muña needs you." Aunt. He tensed beneath you, and you wondered if it was the ambiguity of the family tie, uttered in High Valyrian, that had such an effect on him.

You let your lips brush against his.

He collected your wetness on his fingers, exploring the slit between your folds up to your little pearl. You were soaking wet. And you desperately needed him inside you.

His fingers slid down to your opening where he applied a little pressure with the tip of his index finger without ever penetrating you.

"I know," he murmured, drawing small circles before abandoning your opening to return to your bud. "But I can't give you what you want now."

You whimpered under his cruelty, against his lips.

You could see through his game.

He wanted to make you beg, but you weren't the kind to beg. You were the one with the power and you were going to show him.

"We shouldn't stay here," you muttered, rubbing yourself against your nephew's hand. "If someone catches us..."

Jace nodded his head in agreement, withdrawing his fingers glistening with your juice, which you guided to his own lips, spreading the stickiness against his lips.

"If you're a good boy, I'll let you taste me."

And with that, he pulled you into his room.

***

Lying on the bed where you'd pushed him, Jace watched as you removed your dress, his prominent erection stretching the fabric of his breeches. The dress fell to the floor, forming a red puddle that you stepped over, one foot after the other.

Your nephew couldn't look away from your hypnotic figure, but his eyes inevitably wandered back to your breasts. You'd seen him glancing at your cleavage all evening, you could tell he wanted to run his fingers over your soft flesh, his lips over your nipples, and now that you were completely naked in front of him, you could see the unmistakable desire in his eyes.

You walked up to him. He clenched his jaw when he saw you. You, and the perfection of your shape, your little pointed nipples, the tantalising path that led from your chest to the space between your thighs where he knew you were soaked for him.

The flat of your hand pressed against his chest, forcing him to lie down between the pillows. He complied, never breaking the eye contact between the two of you, and you took your place on top of him, your legs on either side of his body. His husky breath escaped through his parted lips, lightly caressing your face.

You were naked, he was still dressed, and you had infinite power over him.

You lowered your hips against his covered crotch, the essence of your desire staining the linen of his breeches as your hips began to move slowly.

You leaned down and traced his jaw with the tip of your lips, planting kisses along his throat. Underneath you, his member twitched. Mimicking what he'd done earlier, you let your fingers rest on the painful bulge between his legs and whispered, "I know." You applied a little more pressure, drawing a moan from between his lips. "I know it's painful. But I can't give you what you want right now."

Jace growled. He wanted to turn you over, slam you against the mattress, pound into you and make you swallow your insolence. But he wanted to see how far you were willing to go. He wanted to see you keep control for a while longer.

You deftly undid his breeches to make it easier for your hand to slip through. You found his hard member, warm and heavy between your fingers.

It was a new sensation. As a model princess, you'd never ventured into this territory, saving your maidenhood for your future husband.

But Jace was your future husband.

You closed your fingers around him, your thumb collecting the sticky beads that had already formed at the tip of his cock and spreading it along his length.

"First I want to come on your tongue," your lips articulated against the skin of his throat as the hand that was in his breeches moved up his torso to close around his jaw, your thumb caressing his lower lip to emphasise your words. "Will you let me?" you added. In response, he let the tip of his tongue slip between his lips, touching the pad of your finger. "Let me show you," he whispered.

And indeed, Jace worked devotedly between your thighs, his tongue tracing the length of your slit, drinking in your essence as it flowed from your entrance like a delicious nectar. His tongue tickled your little knob, his thumbs spreading your folds to gain access to the treasure he coveted.

One of his fingers found your hole clenching around nothing, tracing small circles against it to force you to voice what you wanted. "Do you need me here?" he whispered against your flesh, the vibration of his deep voice sending shivers through your core. Your hands buried themselves in the dark mass of his hair and you moved your hips against his face, urging him to maintain the contact of his mouth against you. "Use your words, muña," he added, despite his nose being buried between your folds.

When you gave him the answer he was waiting for, he let a finger enter you in a delicious stretch. You held back a moan, your fingers digging deeper into his hair, not caring if you were hurting him or not. He continued to explore your cunt with his tongue, like a thirsty man, like a devoted man.

You wouldn't last long, your release close.

Jace then added a second finger. The sensation of his fingers inside you, against that rough spot, combined with that of his tongue between your folds, against your pearl, was simply divine.

"Go on," Jace started, but you immediately cut him off. "Shut up." You didn't want him to speak. You wanted him to continue with his damn tongue, with his broad fingers inside you. You didn't want him to stop. "I am... I am close."

And your climax washed over your entire body like a wave of warmth. Your legs closed around your nephew's face.

It was probably one of the best sensations you'd ever experienced.

Still between your legs, his fingers gripping your thighs, Jace collected your arousal on his tongue, sending shivers of overstimulation down your spine, and your whole body shuddering in a brutal spasm. You straightened up, knees still bent, your hand returning to your nephew's hair to guide him over you, his face close to yours. You stroked his cheek gently, as if to let him know he was a good boy, and your thumb picked up the sticky fluid that was smeared all over the bottom of his face.

You were both out of breath. You from the intense release you'd felt, he from the dedication he'd shown.

A smirk formed at the corner of your lips, and you pressed your thumb between his lips to ensure he didn't waste anything. Jace tilted his face close to yours. "You taste divine," he breathed, turning your cheeks red. "But now I need to be inside you."

His fingers slipped between your thighs, where your centre was pulsing, still far too sensitive from the ministrations he had given you.

"You can give me another, can't you?" He asked, and you nodded, so sore.

After he undressed, Jace pushed on your shoulders to make you lie down, but you skilfully changed positions, taking him by surprise.

You were unwilling to give him the power he wanted, not yet.

Straddling him, you moved your hips to rub your crotch against his erect manhood, spreading your wetness along his length. Beneath you, his torso rose and fell rapidly, and the grunts he let out conveyed his need for more. So your hand sought his hard member, guiding it to your entrance without letting it penetrate you. "So?" you asked playfully. "Do you think you've been a good boy ? Do you think you deserve to be inside me?" You wanted to make him beg, and Jace could see right through you. "To be the first?" you added, lowering your voice slightly, as if you were telling him a secret.

But he wasn't sure he could hold out much longer.

So he capitulated, giving you the defeat you'd been waiting for.

"Yes." he breathed. "Please." Your victorious smile stretched your lips and you guided him further against you, pressing his erection against your opening. Fuck. He was massive.

He was about to breathe a sigh of relief, ready to feel your velvet walls tighten around him, but you blocked his hip movement.

It wasn't enough.

"Please who?" you asked, your fingers moving back and forth around his manhood. He glared at you. You were gloating. "Please, muña," he finally begged, and you gave him what he wanted.

You lowered your hips to let him slide into you in a long thrust that stretched you around him. He was indeedmassive, and the new sensation of having him inside you was a delicious mix of dull pain and burning pleasure. You stood still for a moment to adjust to his presence inside you, your core throbbing around him. The initial pinch gradually dissipated, replaced by a pleasant sensation that sent a wave of warmth through your body.

And then he began to thrust in and out, pushing up to sink into you. "Fuck...fuck, you're tight," Jace growled. Your loose hair cascaded down either side of your face, tickling his cheeks, and he caught it in a messy bun to hold it behind your head.

You could feel the same pleasure as before building up in your lower abdomen.

Gods, you could feel him so intensely. So deeply too. Bouncing rhythmically against that particular part of you.

You buried your head in his neck, his woody scent filling your nostrils.

It was primal. Animal, between the two of you. All that mattered was the here and now. Your body against his, the sweat beading between you, the moans filling the room.

Jace tugged at your hair, causing you to throw your head back, freeing access to your chest, and he straightened up into a sitting position, his member still deep inside you, to find your breast. He buried his face in it and your hand instinctively found the back of his head to stroke his hair. Jace's lips traced a trail of kisses down the valley between your breasts, following the curve of your flesh before closing around your nipple, which he sucked gently. One of his arms wrapped around you to hold you tight against him, his other hand resting on the breast he wasn't devouring.

You stayed like that for a while, your legs on either side of him, his mouth seeking solace in your breasts, the divine sensation of being full, with him inside you, in the softness of the night, the flames rocking your lovemaking.

One of Jace's arms finally found your back and in one swift movement he reversed position. He desperately needed more, sensing that he wouldn't last long.

He pinned you beneath him, against the mattress, your legs immediately closing around him and the pace quickened. His thrusts became more messy, more sloppy because of your two combined essences. "You're mine, now" he grunted, and you shivered. His index and middle fingers wandered between your folds, caressing the spot where you were joined before moving to the pearl hidden at the top of your slit. "Am I?" you replied teasingly. You could feel him throbbing inside you. "Then be a good boy now and give muña your seed."

That was the spark that ignited the fire. Jace quickened the rhythm of his hips, his fingers still buried between your folds, his movements erratic. With each of his thrusts, you felt his member hitting that sensitive spot against your spongy inner walls. You tensed and for the second time that evening, your release flooded your entire body. You were followed by your nephew as Jace spilled into you, his seed painting white ropes against your womb.

He lay still inside you for a moment, his cock softening as you both caught your breath, your hands in his dark curls, his head at the nape of your neck.

You winced as he withdrew from your still sensitive core, his now cold seed flowing between your thighs. Jace dropped down beside you, satisfied. Then you turned to him. You grabbed his wrist one last time and guided his fingers to your centre, where your folds were smeared with the remnants of your lovemaking.

"Look how much you've left inside me," you whispered into his ear, making Jace collect his own seed on his fingertips and push it back into you. "I'm going to keep it all inside me, would you like that, sweet boy?" you whispered again.

And Jace pulled you against him to kiss you, his member stirring between his thighs, against you. It was true that he'd given you the upper hand this time. But he was ready to show you what he could do. You snuggled up against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

"Perhaps…We should bring the wedding date forward."

And he smiled.

#jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jace x reader #jace velaryon #hotd x reader #jacaerys smut #jacaerys x y/n #jacaerys x fem!reader #jacaerys velaryon fanfic

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thesvnandthemooon · 4 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #x reader #fanfic #wlw #lesbian #marvel mcu #marvel #moon’s fics

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pencil-n-pen · 3 months ago

Text

REDUCED TO SKIN AND BONE

. ݁₊ ♡ . ݁˖

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buck x people pleaser! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: Pathological People Pleaser- capital P. That’s you. Life is a helluva lot easier when no one can hurt you- not if you never give anyone substantial pieces of yourself. Too bad Evan “Buck” Buckley takes issue with this.

cw: reader is a grade A pathological people pleaser so all the angst and issues that come with that, canon-typical gore/violence (they are firefighters/paramedics)

tags/tropes: coworkers to lovers (hr HATES these two) bobby knowing everything about these two but letting them work it out anyway, team as a family, BUCK IS BOBBY’S KID IDC WHAT ANYONE SAYS, also Buck being really sweet and nice (and reader having no idea what to do with this)

a/n: tbh this reader is really just a girl. this fic is extremely inspired by Love Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood, which, my dear followers, if you'll recall, is my favorite romance book ever (!!!!!) also no one say reader isn't realistic bc i based her internal dialogue and worries off of my real life experiences as a recovered people pleaser (there is hope for us)

credit to @bookshelf-dust for the in house arson investigator idea !! super brilliant and perfect !! go read their stuff !!

title taken from Goddess from Laufey!

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‘Who could ever leave me darling, but who could stay?

Cause they see right through me//Can you see right through me?

-The Archer, Taylor Swift

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₊˚⊹♡

Firefighter Evan “Buck” Buckley confuses you.

You’ve only been with the 118 for about two months. You’d be lying if you said the action and excitement of actually working with the firefighters on calls didn’t excite you to come to work— something you thought you’d never say.

And the team is great. You were nervous as hell at first. Suddenly being out on calls is exciting now, but scary as shit at first. You were much too used to your boring desk job. Plus, the firefighters were all intimidating in their own ways- Hen and Bobby the most.

Hen, because you totally look up to her and admire her ability to just… do whatever and say whatever and not worry what other people think. She holds her head high, and you’re more than a little envious.

Bobby, because he’s your captain, and you need to prove your worth as an addition to the team.

Slowly but surely, you began to solidify your presence as a team member. You aren’t sensitive to the blood and gore they see on calls which definitely won you points with Hen and Chimney, and you aren’t a pushover- you’re willing to put your foot down when push comes to shove. Plus, not to brag, but you’re damn good at your job.

After a month, you’d gotten everything down pat. What’s the right thing to say, what isn’t the right thing to say. What to do so the team trusts you, what to do so they don’t ask too many questions, how to correctly come across to them as a capable person. How to seem normal and well-adjusted and fine. What normal looks like to them.

With the exception of Evan Buckley.

You just… can’t get a read on him. Ever. He’s nice and smart and funny (and ridiculously attractive, like seriously, it’s not even fair) but no one is that nice and smart and funny (and ridiculously attractive.)

You don’t like talking to him because he’s been more than a little sweet on you since day one. And obviously it's not serious and he doesn't mean it, just friendly camaraderie, but. But but but but but. It catches you off guard without fail every single time. Because every single time you talk to him, you get the very distinct sense that he’s looking right though you. That when you’re talking to the rest of the team, perfect smile in place, he can see through you.

It’s more than a little unnerving. It leaves you unsteady and wrong-footed. Like you’re never sure what exactly to say or how to act.

So you mostly just avoid him. You’re thankful that you’re only the arson investigator, because if you’d actually been a real firefighter, avoiding him would be a million times harder. As it stands, it’s fairly easy to do it without being obvious.

Or so you think.

“Is something wrong Captain Nash?” You ask, shutting the door behind you in his office.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “I’ve told you to just call me Bobby.”

“I think the second I do, my parents will appear in the room and lecture me about respect and manners.”

You sit as he gestures, watching with almost perfectly concealed apprehension as he laces his fingers.

“Did Buck say something to you?”

What.

“What?”

“Firefighter Buckley,” Bobby clarifies, as if that was the part of the question that needed specification. “I’ve noticed that you tend to avoid him when possible. You’re good at it, I’ll give you that. No one else has noticed.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks at the admission of being caught.

“How could you tell?” You ask instead of answering his question.

Bobby just shrugs. “I have three kids. This isn’t my first rodeo. Now, you mind telling me what exactly is going on here?”

You’re not really sure you can explain this to him without one, sounding like a crazy person, and two, having him lose all the respect you’ve worked hard to build with him.

You settle for the super abridged version.

“Buck… makes me nervous. I’ve had some bad experiences with men that acted like him before, so. I’m over it, of course, I’m fine he just… sets me on edge a little. I’m not like, afraid of him or anything.”

You are actually afraid of him a little. Because if he really does see through you then what’s stopping him from ripping the current back? Giving everyone a good look into your ugly and raw? What’s stopping him from leaving you exposed?

Bobby hums, contemplating.

“You don’t trust him.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” You rush to amend, heart starting to race. Fix it fix it fix it fix it— “I do trust him. I know he’d never hurt me, or anyone else for that matter, he’s a great guy—“

Bobby leans back in his seat. “He’s a genuinely nice guy, and you don’t know how to deal with that, so you avoid him. You don’t trust that he’s genuine.”

Too close too close too close too close—

Smile. Laugh. Look down for a few seconds. Raise head, hold eye-contact. Speak.

“Nothing like that,” Smile. “Just takes some time for a girl to get used to all the facts that tend to come with him. I could’ve done without the one about heart worms before lunch.”

Laugh.

“Oh, you have no idea. Imagine being present when he actually got to assist on a tapeworm removal. I was put off noodles entirely for months.”

Now Bobby laughs, a real one, so you laugh with him, and you feel a little safer, the conversation back in your control.

“I promise, there’s nothing between me and Buck. Just new-girl nerves.”

Flash a smile, appease the man.

“If that’s all, then you’re free to go. Keep up the good work.”

You stand, one hand on the edge of the armrest of the chair to hide the minute tremors in your hand. You hold your breath as you leave Bobby’s office, breathing tiny, quick breaths through your nose until you make it to the safety of your office, closing the door behind you and all but collapsing into your chair.

That was… close. You must’ve let your guard down around Bobby. His personality and dad-aura are so disarming. You hadn’t even realized he’d been watching you that close. He read you a little too easily and a little too quickly. That was too close. What if he had—

A knock on your door snaps you ramrod straight, posture perfect and easy expression snapped into place in seconds.

It takes everything in you not to deflate when you see who walks through the door.

“Buck?”

“Sorry, sorry,” He raises his hands in mock surrender, “I know you don’t like me in here, I’ll be quick. I just need that file from that warehouse fire case?”

You frown as you search your filing cabinet for the case file. “I’ve never said I didn’t like you in here.”

“Yeah, not as much as said as implied.”

“I don’t mind you in here. It’s just an office.”

You’re not sure what he wants you to say. Does he want you to agree with him, tell him you don’t want him in here, make him right? Does he want you to tell him that he’s welcome in your office?

What does he want?

He shrugs in the corner of your eye, hands in his pockets, and you honestly have to physically restrain yourself from staring at the muscles of his arms as they move and tense with the motion. It’s very conflicting: him being the unending source of the late-night fantasies you pretend not to indulge in to fall asleep, hugging a pillow, and the fact that he’s the reason you’ve considered going on anxiety medication.

“…Are you okay?”

You’re abruptly reminded that he’s still in your office and you’re still having a conversation and your grip has at some point turned crushing on the case file.

“Oh, yeah,” Smile, look down, laugh. Look up(?) “Long night last night. Didn’t get much sleep.”

He cocks his head, the action reminiscent of a dog. He really is a golden retriever. You should really stop thinking about Buck so much.

“I thought you went home early last night?”

Your smile wavers.

Laugh(?) put the case file down. Take a sip of coffee, smile(?)

“You know how it is. Work never quite ends at work.”

He doesn’t skip a beat before speaking.

“Why do you do that?”

Something cold starts to drip down your neck. An icy chill of dread.

“Do what?”

“That lying thing.”

Smile? Laugh? Sit down?

Your other hand comes up to cup your coffee. “As far as I know, I don’t have a lying thing.” You huff a breathy laugh, but it comes out wrong. More wheezing and choked than a laugh.

He leans back against the wall of your office, crossing his arms. “Yeah you do. Like, sure, maybe you did have a late night, but none of those expressions or smiles were real. You like, lie with your face.”

You feel cold and hot at the same time. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you want this case file?”

“No, you know what I’m talking about. Is it conscious? Is it like code-switching? Nah, this is too—“

“Buck!” You snap, skin crawling, “Would you please just take this file and go?”

He snaps his fingers, pointing at you. “There! That’s real. That was a real expression.”

You forcibly smooth your face out, trying to project the calm you don’t feel. “Me getting annoyed with you?”

“Yeah,” He chuckles a little, a small smile on his face. “Just for a second, you looked real.”

You blink. Pause. Turn his words over in your head.

“You don’t really need this case file, do you?”

“Nope.”

You set the mug down, ignoring the way your tremors increased at your little outburst. “So you just came to what? Get under my skin? Disturb me while I’m working?”

He taps a boot on the floor. “Kind of. It’s my turn to be the man behind, and this beats mopping.”

This time, the flat glare you send him is intentional. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“I don’t know. You don’t seem as rigid as you did a few minutes ago.”

You stiffen your posture on instinct. “It’s called posture.”

“That’s not posture. That’s fear.”

His tone is light and joking, but his words hit their mark. Or maybe there isn’t a mark, and he just stabs your metaphorical bullseye anyway.

You shuffle in place, skin prickling under his gaze. “Is there a reason we’re having this conversation?”

“Is there a reason we shouldn’t?”

You stare at your shoes, face hot. This is uncharted territory. The end-all-be-all of terrible conversations.

“Well for one, it’s terribly awkward, and two, I don’t see why you felt the need to call me a liar to my face.”

Buck pushes off the wall. “Okay, that’s not what I meant by that—“

“No, I think you meant what you said.”

He sighs. “Can we start over?”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like you have this misconception about me, and it would really suck if a pretty girl didn’t like me just because we got off on the wrong foot.”

PRETTY?

“You think I’m pretty?”

You slap a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

He smirks, a mischievous thing pulling at his lips. “No, I think you meant what you said.” He says, mimicking your earlier words.

You press your hands into your face, exhaling hard.

“Well, if your goal was to make me uncomfortable, you’ve definitely succeeded.”

“Aw, that’s no good. That’s the opposite of what I wanted.”

The gears in your brain turn.

“You came here… because you wanted me to be more comfortable around you?”

He snaps his fingers. “Ding ding ding!”

You frown. “So your plan to make me more comfortable around you was to call me a liar and purposefully get under my skin?”

Your words hang in silence for a moment.

“Well when you put it like that—“

“Is there another way to put it?”

“The plan was to get you to see that nothing bad is gonna happen if you stop doing that face-lying-thing. I mean, you haven’t been doing it for the duration of this conversation and the world hasn’t ended, right?”

You look away. “That’s because I can’t pretend with you. It always falls apart. You freak me out.”

His brows furrow. “I freak you out?”

“Yes!” You snap whipping your head back to face him, “Other people put out, like, signals, you know. What kind of people they like and dislike, and I pick up on them, and avoid the parts they don’t like and play up the parts they do like. But you don’t put out anything! I don’t know what you want.”

Buck is silent for several moments. It’s unnerving.

“Have you ever considered that maybe I just like you?”

You blink. Look away. Cross your arms.

“You know,” He continues, voice a little softer, “I have a habit of liking people just as they are. Bobby tells me it’s one of my better qualities.”

“Is planning difficult conversations one of your lesser qualities?”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“No.”

It’s easier to focus and talk about the less serious parts of this entire situation than even think about what he just said.

“How about this,” He says after you don’t speak again. “If you’re gonna fake something, or pretend you feel one way about something, you have to come tell me the truth about how you really feel.”

“Well that sounds terrible. What do you get out of it?”

He smiles, folding his hands behind his back. “You agree to let me take you on a date.”

Your face is practically on fire. Evan Buckley is asking you on a date. Buck is asking you on a date.

“Oh.”

That’s all you manage to get out. Oh.

He frowns. “Are you oka—“

You smash your face into your hands, hiding your flushed and flustered face from view. “Just— just give me a second.”

You attempt to slow your racing heart, all to aware of the fact that Buck is still in the room, still looking at you.

“…Can you turn around?”

You hear a quiet little huff, then the shuffling of footsteps, signifying he is in fact no longer looking at you.

“If I’d known you’d be this excited at the idea—“

“Shut up or I’ll say no.”

He just hums, voice teasing. “I don’t think you will.”

“I might.”

“Mm. Nope.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t,” You grumble, dropping your hands. “Okay fine, I’ll do it, but when I tell you… stuff, you don’t get to make fun of me for whatever it is.”

“I really think you have the wrong idea of who I am as a person.”

“I’ve seen how you make fun of Eddie.”

“Well, that’s Eddie. It’s like, bro code.”

“Ew.”

“Having friends is gross?”

“Yes. Get out of my office.”

He turns around, grabbing his chest, feigning pain. “Oh the hurt. The pain.”

“You’ll survive, I’m sure. You’re a big boy.”

Okay what the fuck are you saying right now. Can’t god just strike you down? Can’t some old water damage cause the ceiling to come down on you?

Buck takes it in stride, laughing loudly, though if you look close, you can see a pink tinge to his cheeks.

“So when are you free for our date?”

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively over the word date, and you despise the flush it brings to your face. And ears. And neck.

“Um. Saturday?”

“Cool. You have my number, right?”

You nod.

“I’ll text you the details later this week. And hey, look at me.”

He waits until you look up. “You aren’t allowed to spend the rest of this week stressing about it, okay? It’s gonna be fun, and nice."

He opens the door to your office, ducking half out before turning around. “Remember: fun and nice.”

And then he’s gone. Then you’re just an idiot standing in your office, face hot and tingling.

He called you pretty.

—

Buck's request is difficult to follow through on. Like, sure, you agreed to it, but you still don't really understand why he wants to know this. The things that go on in your head that you don't tell anyone about. He said he got a date out of (a date, you're going on a date with Evan Buckley--) but is that really... anything?

Is it a real date? Or just some little fling? And why, exactly, is the date something he considers a fair trade? Like sure, he's hot -incredibly so- and every time you think about the date your heart speeds up and million questions run through your head, like will he pick you up, is he the type to bring flowers, where are you going for the date, all of those things.

You wince from your spot on the couch upstairs, papers strewn across the table in front of you.

"Dammit," You mutter, holding a finger up to the lip that you've chewed to shreds, now bleeding steadily, blood beginning to trickle down your chin.

A napkin appears in your line of sight, and you take it from Hen gratefully.

"Thanks."

She just nods. "Something on your mind?"

You blink, a little questioning.

"Your lip," She gestures to it. "You always chew it when you're thinking about something troubling. Is this about that new case?"

"Ah," You breathe, a small shiver running down your spine at her words. Being perceived is weird. "No actually. It's..."

You decide to be honest. News will get out anyway, and Hen appreciates truthfullness. "It's about Buck."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

You shuffle the papers in front of you, hands itching for something to do, "We're going on a date on Saturday."

"Oh!" She exclaims, settling on the couch across from you. "That's... surprising. I was under the impression you didn't really care for him."

Your face heats. "That's kind of why we're going on the date. He wants to... make me more comfortable. Those were his words."

"Interesting method."

You shrug. "It's Buck."

Hen nods, a chuckle escaping her lips. "I'm guessing you're not so sure about it?"

"It's not that. I just," you debate your next words carefully, weighing the options, wondering if you should even say them, but Hen's face is open and non-judgmental, and she knows when not to gossip.

"I haven't been on a date in awhile," You admit, "Or many at all, really. I don't know what to expect."

Your hands still on the papers. "I... don't do well when I don't know what to expect."

Hen nods. "I get it. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that Buck will do everything in his power to make the date as 'comfortable'," She does finger quotes around the word, "As possible. It took him a couple tries to get here, but. He's got a good heart."

You can't help the small frown at her words. "I know."

Hen tilts her head, squinting. "Do you? Cause it seems like you aren't so sure."

Smile. Laugh.

"Well," You laugh a small, breathy thing. "In my experience, no one is that nice."

Hen snorts. "Okay, true. But Buck's been through a lot. What he may lack in tact he makes up for in earnest effort."

She stands, and levels you with a look you try hard not to whither behind. "Give him a chance. And try not to break his heart."

You smile, hoping it doesn't look as brittle as it feels. "I'll try not to."

Though I'm not sure he'll be the one getting his heart broken.

Buck is careful not to bother you too much at work. He still sets you on edge in that "I see through you" way of his, but he's right- nothing terrible has happened since your conversation. If anything, he's almost... gentler, in his good natured ribbing and such. He's actually rather attentive.

"Okay," He murmurs next to you at the table, most of the others finished with their food , plates cleared and being washed. "You've got your fake smile on, so spill."

You elbow him. "Cool it, Buckley."

"Great meal, Cap!" You call out to the Captain, who sends you a quick smile from the sink.

You spear a stem of asparagus prepared honestly perfectly by Bobby, and lean over to Buck. "Fine. You really wanna know?"

"Uh, yeah."

You take a huge bite, smiling as you swallow. "I hate asparagus."

Buck's eyebrows shoot up. "Are you serious? That's such a small thing to care about."

You glance up to ensure nobody's eavesdropping. "Bobby works really hard on everything he makes! I don't want any of it to go to waste or to seem unappreciative."

"Okay, we're really going to have to have a talk about your perception of everyone," He elbows you back, "Come on. Bobby would not be offended if you don't eat the vegetables because you don't like asparagus period. It's not like you're even saying you don't like his cooking!"

You take another bite. Only A few left. "Better safe than sorry."

"Stop eating them--"

"I have to finish them!"

"Something wrong over there?" Bobby's voice rings out over the kitchen.

"Nope!" You call back.

"Actually," Buck starts, ignoring your furious elbowing, "Our little investigator over here doesn't like asparagus."

Bobby tilts his head with a smile. "Why didn't you say something?"

Your stomach lurches. Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god-- "I... didn't want you to be offended?"

"Why would I be offended that you don't like asparagus?"

"Because you cooked it?"

He shakes his head. "Not how things work around here. If you don't like something, you don't have to eat it."

Your face feels like it's on fire and your palms are sweating and you kind of feel a little nauseous. But that might be the asparagus. "Right. Okay. Thanks."

Bobby goes back to loading the dishwasher, and the others are no longer paying attention, so you lower your forehead to the table, grateful that Buck moves your plate away before your head can meet your now unfinished vegetables.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because asparagus is a dumb thing to be worried about," He says, voice light and cheery.

"It was a valid concern," You mumble.

"Maybe in your head. But not quite in reality," He rubs your back consolingly a few times, though all the action does is rile you up more. You're suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that you're still sitting here and you actually can't see if the others are still looking and oh god maybe Bobby is upset because you're an adult, you should've known that and--

"I can physically feel how tense you just got."

Oh. Right. His hand is still on your back.

"Relax," He drags out the word, his voice low and deep, "No one is going to spontaneously hate you. I sure don't."

"You don't count."

"Mm, how come?"

You're glad your face is currently hidden by the table, because you flush when you mumble the next words.

"Cause you think I'm pretty."

"I do," He amends, "But I'm not sure that discounts my opinion. IF anything, it doubles it."

"That's not how that works."

"It's not?"

"No."

He leans in, his breath tickling your ear. "Prove me wrong, then."

Saturday approaches and your anxiety increases. Buck had in deed texted you the details -which did, actually, make you feel better, knowing a bit of what to expect and having it in writing.

When Saturday arrives and the clock inches closer to the time he said he'd pick you up, you start to question if any of this was a good idea.

Everything collapses when you have to pick an outfit. Nothing seems right- everything is either too much or not enough. You blink the tears out of your eyes because you spent too long on your makeup to ruin it, and Buck's gonna be here soon and you need to just pick something--

A knock sounds at your door and you gasp. Shit.

You rush to the front door, and wrench it open.

"Hi I'm so sorry I'm not ready yet- oh my god are those flowers?"

Buck takes the rush of words in stride, smiling and holding the bouquet out to you. "They are."

You take the flowers with reverence, the gentle, floral aroma soothing your senses.

"Are... you okay?"

You blink, not realizing that tears had begun to well up in your eyes again. "What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. I'm a little... frazzled."

His gaze darts down. "Is that why you don't have pants on?"

You're almost one hundred percent sure you burst into flames right then and there. And if you don't, you seriously hope you do.

"Oh my god- don't look, I'll be right back, uh, please come inside and close the door!"

You race back into your room and shut the door, throwing on the closest pair of pants- which happen to be the fuzzy, old, candy heart-print pajama pants you took on three hours ago when you started getting ready.

You step back out, now sporting a wonderful outfit consisting of your black, rather nicely fitting going out top and fluffy pajama pants.

"I'll be ready in about fifteen minutes, sorry about the," You pause, swallowing your embarrassment, "Lack of pants."

He chuckles, laughing that nice little Buck laugh that settles your nerves a bit. "Hey, I wasn't complaining. I asked for the real you and this has all been very real."

Your never-ending flush revives itself as he speaks. "I"m really sorry, I'm usually more put together than this, I promise."

He takes a step toward you. "Remember why we're going on this date?"

A beat passes.

Buck takes another step. "To make you more comfortable with me. And the team, but mostly me."

You laugh a little, a nervous thing.

"But you don't seem very comfortable right now." His hands rise to the your waist, sliding down to your hips.

"Sorry," You say on instinct.

He huffs. "Still don't think you're getting the point of this. Okay, what was the big stressor of tonight, besides the actual date part?"

You look down at your feet. "My outfit."

"Well," He says, squeezing your waist and very clearly enjoying the little squeak you let out at the action, "Then why don't we sollve that by..."

Your heart siezes. Oh god, you're not ready to sleep with him, you haven't had your everything shower because it was only the first date and you didn't think--

"...Staying in tonight? I can order some takeout and we can watch a movie."

Oh.

"But your reservation--"

"Can be called and cancelled," He soothes. "I only want to do things you're comfortable with. That was the whole point of this date."

Later, after you both stuffed your faces with takeout graciously ordered by Buck, and both of you cuddled up on the couch (!) you let yourself speak.

"Buck?"

"Hmm?"

"Sorry for freaking out earlier," You curl your arm around his bicep, face smashed into the side of it while you (pretend) to watch the movie. "Thanks for... this. And the flowers."

"You really like those flowers, huh?"

"Mhm. They're really pretty. No one's ever gotten me flowers before."

"What? No way."

"Well. I haven't ever gotten flowers from a date or boyfriend," You stumble over the word boyfriend, "But like, you know. Graduations and stuff."

"Guess we're going to have to fix that, then."

"We are?"

He raises a brow. "You didn't think I was gonna stop at one date, did you?"

"Well it was kind of a mess."

He shrugs. "On one of my first dates, I choked on bread and my date at the time had to perform a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen."

You gape at him. "Those are real?"

He traces a finger over the thin, silver scar on his throat. "Yep. So trust me, this date turned out fine. I actually uh,"

He flushes a little, a dusting of red on his cheeks. "I actually really enjoyed tonight."

You chew your lip, nervous and scared but all the sudden deciding that you're going to get over yourself and do something. No matter how small.

You stare at the end credits. "You wanna watch another movie?"

"Absolutely. More takeout?"

"I don't know how you can even think about eating more. But I do have popcorn in the pantry."

He presses a quick, soft little kiss to your cheek. "Perfect."

₊˚⊹♡

#girlblogging #evan buckley #evan buck buckely #evan buckley x reader #evan buck buckley #evan buck buckley x reader #buck x reader #evan buckley imagine #evan buckley one shot #evan buckley fluff #911 abc #911 show #911 x reader #911 imagine #911 oneshot #evan buckley x you #evan buckley x y/n

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jybyls · 7 months ago

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Soft launch with Jenna

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Synopsis: Jenna and you tried to soft launch.

Warnings: Some haters but nothing insane.

Words: 1k (tbh idk)

- 📜🎧🍂 -

yourusername

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yourusername What's your favourite scary movie ? 🔪

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ynupdate QUEEN POSTED ‼️

jasminsavoybrown Courtney looks oodly good in blood

yourusername @/jasminsavoybrown True

jennalov3r 'Thank you Y/n !' We all say in union

jennasgf @/jennalov3r FR

ort3gajenjen @/jennalov3r she fed us fr

randomuser I'm hella excited to watch it

melissabarrera Loved working with you ! You're my fav (dont tell jenna) ❤️

yourusername @/melissabarrera Thank you, I loved working with you too ! You're definitely my favourite co-worker (dont tell jenna) 🫶

jennaortega @/melissabarrera I saw everything you both said and I'm highly offended @/yourusername

pretty_yn I'm smelling some simp over jenna ☝️

yourusername @/pretty_yn Hush

y_n_loveer @/yourusername Y/N ??

ynnna @/yourusername New ship unlocked

babygirljenna @/ynnna REAL

yourusername

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yourusername Autumn dump 🍂

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emmamyers Your vibe is immaculate cupcake

yourusername @/emmamyers Thanks pretty face

jennasofficalgf @/yourusername And y'all are shipping this with Jenna ? Be fr 😒

us3rn4me @/jennasofficalgf Shut up you're just mad bc jenna would never want you 💀

ynfavouritesgal Such a mood

ynistheloml I see the same woman too much in there 🤨

jennaswife @/ynistheloml It's definitely Jenna

ynnnglasses @/jennaswife IKR I THOUGHT THE SAME THING

user_456 @/jennaswife They'd be lowkey hot together

ortegasgirl Wait is she SOFT LAUNCHING JENNA ???

idonthaveausername Y'all are insane, Jenna and Y/n are just friends

jennaupdate

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jennaupdate Jenna and Y/n have been seen together a lot of times after finishing filming scream 6 !

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ynxjenna GIRLFRIENDS 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

jennaupdate @/ynxjenna DEFINITELY

jeennn4 New favourite ship ‼️

r4ndomn4me @/jeenn4 They're just friends jesus

yn_lover @/r4ndomn4me BOOOO 👎📣 let us believe their dating

ortegaj THE THIRD PIC ?? HELLO ??

ynsrings @/ortegaj IKR ??! INSANE

sillyjo What ? 💔

userphone That's literally me guys wtf who's that y/n gal ??

jennaupdate @/userphone LOLL

princess_beauty Just screamed my heart out 😞

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yourusername ☕️

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jennaortega You should post your pretty face more

yourusername @/jennaortega But I like posting yours more

ynjennashipper @/yourusername WAIT WHAT ?

friendlyuser @/yourusername Wait wasn't jenna dating that tall blond guy ?

yourusername @/friendlyuser If she was she wasn't aware of it

bloggingaboutyn @/yourusername LMAO YES GURL

dylanminnette 🖤🤎

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sabrinacarpenter I love your aesthetic so much baby !

yourusername @/sabrinacarpenter Thank you honey <3

jennafanpage @/yourusername Already cheating huh ? 🙄

everything_jenna @/jennafanpage Omg stfu

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jennaortega

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jennaortega Love your partner the best you can, you only have one true love.

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yourusername We're very slick with it jen

jennaortega @/yourusername I don't understand what you're talking about bro

yn_fan @/jennaortega LMFAOOO

jenny_. @/jennaortega THEYRE NOT REAL WTF 😭

winonaryder My girls ❤️

jennaortega @/winonaryder 🖤

yourusername @/winonaryder 🤎

randominstauser Atp just say you're dating

georgiefarmer Weren't y'all supposed to be a secret ?

jennaortega @/georgiefarmer Wdym ? We're friends

jennyjenna @/jennaortega FRIENDS ?? MA'AM YOURE BLIND

yn_updates @/jennaortega Living in the denial are we ?

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yourusername stories

Private message

jennaortega I think people know about us

yourusername You think ??

jennaortega Yes. We've been less careful lately.

yourusername I love you, you oblivious dumbass

jennaortega I love you too, dear 🖤

💋 Liked by yourusername

- 📜🎧🍂 -

A/n: idk I got bored but that was fun. Love y'all <3

#jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #oneshot #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega imagine #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x you #modboard #instagram post #Spotify #jybyls #- 📜🎧🍂 -

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deathbxnny · 8 months ago

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HEHEHEHEH HELLO AGAIN BXXNY!!!

I am so obsessed with this man even if he doesn't do big pp DMG and I have no idea how to use him he's still on my team (with Yelan Klee and Zhongli)

ANYWAYS!! Kinich with a girlfriend that's like his childhood best friend, both pretty obsessed with each other tbh, but Ajaw is a little shit that loves making Kinich's life hell, so he acts all sweet with reader, always crying crocodile tears to her and just sucking up to her, basking in all the attention and cuddles she gives him while making sure to paint Kinich in a bad light.

Of course reader knows Ajaw's little plan... but she does love seeing Kinich so frustrated, so she always agrees with Ajaw... I'll leave the rest to you!

(I'm so happy to get this other idea out you have no idea)

Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. | Kinich x Fem!Reader feat. Ajaw

I want to kiss your brain, dear moot!! Your idea is so good, I could eat it for dinner rn!!<33

Content: Jealous Kinich, established relationship, Ajaw being a menace as usual, fluff, kinda unserious, sfw

Reader is asked to be fem/afab!

((Not proofread))

Ajaw was always determined to make Kinich's life a living hell out pure of spite. Nothing else brought him so much joy, and therefore, he used all his free times to scheme and plan his next evil shenanigans against him. It wasn't an easy thing to do by no means, though, since the man was often unbothered and indifferent by his presence, going so far as to banish the dragon lord at times to get rid of him momentarily.

But all of his hard work became a lot lighter when you and Kinich finally became a couple after years of being "just friends". The dragon lord saw his golden opportunity for the perfect revenge, one he achieved through your kind, unsuspecting heart and kindness towards him.

To you, Ajaw could do no wrong. No matter what it was, you often took his side when he whined and gave you those perfectly teary eyes whilst accusing Kinich of being mean to HIM. That produced much better results than anything the dragon lord could've ever planned, and it brought him indescribable joy to see his dear companions visible annoyance.

Now, you ofcourse were very much aware of Ajaw's silly, evil plans, but seeing your boyfriend so easily angered and jealous at the attention you gave the menace of a creature he was stuck with, was unfortunately too cute to pass up. Of course, you'd make it up to him with gentle kisses and cuddle sessions... but until then, you played along.

Whenever Ajaw came flying to you out of "fear", after Kinich "threatened" to put him in time-out again, you'd coo at his plight and pat him on the head, a playful and sympathetic pout in your lips that ticked your boyfriend off.

At times, he'd even interrupt your time together during dates, demanding attention in the most dramatic ways possible, knowing how jealous it made the man who was very much obsessed with you. He could never be angry at you, but Ajaw was not spared from his wrath. He tried to stay calm and remind himself that it was all just to get a reaction out of him, but it was hard when he was close to reaching over and strangling him.

You eventually had to stop your games to calm him down and remind him that it was all indeed just playful banter... especially after Ajaw received the darkest glare known to man, when he attempted to ruin another date with you.

The allmighty dragon lord miraculously stopped his plans for a while, mainly because he suddenly didn't feel like facing your loving boyfriend's wrath after all...

#genshin impact #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact kinich #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #genshin kinich x reader #genshin kinich #kinich x reader #kinich #genshin ajaw

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misshugs · 1 year ago

Text

The elevator game || Colby Brock x Reader

[req by anon] You knew you were sensitive to the other side, but you didn't expect a silly little game from the internet to give you this much of an impact.

warnings: cursing, paranormal activity, reader getting (slightly) attacked by ghosts, sensitive/medium!reader, degrading, angst? still not sure what the meaning of it is tbh

a/n: this is my first request ever, i hope i didn't let you down dear anon. Concept based on this video

word count: 2.5k (not proofread)

[u n e d i t e d]

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

"What's up guys, it's Sam and Colby!" Colby screamed towards the camera, as always.

"Today we are here at the Driskill Hotel, also known as the most haunted hotel here in Texas." Sam continues.

"We're here to figure out why this place is so haunted and what message the ghosts here wanna tell the people. And for this video guys, we have a very special someone!" Colby says, moving to the side so that you're visible to the camera.

Waving at it and smiling, you were greeted by Colby's hands wrapped around your shoulders. "Thank you, thank you. Hello, dear people. It is I." They laugh.

"How are you feeling about this? Are you excited?" Sam asks, putting the camera on the both of you.

"I am! The place is HUGE and honestly, just looks so good!"

"Right?? When we got in it was just like a burst of shock at how gorgeous this place is." Sam said and Colby nodded.

"If it weren't haunted I'd probably come here more often, but I can already feel all of these... energies walking around, I wouldn't last too long."

"Oh, right. For anybody that doesn't know, Y/n is actually a bit of medium?" Colby asks while looking at you, making you nod. "Yeah, so she's sensitive to like the energy of shadow figures and things like that, so maybe we'll get to experience something interesting tonight!"

"I'd say hopefully not but that wouldn't make it fun I guess." You laugh and so do they while you explain it is a pain in the ass to feel those things constantly. "It is almost as if you're constantly paranoid about someone looking at you, y'know what I mean?"

"Oh yeah, for sure." Colby noded.

"Yeah so that, but those stares are more physical than anything, there are times where I can feel people walking behind me and when I look back, there's no one."

"I can just imagine how creepy that must feel." Sam said and you chuckled.

"Oh yeah. You have no idea." You smiled.

"Well then, shall we begin the investigation?" Colby asked you, smiling. You quickly smiled back.

"Of course." You kissed him softly before Sam could even turn off the camera.

"Oh, gross man. I'll have to edit that out." He said jokingly and you laughed, rolling your eyes.

"But seriously though, let's keep it moving." You said and they agreed.

Walking around, there were a few pieces of lore they had to explain to you beforehand. About the one and only Driskill who created the hotel, about the little girl that broke her neck, so on and so forth.

There were times when you had this eerie feeling of constantly being followed, so you kept your arms interlocked with Colby's.

"You're doing okay so far?" He asked, cautiously caressing your hand. You nodded.

"Yeah, just feel like we're being followed." You replied, looking back where there was no one there.

"Really??" Sam asked, looking back as well but seeing nothing. "Do you think we caught a ghost's interest?"

"I mean, probably. There is a difference in between someone that's coming just for the hotel part and us, that are investigating and directly needing their intervention. We're making them curious."

"Well, for whatever spirit that might be following us, you're welcome to answer our questions later on tonight." Colby said loud enough for anything around to listen to it.

Honestly, even those small gestures made you so madly in love with him. The way he touches you softly just for you to make sure you're not alone and he's here for you is such a warming feeling.

Wilst looking around the current room, Colby walked up to a random closed door and tried to walk through.

"She said no closed doors!" Sam exclaimed, probably talking about the tour guide's rules of the place.

"Unless it's... unlocked." Colby responded, making Sam roll his eyes.

"Oop, it's Jim Hogg's room." You said, looking up.

"Who's that?" Sam asked.

"I dunno, it says its name on the top." You point up and they just laughed at the comment. I mean, what were they expecting? You had no idea about whatever story roams around these halls asides from the two main ones they've explained.

"Also I don't think you should be trying even more, like if it's hard to go in it's probably because you're not supposed to."

"We have a bad reputation of breaking into places." Sam admitted and you smiled.

"Yeah, I know. I remember that." You chuckle and hold Colby's hand to pull away from the door.

As they kept on chatting and making interesting comments here and there, you found the elevator and pointed it out. "Oh, is this the one?" Colby asked Sam and he just gave him a stare.

"This is the one what?" You ask and they look at eachother.

Sam sighed. "We were going to keep it until the time came, but we may have a little challenge for tonight that has to do with the elevator."

"Ooooh sounds fun. I wanna do it." You smile.

"You sure?? You have to be by yourself." Colby asked, worried but amused.

"Do you think I can't do this, Mr. Brock? That's offensive." You spat, crossing your hands around your chest.

"No! I meant-" He tried to explain, but you quickly interrupted.

"Cancelled, I tell you. Cancelled!" You look away with your eyes closed, trying not to laugh at the stupid situation unfolding.

"Great." You heard him sigh in defeat as Sam started laughing at the both of you. Looking back with a smile on your face, you hugged him.

"Alright, let's get going already." You giggled, gaining a kiss on the top of your head from your boyfriend.

Walking inside the elevator, it almost felt as if it quickly went down in an unnatural way.

"Did you guys feel like... the elevator dropping three inches?"

"Yeah, kinda of." Sam said.

"Three inches is a lot." Colby replied.

"Three inches is huge." Sam continued.

"I can vouch." You said.

"Mass..." Colby began talking but couldn't hold in the laugh after you said that.

Going back to the main lobby, you all reached out to a girl that was apparently the tourguide. She quickly explained the story of the place, how it ended up being the renouned hotel it came to be.

When she explained that the smell of cigar was one of the main ways Driskill manifested, your eyes went wide. "You're kidding."

"No, did you smell it before?" She asked.

"I did! But it was like, close to the entrance so I thought that maybe someone was smoking. I did find it rare because it was just a glimpse of it for like a solid second and then gone." You explained, making the girl smile.

"Well, that was him."

"No way." Colby said, smiling at you.

"Yup." She nodded, continuing to explain as you all started walking back to the elevator. Going inside, the door closed only to be opened again. "Oh?"

"Did we just pressed five and went to one? It's haunted!" Sam exclaimed.

"That was weird." Colby said, looking at the door.

"It was, that was so weird." The guide said, trying to close the door once again, only for it to open again.

"Does it do that often?" You asked and she shook her head.

"No! It doesn't." She walked back out and talked to someone from out side. "Are you fucking with us?"

"That's so strange- oh, I hit it." You whispered. The guide came back in.

"But you see it, right? I'm pressing five and it like start to go up but then it stops." The door closes once again, only for them to open.

"Oh my god." Sam said, whispering.

"And we're doing a challenge here?" You asked confused, making them laugh.

"Not here exactly." Colby smiled.

"Lemme- I'll go out." You said, walking out of the elevator, watching as the doors began to close, only for them to open once again. "Oh no, that's- that's a malfunction alright."

"And you said it, these malfuction all the time." Colby said to the guide as they walked out of the elevator.

When Sam did it by himself, it started working all over again.

"What the fuck??" Colby yelled.

"Are we like fat? Is it fat shaming us?" You whined, making everyone laugh.

And so, even though your night barely started, you were already having some activity to say the least.

And it kept being that way all night. Constant responses from spirits, intelligent ones at that. The little girl, the woman from the vortex room... all the way down to the challenge you've been anticipating the whole night round.

The elevator challenge.

"I think it might be just me but every single time we pass through this side of the hotel I feel like actually throwing up."

"Wait, really?" Colby asked, worried.

"Like an eerie feeling more than anything, almost like I'm kinda feeling a bit dizzy whenever we pass through here."

"Are you sure you want to do this? You can still back out, or I could go in with you." Colby tried to make you change your mind, but you were settled in it.

"No, I have to do it alone. What if it doesn't work because we're together? You're not gonna let me do this right?"

"I do! I'm just worried." Colby admitted, making you smile.

"You cutie. I love you so much." You said, smiling at him and cupping his face before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

"Y'all are gonna make me puke, another part I'm gonna have to cut out." Sam joked, making you giggle.

"Alright, alright. So, how does this work?" You ask, hugging yourself as you wait for instructions.

It was a simple game. Supposedly, you had to hit the buttons of the elevator in a specific order. In the last one, you had to invite in a lady. If the ritual worked, you were supposed to start going up into another world. If it didn't, well, nothing happened and it failed.

"So... I'm about to get isekai'd? We're going to an anime, brothers." You laughed at your own joke while they handed you your camera.

"I send you the order, just in case." Sam continued, and you nodded.

"Thank you, 'cause I already forgot." You turned on your phone as well as the camera and walked in.

"Any last words?" Colby asked cheekishly, making you smile.

"See you in the other side." You answered, before the door closed. You sighed, putting the camera up to your face. "Alright, so... I'm supposed to hit this one first." Switching the camera back to the buttons, you hit the number four.

It began moving. "Oh, good. It would've been a mess if it already fucked up. Alright..." You sighed. "I didn't told them this, but I do find the thought of getting stuck in an elevator horrifying. I just agreed because maybe it might help me out, but it doesn't work the fact that I can feel so many spirits around this area specifically every time we walk past it." You explain before getting on the next floor, touching the next button.

Back down on the lobby, Sam and Colby were talking.

"I didn't want her to do it, honestly. I was gonna do it myself." Sam said.

"Right? She's our guest too, what if something happens to her? That would be the death of me."

"Don't jinx it, brother. She'll be alright."

Boy they were wrong.

Halfway through, your vision started to get blurry, your legs were shaky and you couldn't brush off the feeling of pressure on your chest. It was starting to make you nervous, even more so the fact you were alone.

You started thinking to yourself. What if something really did happen? What if you summon something your body couldn't handle? What if it really did send you to another world?

It happened so quickly, that you have already reached the last floor before you knew it. Gulping down your dry throat, you began to speak. "Alright, if there's something... out... oh fuck." Your vision got blurry and you could feel an inmense ammout of power flushing through the elevator doors even before it opened up.

You couldn't hold it together, it was too much for you to handle as you were suspecting before. Although you tried to stay up, your legs couldn't hold your weight up anymore and you passed out, falling down to the floor, hitting your head strongly onto the hard floor of the elevator.

Luckily, the ritual didn't work. It began going down and the guys, mainly Colby, were anxiously waiting for the doors to open. When they did, their faces fell.

Colby screamed out your name, quickly rushing in and holding your head. "Love?? Sweetheart, what happened? Wake up, please. Oh God." He began shaking, carrying you outside of the elevator so that it was slightly more comfortable.

"What happened? Oh my fucking God." Sam whispered, grabbing your camera from the elevator's floor and walking out.

"She's not responding, Sam." Colby nervously said, making sure you were at least still alive.

You were.

"Should I call an ambulance or something?" Sam asked. "Oh, no. I have the keys with me."

"Let's take her to the hospital, quickly." He lifted you up from the floor and hurriedly got out of the building and to the hospital.

You were alright, luckily. It seemes you have just fainted, but you falling down to the floor and hitting your head so hard made it a bit more complicated than what it had to be.

Colby felt bad, horrible even to think that this could've happened to you.

He should've been more careful, he should've known you were too sensitive to all of these energies so that you would go alone and out to make something so nerve racking. He should've been more insisting, rather than going with the flow merely because of a video.

He let his love have that type of experience because of a mere video.

It devastared him. Made him feel absolutely awful about it. While waiting for you to wake up, he kept on downgrading himself thinking about how he's the worst possible boyfriend.

It all stops when you finally wake up. Looking around the white room, confused.

"What happened?"

"It looks like you fainted... I'm so sorry for letting you do that all by yourself, I should've stopped you, I should've at least gone with you, I'm so sorry that you had to go through that because-"

"Love. Love!" You held his cheeks softly, making him quietly stop ranting, you smiled. "You know I wanted to do it, I was the stupid one for forgetting that big energy rafts can affect me a lot, I'm so sorry baby." You kissed his nose, reassuring him everything was alright.

And honestly, he needed to hear it. From you, specifically. Sam was trying to make him calm down but it didn't really work. It had to be you, your voice, your smile.

The one thing that made him whole all over again.

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I MAY HAVE DONE TOO MUCH FILLER FOR NO GODDAMN REASON- also hoping that dear anon liked it-

thank you for reading, loves~! likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

~nikkõ

#colby brock #colby x reader #sam golbach #colby brock x reader #colby brock x you #colby brock x y/n #fanfic #fic #angst #colby brock one shot #colby brock fanfic #one shot #sam and colby #sam and colby one shot #sam and colby fanfiction #sam and colby fluff #colby brock imagine #paranormal activity #ghost hunting

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leejenowrld · 4 months ago

Text

back to you — four (continuation)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 65k words (20k words in this post)

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — a night that was never supposed to mean anything changes everything. what starts as reckless indulgence—karina between you, jeno behind you, the lines blurring too fast—becomes something impossible to ignore. you tell yourself it’s nothing, just a mistake, but the truth is harder to bury. you’re getting too close to him, and the closer you get, the more dangerous it becomes. lies stack on top of each other, deception coils tight around your ribs, and jeno’s own self-destruction threatens to take you down with him. whatever this is, whatever it was becoming, it was never built to last.

chapter warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, threesome scene (yn, jeno, karina), yn doms hard, yn is possessive and jealous, scissoring, jeno fucks behind y/n, karina in front of her, degradation, so much smut this chapter, she spends most of the time riding his cock, sweaty, intense, unhinged smut, they’re obsessed, the desperation is suffocating, intense cockwarming, deep grinding and rolling hips like always, rough riding, overstimulation, deep penetration, possessive dirty talk, throat fucking, hair pulling, forced eye contact tit worship (sucking, biting, flicking, kneading), orgasm control, creampie, oral (m + f recieving), y/n plays nurse for him twice this chapter, lol he gets into two fights, you finally see that party scene but from their perspective, mark is on a mad one, karina and y/n get close! y/n has a very important performance. they kinda go at it like whores for like 50% of the chapter but there’s a reason lol

important authors note — CONTINUATION you have to read this (the first 45k words of part four before continuing onto the last 20k words of part four) i explain in the first post why i have to split it into two different posts. i wish i could have it on one post but i can’t :(

Your body moves like instinct, like it needs this, like it’s been starved of him for too long and is now making up for every second spent apart. It’s not careful. It’s not slow. It’s messy, frantic, bodies colliding in feverish desperation, slick skin sliding against slick skin, heat curling thick and unbearable between you. Jeno feels massive inside you, stretching you wide, filling you so completely that every thrust punches a sound from your lips. The stretch is sharp, an ache that teeters right on the edge of pain and pleasure, but you chase it, push down onto him harder, until the burn smooths out into something blinding, something raw.

Jeno grunts beneath you, his hands gripping your waist so hard it feels like he’s holding on for dear life. You’re using him, fucking yourself onto his cock with a pace that’s near-brutal, each downward slam making obscene, wet noises echo through the room. His head falls back against the pillows, jaw tight, muscles flexing beneath you, his whole body tensed like he’s barely keeping himself together. But you don’t stop, won’t stop, can’t do anything but chase the delicious, unbearable friction, the way his cock drags against your walls, the way his abs tense beneath your hands with every roll of your hips.

“Fuck—fuck,” he rasps, voice wrecked, thick with something raw, something helpless. His fingers dig into your ass, squeezing hard, guiding you into every bounce, meeting each sharp grind with his own upward thrusts. “You’re—shit—you’re fucking ruining me.”

He is ruined. You can feel it. The way he twitches inside you, the way his thighs tremble, the way his chest heaves like he’s struggling to breathe. But you don’t care. You want him like this—falling apart, breaking for you, losing himself in the way you ride him like you own him.

And fuck, you do own him.

He’s obsessed with the way you move, the way you take him, the way your body grinds down slow before slamming back into that filthy, punishing pace. His hands won’t stop touching you—palming your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you keen, trailing down your stomach, gripping your waist so hard you’re sure you’ll feel it tomorrow. He’s staring at you like he needs to commit this moment to memory, like if he blinks, he’ll lose it forever.

“Jeno—” Your voice is breathy, trembling, punctuated by the sharp slap of your bodies meeting over and over. Your thighs shake with the effort of keeping up this pace, but you don’t slow down, don’t let up, don’t stop chasing the heat building dangerously in your stomach.

Jeno snarls. Actually snarls. His hands yank you down, slamming your hips flush against his as he drives his cock impossibly deep, forcing out a sound you didn’t even know you could make. He holds you there, makes you take it, groaning when you tighten around him. “You’re so fucking greedy,” he pants, his lips dragging over your collarbone, sucking, biting. “Like a desperate little thing—just wanna get fucked open, huh?”

You whimper, nails clawing at his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I wanna be fucked open,” you breathe, and he growls, snapping his hips up so hard you nearly scream.

Your bodies move in sync, but neither of you are in control. Not fully. It’s a fight—a battle of teeth and tongues, hands gripping too tight, nails raking too deep, hips rolling too hard. Every thrust, every grind, every sharp inhale is a challenge, daring the other to give in first. Jeno’s hands are all over you, squeezing, gripping, taking, as if he’s trying to mold you to fit him, to make sure you never forget the shape of him inside you. His fingers flex against your waist, dragging you down harder, forcing you to take him the way he wants, but you don’t let him have it that easy.

You grab his face, eyes locking onto his, and spit onto his lips. Jeno’s breath shatters. His pupils blow wide, a groan ripping from his throat as his tongue flicks out, licking it up like he’s fucking starving. His grip tightens, and then his own hand fists into your jaw, forcing your mouth open. You barely have time to process before he’s doing the same—spitting onto your tongue, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip, smearing it before you swallow.

“You filthy fucking girl,” he pants, his voice wrecked, his cock throbbing inside you. His palm slides up, wrapping lightly around your throat, fingers tightening just enough to make your pulse stutter. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but his mouth curls into something possessive. “What, baby? You like that? Like when I make a mess of you?”

Your hips grind down, answering without words, and Jeno grins. “That’s my baby girl,” he groans, voice thick, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, tugging just enough to make you gasp. “Missed these tits. Fuck—I missed you, baby.” His lips wrap around the swollen bud, sucking deep, tongue flicking over it just to hear you whimper. His teeth graze, just slightly, before he bites, making your entire body jolt. He does it again. And again. Worshiping you, marking you, making you his.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging him up, forcing his mouth back onto yours, and suddenly it’s your turn. “Missed this,” you breathe against his lips, dragging your nails down his back, feeling the way his muscles flex beneath your touch. “Missed your body. Missed how deep you fuck me, how you stretch me, how you ruin me.”

Jeno moans, his hips snapping up with brutal force. “Missed this tight little pussy.” His hand slides down, his thumb rubbing over where you’re stretched wide around him, groaning at how fucking soaked you are. He drags his fingers up to your mouth, pressing them against your lips, and you don’t hesitate—you take them in, sucking, licking, letting your tongue swirl around them before he pulls them out and shoves them right back between your legs.

He feels it the second your body clenches down, the second your thighs tremble. His lips graze your ear, his voice low and thick. “Missed the way you fucking choke on me, baby. Missed watching you ride me until you’re shaking, until you’re begging. Missed the way this pussy swallows my cock.”

“Jeno—” You’re practically gasping, clenching down around him so tight he groans, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.

“Say it,” he demands, voice strained, hands gripping your ass, guiding you harder, deeper, messier. “Tell me you fucking missed me.”

“I missed you,” you whisper, and his entire body tenses.

“No, baby. Say it right.” His hand flexes around your throat, tilting your head back, his lips dragging over your jaw. “Say it like you mean it.”

Your nails dig into his back, your hips moving in a way that makes his entire body shudder beneath you. “I missed you, daddy.”

Jeno snaps. His grip tightens, his hips lift, his pace turns brutal—pounding into you so deep you can barely think. He tilts your chin down, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Yeah? You missed daddy’s cock, baby? Missed being fucked like this?”

Your moan is high and wrecked, your fingers gripping at his arms, desperate. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

His gaze darkens, something unhinged curling in his expression. “Then take it,” he growls, snapping his hips up so hard your vision blurs. “Take every fucking inch. Take all of me.”

He spits on you again, slow and deliberate, and it lands right on your tits, glistening against your flushed skin. The heat of it makes you gasp, but you barely have a second to process before Jeno’s mouth is on you, tongue dragging over the mess he made, wet and greedy. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking, swirling, dragging over the stiff peak with a hunger that makes your stomach tighten.

“Jeno—” His name leaves your lips as a broken sound, high and breathless, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let you breathe.

His teeth graze the sensitive bud, just enough to make your back arch off the bed, your whole body offering itself to him like it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Like he’s the only one who should be touching it, the only one who deserves it. His tongue laves over you again, wet and obscene, sucking harder this time, and you’re gone, fully, completely, fucking gone.

Your hands tangle in his hair, gripping tight, pushing him down because you need more, need to feel his tongue everywhere, need him to keep devouring you, like you’re something he’ll starve without. He groans at the rough pull, at the way you take what you want from him, his hands flexing against your waist, fingertips digging in as he grinds his cock against your thigh, still throbbing, still leaking, still aching for you.

“Daddy!!!” The name tears from your throat, desperate, raw, because he is—he’s the one making you feel like this, making you lose control, making you whimper and beg and shake.

Jeno growls, deep and wrecked, and his mouth pops off your tit, lips swollen, slick with spit, eyes blown wide with something dark, something dangerous. He slams a hand down onto your waist, pinning you in place, his body caging yours in like he’s making sure you can’t move, can’t escape what he’s doing to you.

“That’s right,” he breathes, his voice thick, shaking with restraint, grinding deep, rolling his hips so slow, so deliberate that your body trembles. He owns you like this, ruins you, marks you in ways you know you’ll still feel tomorrow. “That’s fucking right. Say it again.”

And you do. Over and over, moaning it, sobbing it, chanting it, as he fucks you like an animal, like a man possessed, like he’ll die if he’s not inside you.

Jeno doesn’t take his eyes off you. He watches you say it, watches you need him, watches the way you writhe beneath him, your body taking everything he gives like you belong to him. And it destroys him. His jaw clenches, his breath rough and uneven, his hands bruising against your hips as he snaps into you harder, deeper, his cock dragging against every spot that makes you tremble.

“You like this, don’t you?” he rasps, his voice so low it’s barely above a whisper. “Like letting daddy fuck you like this? Like letting me ruin you, keep you like this, all pretty and fucked-out just for me?”

Your head tilts back, lips parting in a breathless, gasping moan. “Yes—yes, fuck—”

His fingers slip between your legs, circling your clit in quick, messy strokes that make your thighs shake, his breath hot against your jaw, his voice dark, feral.

“Come for me, baby,” he orders, his grip tightening, his hips slamming into you, his control shattering with every thrust. “Come all over my cock—fuck, I need it.” He keeps moving through it, chasing it, chasing you, like he’s making sure there isn’t a single part of you that isn’t his by the time he’s done. His teeth scrape against your throat, biting down just enough to sting, to claim, to make sure you feel it even after this.

But then—his pace slows. Just slightly.

His hips roll instead of snap, his hands easing their grip just enough to smooth over your skin, fingertips tracing the curves of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the soft rise of your tits. He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his lips brushing yours in something that isn’t quite a kiss—just warmth, breath shared, bodies tangled.

The sharp, frenzied energy starts to dissolve, shifting into something else. Something softer. Jeno exhales, his hands trailing over you, up your arms, to your fingers, lacing them together, holding them tight as he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek, then finally your lips. His tongue flicks against yours, slow now, teasing, lazy, like he’s tasting you. Like he’s savoring every little moan you make against his mouth.

And then—he laughs. Just a quiet, breathy chuckle against your lips, the tension breaking, the heat simmering into something easier, lighter. You giggle too, tilting your head back, letting the warmth of his breath tickle your throat, and he chases it, nosing at your skin, pressing another kiss just below your jaw. Your heart is still pounding, body still thrumming with everything you just did, everything you just felt, but now—now it’s different. Your head tips back, your body burning, and somewhere in the haze, the thought comes unbidden, slipping past your lips before you can stop it. “I’m excited for my performance tonight.”

Jeno’s grip tightens on your hips, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he recovers, his hands dragging you down harder, deeper, until you’re gasping. “Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked, but there’s something else in it now—something darker. “You gonna wear something short for me, baby? Let me see you all pretty up there?”

You bite your lip, meeting his gaze through the thick, heavy air between you. “Maybe.”

You smile, shaking your head slightly, breath catching as you keep moving, keep grinding down, rolling your hips just the way he likes. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down to your ass, guiding you into every deep, perfect thrust like he can’t get enough, like he wants you to take everything he has. “It’s different tonight though,” you murmur, voice thick, edged with breathlessness. “Good different. I think you’ll love it.”

Jeno groans, his grip tightening, his restraint fraying right in front of you. And then he thrusts up hard, knocking the air from your lungs, making you gasp, making heat curl tighter in your stomach. His fingers dig into your skin, desperate, possessive. His head tilts back, lips parted, chest heaving. “Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like the thought of it is already undoing him. He swallows hard, tilting his head back up, locking eyes with you again, gaze dark and unreadable. “M’gonna bail on my party. Just so I can watch you.”

You falter, just slightly, because you weren’t expecting that. But Jeno notices—of course he does. His grip tightens, like he’s steadying you, like he’s grounding you right back into him. Your fingers flex against his chest, your breath shaky, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up with the brutal pace you’ve set. His hands move again, one sliding up to your back, the other curling around your hip, keeping you right where he wants you. “Yeah?” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he breathes. His fingers flex, like he’s imagining it, like the idea of you on that stage, moving, singing, owning the room, is already ruining him. “Not gonna miss it.”

You bite your lip, suppressing a shiver at the way he’s looking at you, at the hunger, the heat, the quiet, consuming need. You can feel it in the way he holds you, the way his body strains beneath yours, like he’s already thinking about how he’ll be there, how he’ll watch you, how this—whatever this is between you—keeps pulling him deeper and deeper in.

You lean in, your lips grazing his ear, your voice barely above a whisper. “You better.”

Jeno shudders, his hands flexing against your waist before he pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark, heavy gaze locking onto yours. And then—softer than you expect, so different from the way his body is coiled with tension—he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips, slow and deep, like a promise, like an answer. “Of course I will, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth.

And then, just as quickly, the softness vanishes. He shifts, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you, stretching you open, dragging against every sensitive inch of you like he wants to carve himself into you. His breath is hot against your lips, voice thick with possession. “My girl,” he growls, his grip unrelenting as he drags you down onto him, burying himself deep. “This pussy—so tight, so fucking perfect. You were made just for me.”

His hands slide down, gripping the curve of your ass, forcing you to take him deeper, take everything, making sure there’s not a single inch of you he doesn’t claim. The sensation makes your head spin, makes a moan rip from your throat, makes your body arch as he fucks into you, relentless, insatiable, like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else.

You feel yourself unraveling, pleasure crawling up your spine like a fever, making your limbs weak, making your head tilt back as heat licks at every nerve ending. Jeno’s rhythm doesn’t falter—if anything, he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing your reaction, chasing the way your walls flutter around him, tightening, squeezing.

Your moans turn into whimpers, high-pitched, breathless. Your nails dig into his back, your legs trembling as you arch against him, your body desperate for more, desperate for everything. “Jeno—” His name leaves your lips in a sob, your entire body tensing, pleasure curling, building, teetering on the edge.

And then you shatter. Your orgasm rips through you, so intense that your vision whites out, so powerful that your body seizes up completely before it breaks apart. A cry wrenches from your throat as your pussy clenches around him, as wetness spills out of you, soaking his cock, dripping down between your thighs. Jeno groans, his fingers digging in even harder, his pace brutal, relentless, thrusting through your release, dragging it out until you’re twitching beneath him, overwhelmed, overstimulated.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, eyes locked onto the mess you’re making, onto the way your slick coats his cock, drips down onto his thighs, wet and obscene. “So fucking perfect. Look at you—fucking soaking me.”

You’re still shaking, barely able to breathe, your body wrung out, but Jeno doesn’t give you a second to recover. The moment your orgasm crashes through you, he’s moving, shifting onto his knees and dragging you up with him, his grip firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing. His cock is still buried deep, still pulsing inside you, and when he pulls out just to slam back in, the sharp, wet sound of it makes your breath stutter, makes your head spin.

He groans against your skin, his teeth grazing the curve of your shoulder, his hands forcing your hips down as he drives into you, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs. “Gonna make me come so deep inside you, baby,” he mutters, his voice fraying, dark and wrecked. “Gonna fill you up, fuck—take it all.”

You can only moan, nails raking down his back, meeting every brutal snap of his hips with your own, your thighs trembling with exertion, with need. Your body is still sensitive, still throbbing from your last orgasm, but the way he’s fucking you, the way his cock stretches you open, strokes against the deepest parts of you—it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s everything.

“Come inside me,” you beg, breathless, barely coherent, your lips dragging against his jaw. “Please, Jeno—fuck, please.”

His rhythm stutters, something snapping inside him at the sound of your voice, at the way you’re pleading for him, desperate, ruined, his. A low, guttural moan spills from his lips, his thrusts turning erratic, frenzied.

And then he’s gone—his body tensing, his grip bruising, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, filling you up with deep, heavy strokes, dragging you over the edge with him. You tighten around him, milking him, wringing every last drop from him, your body trembling, your breath ragged as you both come undone together.

Jeno presses his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your waist, still holding you close like he doesn’t want to let go. You can feel his breath on your lips, warm and unsteady, his heart pounding against yours, his body still twitching with the aftershocks of release.

And when he finally exhales, when his lips brush against yours in something softer, something almost reverent, he murmurs, “My girl.”

The words barely have a chance to settle before he moves, before his hands tighten and he flips you onto your back with a deliberate, fluid motion, his body following seamlessly after. He’s on you in an instant, pressing you into the mattress, the heat of his weight sinking into you, grounding you, stealing the breath from your lungs. There’s no hesitation, no restraint—just urgency, just need. His hands roam with purpose, gripping, pulling, claiming, like he’s memorizing the shape of you with every touch, like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re here, that you’re his. His mouth follows suit, trailing over your jaw, dragging down your throat, teeth and tongue working in tandem as he sucks bruises into your skin, marking you in places that won’t fade easily, places that’ll remind you of him long after this moment is over.

“Missed you, baby” he mutters against your pulse, voice thick with hunger, his breath hot against your skin. He thrusts deep, knocking the air from your lungs, his cock splitting you open, stretching you in a way that feels almost unbearable. “Missed your sweet pussy. Miss how you fucking drip for me.”

Jeno doesn’t just fuck you—he wrecks you, takes you apart piece by piece, leaves you trembling and desperate beneath him, every thrust sending pleasure splintering through your body like you can’t take any more—but you do. You take all of it, all of him, your body made to accommodate his brutal pace, your walls clenching around his cock like they never want to let him go.

“Fuck—look at you,” he groans, his voice thick, laced with hunger, eyes dragging over where he’s stretching you open, where you’re soaking him, dripping, wrecked. His fingers dig into your hips, hard enough to bruise, keeping you pinned, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “So fucking wet, baby. You love this, don’t you? Love how deep I am, how I fill you up.”

You whimper, nodding helplessly, but it’s not enough for him. He grips your jaw, forces your gaze to meet his, forces you to see the way he’s unraveling above you, the way his lips part, his brows furrow, his body trembling with restraint he’s barely holding onto. “Say it,” he demands, his cock pushing deeper, grinding against your sweetest spot, making you sob. “Tell me how much you love it.”

“Love it—fuck, Jeno, I love it,” you gasp, your nails clawing at his back, dragging over sweat-slick skin, desperate for more, desperate for him to fuck you even harder. Your legs tighten around his waist, locking him in place, refusing to let him pull away, refusing to let him slow down. “Need you—need you to ruin me—”

And he does.

A growl rips from his chest, his pace turning savage, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to send you skidding up the bed, your back arching, your body surrendering to the onslaught of pleasure. It’s overwhelming—his size, the way he stretches you, fills you, owns you. His hands slide up your body, groping, squeezing, claiming. One wraps around your throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your head spin, to remind you who you belong to.

“You’re mine,” he grits out, his breath ragged, his body coiled with tension, every muscle straining as he pounds into you, as he fucks you like he’s trying to leave his mark inside you, like he needs you to remember exactly who makes you feel this way. His fingers find your clit, rubbing quick, ruthless circles, pushing you closer, closer—until you’re right there, dangling over the edge, ready to fall.

“Come for me,” he orders, his voice rough, low, full of something dangerous. “Come on my cock, baby—let me feel you.”

It slams into you like a tidal wave, ripping through you, leaving you breathless, your walls clamping down around him, pulsing, milking his cock, dragging him right over the edge with you. He curses, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his fingers digging into your skin as he spills inside you, warmth flooding your core, filling you completely.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his body trembles, even as his breathing evens out, he keeps rolling his hips, grinding deep, making sure you feel every last drop of him, making sure you know exactly who you belong to. His hands slide up your sides, slow and possessive, his lips dragging over your collarbone, your jaw, finally settling at your mouth. His voice is quieter now, rough at the edges, his breath warm as he presses his lips against yours. “Mine,” he whispers, not a demand this time but a promise, a confession, a claim he already knows you won’t deny. And you don’t. You kiss him back, slow and deep, letting him pull you under, letting him consume you, letting him own you completely. Because no matter how much you fight it, no matter how much you should know better—you are. You always have been.

Jeno’s apartment is suffocating with heat, thick with the scent of smoke, sweat, and something sharper—something almost metallic, like the moment before lightning cracks open the sky. The air is heavy, charged, humming with an unseen energy that coils between bodies pressed too close, lips dragging over collarbones, hands ghosting over hips. The room sways in rhythm with the bass, deep and relentless, reverberating through the walls, through the floorboards, through your chest, until it feels like your own pulse is trying to match it.

Cigarette smoke curls through the dim lighting in slow, twisting ribbons, snaking around shoulders and fingertips, clinging to damp skin and the bitter aftertaste of liquor. A joint passes from mouth to mouth, the ember glowing like a warning in the shadows, its scent melting into the static-charged air. The overhead lights flicker in uneven bursts, bathing everything in fractured gold, distorted silhouettes stretching long against the walls, shifting like ghosts.

Someone spills a drink, the amber liquid splattering like rain against the wooden floor, but no one notices, no one cares. Laughter cuts through the haze, too sharp, too loud, the kind that feels like a distraction—like everyone here knows they’re dancing on the edge of something, but they don’t want to name it. The music throbs, an unrelenting rhythm that grips at the edges of your consciousness, winding tighter and tighter.

Outside, the sky is restless. The kind of darkness that isn’t just night, but something heavier, pressing in from all sides. Wind rattles the windows in short, breathy exhales, slipping through the cracks like something alive, something waiting. The world feels poised, breath caught in its throat. Then, in the next beat, the sky splits apart. A sudden, violent flash, silver and searing, illuminating the windows for a fraction of a second before vanishing, plunging everything back into the thick, honeyed dark.

You shift on the couch, pulling your cup closer, though you haven’t taken a sip in minutes. Yangyang is beside you, animated as ever, his words punctuated by Shotaro’s laughter, a sharp contrast to the deeper, lazier chuckles from Donghyuck, who’s sprawled out across the cushions, head tipped back, half-drunk smile playing on his lips. Chenle is saying something smart, something cutting, and it makes Donghyuck laugh harder, his hand smacking against the armrest. It’s familiar, comfortable—they are your safe space.

But your eyes keep drifting across the room. Jeno’s here, obviously, it’s his party, he's surrounded by his own circle—Jaemin, San, Chenle and Mark. Your friends, a part of your life that’s intertwined with his, a few others from the team. He looks good, too good, in that effortless way he always does. Black jeans, a plain black t-shirt that clings to his body in all the right places, the silver chain at his throat glinting under the dim lighting. He’s laughing at something, head tilted back just slightly, lips curled into that smirk you know too well.

You smile at it before you can stop yourself. Hours ago, he was inside you, pressing you down into his mattress, pulling sounds from you that still linger in your throat. And now you’re here, across the room from him, pretending you don’t feel it—that familiar ache settling low in your stomach, the restless need for more. It’s always like this. You could have him, have all of him, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

But tonight, something feels off.

There’s always been a divide between you and him, invisible but present, a line neither of you have ever crossed in the light of day. His world and yours. But you don’t know why it feels sharper tonight, why the space between you feels heavier, like something is shifting and you can’t quite place it. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t looked at you once. Not since you got here.

Maybe it’s because Mark is standing right there.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, frustration simmering just beneath your skin. This isn’t enough. This will never be enough. You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to turn back to Yangyang, nodding along to whatever story he’s telling, trying to focus—trying to pretend. But even as you go through the motions, you feel it—eyes on you.

Slowly, cautiously, you glance across the room.

Jeno is watching you now.

His gaze is unreadable, dark and steady, lips slightly parted like he was about to say something but forgot how. The air between you stretches tight, a thread pulled too thin, and your stomach clenches, heat creeping up your spine, because even from across the room, even with the noise and the smoke and the bodies between you—he still does this to you.

You wet your lips, fingers curling against the rim of your cup. You could go to him. You could push past whatever invisible barrier is holding him back tonight. You could cross the room, slide up next to him, press your mouth to his ear and whisper something just for him, something that would make him smirk, make his body relax, make him look at you the way he does when you’re alone.

But before you can move, someone claps him on the back, and he blinks, his gaze tearing away like nothing ever happened and just like that, the moment is gone. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to ignore the ache pressing against your ribs. You wish you could just—stand up. Walk over. Touch him. Instead, you sit there, sinking deeper into your seat, pulse still stuttering in your throat.

You know how this goes.

You’ll pretend not to care, and so will he. You’ll exist in the same space but never acknowledge it. You’ll sit on opposite sides of the room, pretending the air between you isn’t charged, pretending the weight of everything you are together doesn’t settle into the cracks of the night.

But later—when the party is over, when the bodies are gone, when the music dies and the only thing left is the hush of the house and the lingering smell of smoke—he’ll find you.

He always does.

Tonight, it’s in one of the side rooms, dimly lit and half-forgotten, tucked away from the noise but not far enough for the bass to disappear completely. Jeno is on the couch, legs spread, a joint balanced between his fingers as he rolls it, his movements slow and methodical. He looks up when you step inside, his gaze flickering over you once before settling, like he’s been waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches as you linger by his side, fingers tapping absently against his bicep. It’s a nervous habit—you’re not even thinking about it, but he notices. Of course he does. His eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting as he studies you.

“You’re worked up,” he murmurs, reaching for you without hesitation. His fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but gentle, guiding you closer until you’re standing between his legs. He looks up at you from beneath dark lashes, his expression unreadable. “What’s got you like this?”

You inhale sharply, your hands settling on his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him. “I don’t know,” you lie, even as the weight in your chest presses harder.

Jeno doesn’t believe you. He never does. His hands slip beneath your sweater, fingers trailing up the bare skin of your waist, slow and deliberate. His touch is warm, steady, something to hold onto when everything else feels too much. He leans in, lips brushing just above your navel, pressing a kiss there—soft, lingering, before his voice rumbles against your skin.

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

You snort, the unexpected concern in his voice making you laugh. “Well, I would be asleep or just chilling right now,” you tease, shifting just slightly in his lap, enough to make him groan. “But you wanted me here. So here I am.”

There’s so much weight behind those words. Because it’s not just about tonight. It’s about every time you’ve let him pull you deeper into this, every time you’ve let him win. Jeno’s hands flex on your waist, gripping tighter, guiding your hips forward, dragging you into a slow, teasing grind. His smirk is lazy, cocky, the kind that makes your stomach tighten, makes you want to wipe it right off his face.

“See?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. “You do know how to listen.” His fingers tighten, pressing you down harder against him, like he’s proving a point. His breath is warm against your jaw as he leans in, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “Bet it’s not so bad, doing what I say.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, but the sound comes out more like a laugh.

“Careful, baby,” he warns, nipping lightly at your skin. “Keep acting like this, and I might start thinking you like it when I’m in charge.”

Jeno’s eyes flick up to yours at the shift in your tone, his grip still firm on your waist. Normally, you’d be teasing him right back, snapping something sharp and quick off your tongue, giving him hell just for the fun of it. But you don’t. Not this time.

There’s something else on your mind, something heavier, something that makes your usual quips die in your throat before they can even form. You don’t mask it well, and Jeno notices—of course he does. His smirk fades just slightly, his gaze sharpening as he studies you.

“Can you do me a favor?” you murmur, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Jeno hums, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. “Anything.”

You hesitate. Then, finally, you say it.

Your fingers tighten against Jeno’s shirt, your voice quieter now, more careful. “People from campus have been showing up at the bar lately. Not a lot, just a few. But it’s weird—no one should know about it. No one apart from you should know about it.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Tonight’s important to me. Can you make sure you’re the only one from campus who comes? I trust you—I know you’d never say anything, never tell anyone about me, but… just keep them here. Make this party good enough that no one wants to leave.”

Jeno watches you for a beat, unreadable, and then—his lips twitch. “My parties are always good.”

You roll your eyes, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Then make this one better. Get everyone drunk so they forget where they are. So high they wouldn’t know how to leave even if they wanted to. Just… make sure no one turns up at the bar.”

Jeno huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Right, and when campus security shows up asking why half the student body is unconscious on my floor?”

You shrug. “That’s a future Jeno problem.”

He exhales sharply, amusement flickering in his eyes, but there’s something steadier beneath it now, something quieter. His grip on your waist tightens just slightly, his voice dipping lower. “I don’t know if I can promise all that, but—” his gaze sharpens, locking onto yours, playful teasing giving way to something serious. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll do my best, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. Then you kiss him, slow and lingering, a silent promise passing between you.

Jeno lingers in the kiss, slow and warm, his fingers pressing into your waist like he wants to keep you here, keep you steady. When he pulls back, his eyes flick over your face, studying you the way he always does—like he’s searching for something, something just out of reach.

Then, casually—too casually—he says, “How are they even finding the bar?” His voice is low, thoughtful. “It’s not exactly somewhere you just stumble into.”

Your stomach twists, a sharp pang of unease curling in your chest. Your fingers tighten against his shirt before you force them to relax. “I don’t know, Jen.” You shake your head, pressing your lips together. “Maybe someone slipped. Maybe they overheard something.” Your voice is steady, but the words taste strange on your tongue, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

Jeno hums, tilting his head, eyes still searching yours. “Just seems weird, is all.” He says it lightly, but there’s a weight to his tone, like he’s waiting for you to give him something more.

You don’t.

Instead, you exhale, staring past him, at nothing in particular. “It won’t stay quiet forever,” you murmur, voice almost lost beneath the distant bass pounding through the walls. “That’s just how this campus works. One person finds something, then a few more, and before you know it—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard.

Jeno watches you carefully, his brows drawing together slightly. “Before you know it…?”

You inhale sharply, shaking your head. “Doesn’t matter.” You force a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s why I need you to keep everyone here tonight.”

He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask the question lingering between you. But the way his fingers flex against your hips, the way his gaze lingers, unreadable, tells you he’s thinking it. Still, he leans in, kissing you slow, firm, grounding. His lips brush over yours as he murmurs, “You don’t need to worry.”

And for now—for this moment—you believe him.

The kitchen is eerily still, the silence so absolute that it feels unnatural, like the entire space is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The only light comes from the under-cabinet LEDs, casting a dim glow over the countertops, their cool marble surface smooth beneath your fingertips as you steady yourself against them. The sounds of the party outside feel distant, muffled by thick walls, nothing more than a dull vibration of music and laughter that doesn’t quite reach you. In here, it’s just you, the soft click of the cupboard handle as you pull it open, the rustling of packaging as your fingers instinctively search for what you need.

Your body moves with familiarity, second nature guiding you, knowing exactly where everything is, knowing exactly where your snacks are. You don’t think about it—it’s muscle memory, an unconscious routine you’ve fallen into so many times before. The top shelf is where Jeno always keeps them, tucked away neatly behind rows of protein bars, energy drinks, and the healthy, practical food he actually eats. His protein powder sits in the corner, massive tubs of vanilla and chocolate stacked on top of each other, alongside the shaker bottles he always forgets to rinse out. There are pre-workout packets, neatly lined up beside an assortment of beef jerky and mixed nuts, the kind of food that fuels him, keeps him going between games and gym sessions.

But your section—the part of the cupboard that doesn’t belong to him, but is always stocked anyway—is different. There’s an unopened bag of your favorite chocolate, the exact brand he knows you like, sitting right next to a stash of chips, the kind you always crave late at night. Tucked in the back, behind all of his health-conscious choices, is a row of instant ramen cups, the ones you swear taste better when made in his kitchen. There are fruit gummies, the soft ones that you absentmindedly chew on when you’re overthinking, and a few granola bars—not the protein-heavy ones Jeno eats, but the sweet, chocolate-drizzled kind you reach for when you need something quick. Even his fridge, if you checked, would have the drinks you always grab—the bottled iced coffee he never touches, the specific brand of tea you like, even the yogurt he once caught you eating straight from the container.

You lean up onto your toes, stretching slightly, your sweater riding up in the process, the waistband of your jeans dipping lower as you reach. It’s not until you’ve grabbed a handful of candy—the kind you always chew on when you’re stressed, the kind you only ever eat at his place—that you feel it. A presence. A weight in the air that wasn’t there before. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a slow, creeping awareness settling into your spine before you even register why. You don’t move. You don’t turn. You just listen, ears straining, waiting, hoping—

“What’s that?” Mark’s voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. Sharp. Raw. Betrayed.

Your stomach plummets so fast it leaves you dizzy. For a second—just one fleeting, fragile second—you think maybe you misheard him, maybe you imagined it. But you know better. His tone is unmistakable, laced with disbelief, a question that isn’t really a question at all. It’s an accusation. A demand for an answer he already knows.

Slowly, carefully, you turn. He’s standing near the doorway, just a few steps inside the kitchen, close enough that you wonder how long he’s been there, how long he’s been watching. His posture is tense, shoulders squared, his jaw tight as he stares—not at your face, not even at your hands still clutching the candy. No. His eyes are locked lower, fixated on the exposed skin just above your waistband. On the number inked into your flesh.

Twenty-three. Jeno’s number. It’s seared into you, black against soft skin, a permanent mark that was never supposed to be seen. Never supposed to be known. The air between you shifts, something invisible but tangible pressing down on your chest, crushing the breath from your lungs. You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just watch as realization carves its way across Mark’s face, the soft disbelief giving way to something colder, harder.

His voice is lower this time, but there’s no softness in it. No room for excuses. “You really got his fucking number tattooed on you?”

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to stay composed, your fingers gripping the counter behind you for something—anything—to ground yourself. When you finally manage to speak, your voice is light, dismissive, a carefully constructed mask of nonchalance. “What do you mean, Mark? It’s a number. I wanted a tattoo, and you know that ‘23’ has always been my favorite number.”

His reaction is instant. A sharp breath, a hollow laugh, something incredulous and bitter scraping at the edges of his voice. He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, the movement tense, almost restless. “Don’t do that.” His tone is rising now, the barely restrained frustration bubbling beneath his words. “Don’t fucking do that.”

You swallow hard. “Do what?”

“Lie to me,” he snaps, his voice cracking at the edges, his patience thinning by the second. His eyes snap back to yours, piercing, furious. Desperate. “Just tell me the truth.”

Your breath hitches. Because this is it. This is it. Mark knows. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because what can you even say? Mark isn’t stupid. Mark isn’t blind. The pieces have been laid out in front of him for weeks now, scattered hints and undeniable evidence piling up until there’s no more room for doubt. The tattoo is just the final crack, the final push that sends everything crumbling.

He doesn’t need you to admit it. He already knows and that’s the real betrayal. His gaze flickers away from you, scanning the kitchen, and when he scoffs, it’s not just at the tattoo. It’s at everything. His voice is lower, but there’s something sharp, something deadly in it. “You think I don’t see it?” He gestures vaguely to the cupboards, to the open drawer still stocked with your favorite snacks. “You think I’m stupid?” He laughs, but it’s empty, humorless. “These snacks—your favorites? You really think it’s a coincidence that Jeno has them all here? You really think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you? The way you look at him? The fucking photo?”

Your spine stiffens, but you still don’t speak. “And now this?” His gaze drops back to the ink on your skin, dark eyes narrowing. “You really got his fucking number tattooed on you?”

The words land like a slap, and your stomach twists, nausea curling low in your gut. Because admitting it—admitting it makes it real. So you scoff. Shake your head. Force out a laugh that feels hollow, unnatural, like the walls you’re trying to keep from cracking. “So what?” Your voice is clipped, sharp, defensive.

Mark’s expression falters, his mouth parting slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So what?” he echoes, his voice rising, his anger spilling over the edges. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, Mark. So what?” You push back, your own voice rising, meeting his frustration head-on. “It’s a tattoo. It doesn’t mean anything.” And it’s a lie. The biggest fucking lie and Mark sees right through it.

His voice drops, but somehow, it’s even worse that way. “You don’t even believe that.”

Your breath stutters. And suddenly, you’re not angry—you’re exposed. Vulnerable in a way you don’t want to be. You snap before you can stop yourself, the words ripping out of you in a way that’s messy and raw and unfiltered. “You put me at a different standard than you put everyone else.”

Mark recoils slightly, his brows drawing together in confusion. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you judge me for this, but you’d never judge anyone else,” you bite out, your voice shaking, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “It’s not fair.”

Mark exhales hard, the breath coming sharp through his nose, his chest rising and falling with the weight of whatever he’s trying to hold back. His fingers twitch at his sides, his whole body taut, like he’s barely keeping himself from exploding. His eyes flick over your face, searching for something—anything—that makes this make sense, that gives him a reason to believe he’s wrong. But there’s nothing. Just you, standing there, defensive and wounded and refusing to let him be right.

“I don’t—” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. His voice is incredulous, almost breathless with disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You act like you know me,” you snap, stepping forward before you can stop yourself, your voice dangerously low now. “Like you get to decide what’s right and what’s wrong for me. Like I owe you a fucking explanation for every decision I make.”

Mark shakes his head, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the flicker of muscle along the side. “I do know you,” he says, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that makes your stomach churn. “Or at least, I did.” You inhale sharply, but he’s not done. “I knew you before this,” he says, his tone biting, the words precise, like he’s cutting straight to the bone. “Before you started sneaking around, before you started lying to me. Before—” He stops, his expression twisting, like even saying it hurts. “Before him.”

Something inside you snaps, hot and reckless and uncontrollable. “And what, Mark? You think you know me better than I know myself? You think you get to sit there and act like I’m some fucking stranger because I make choices you don’t agree with?” Your voice wavers, but you push through, stepping closer, forcing him to look at you, really look at you. “You don’t get to decide what’s right for me. You don’t get to fucking dictate what I can and can’t do, like you have some ownership over me.”

His lips part slightly, and for a second—just a second—he looks hurt. But then it’s gone, replaced by something colder, something sharper.

“That’s bullshit,” he spits, and suddenly he’s not just angry—he’s furious. “This isn’t just about making a choice. This isn’t just about a fucking tattoo or whatever excuses you want to make. This is about him. About Jeno.” His voice catches, but he swallows it down, shaking his head like he can’t believe what’s happening. “And you know what? Maybe I did think I knew you. Maybe I was fucking stupid enough to believe that no matter what, you wouldn’t—” He exhales sharply, his fists curling at his sides. “That you wouldn’t do this.”

Mark’s reaction doesn’t make sense. You knew he’d be irritated, maybe even pissed that you didn’t tell him. That much you expected. It’s weird, sure—sneaking around, keeping secrets, seeing his brother behind his back. It makes sense that he’d feel caught off guard, maybe even hurt that you didn’t trust him enough to be honest. But this? This isn’t what you expected.

He’s too angry. Not just annoyed, not just frustrated, but something deeper, something you can’t quite place. His face is tight with something unreadable, his body wound up like a wire pulled too tight, barely keeping from snapping. And it doesn’t make sense because Mark and Jeno get along now. Their relationship isn’t what it used to be. There’s no more tension, no more rivalry, none of that deep-seated resentment that used to simmer between them. Mark doesn’t see Jeno as the bad guy anymore. He doesn’t see him as a threat. He let that go a long time ago. So why is he acting like he hasn’t? Why does it feel like he’s fighting a battle that’s already been won?

And then it clicks. Your stomach drops, something sharp and cold settling inside you as you piece it together. The way his chest is rising and falling, not just in anger, but in something else. The way his fingers tremble, barely perceptible, but there if you look close enough. The way his whole body feels like it’s working too hard, like it’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

His heart. HCM. Your pulse spikes, throat tightening as you realize what’s happening. He hasn’t told anyone about his condition. He hasn’t let anyone in. You only found out by accident, and when you confronted him, he brushed it off like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t something to worry about. But looking at him now, at the way he’s barely keeping himself upright under the weight of his own anger, the way his body is straining, trying to keep up with the emotions he’s forcing through it—you know. You know.

This isn’t just about you. This isn’t just about Jeno. This is about him.

Your stomach twists, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with the argument, nothing to do with the tattoo, nothing to do with Jeno. Because this is the real problem. This is what he’s trying to avoid, what he’s been avoiding all along. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that something is wrong, doesn’t want to let it have power over him. So instead, he’s redirecting it, channeling it into this, into you, into a fight that has nothing to do with what’s really happening.

Mark leaves without another word. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t try to fix what’s broken between you, doesn’t give you any indication of what he’s thinking or feeling—just walks away, unresolved and conflicted, leaving you standing in the middle of a party that suddenly feels suffocating. Maybe you’ll talk things out when he’s calmer, when he’s not drunk, when everything isn’t weighing down on him like a crushing force. But not now. Right now, he just needs space, and you’ll give it to him.

You wander through the party, your mind tangled with thoughts you don’t have the energy to sort through. You think about leaving, and you probably will soon. But then, in the middle of your aimless path, your eyes lock with Nahyun’s as she makes her way toward you. She looks at you slowly—too slowly—her gaze trailing down your body before flicking back up. There’s something odd about it, something you can’t quite place. When she speaks, her voice is weirdly light, deliberate in a way that makes your stomach shift. "Hey, Y/N."

You blink, your mind still sluggish from everything with Mark. “Hi,” you mumble back, barely putting any effort into it.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.” She tilts her head slightly, still looking at you in that same way, like she’s holding something back. Her tone is smooth, unreadable, but there’s something beneath the surface, something that makes you pause for just a second.

You shift on your feet. “Well, I am here,” you reply, brushing past her before she can say anything else, not waiting for whatever her next words might be.

If you weren’t still replaying Mark’s words in your head, if you weren’t so stuck in the weight of everything he said, everything he didn’t say, maybe you would have looked deeper into Nahyun’s words. Maybe you would have noticed the flicker of something in her eyes, the way she said I didn’t think I’d see you instead of I didn’t expect you to come. Maybe you would have picked up on what you were about to miss.

But you don’t. Not yet.

You make your way toward the bar instead, about to leave, but then you hear Karina calling your name. She’s sitting at the counter, a glass in her hand, her fingers tapping against the rim like she’s deep in thought, her expression slightly dazed. She’s drinking, but it’s different—something tight in her shoulders, something wound up in the way she exhales between sips. She looks stressed.

You hesitate for a second. You were going to leave. But then you exhale and come over, sitting beside her without thinking too hard about it. Maybe you just need a drink. Maybe you just need something to quiet your mind, to drown out the lingering frustration and unease still coiling in your chest.

“You look like you need this more than I do,” Karina murmurs, sliding a second drink toward you. Her voice is lighter than her expression, her nails clicking against the glass as she spins it in slow, idle circles. There’s something restless in her movements, something wound up tight beneath the surface.

You hesitate, fingers brushing the condensation on the rim before finally wrapping around it. “Yeah,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “I probably do.”

She snorts, taking a sip of her own drink. “Rough night?”

You exhale, tipping your glass back, the liquor burning its way down your throat before settling warm in your stomach. “Something like that.”

Karina hums, watching you over the rim of her glass. “Mark?”

Your fingers tighten slightly, your gaze flicking to her before you look away. “He needed space,” you say simply, leaving it at that.

She nods slowly, as if she understands something you don’t. “And you? Do you need space?”

You pause, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. You don’t know what you need. All you know is that everything feels too heavy, that the weight of Mark’s words is still pressing down on you, that your chest is tight with something you can’t shake.

“I just need a drink,” you mutter, finishing what’s left in your glass.

Karina studies you for a long moment before nodding. “Well,” she says, pouring another, “you’re in the right place for that.”

You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in thought, the alcohol dulling the edges of your mind, making everything feel slightly more distant, slightly less pressing. Karina talks, and you respond when necessary, but most of it washes over you, your focus drifting.

Then something shifts. Your gaze sweeps over the crowd, taking in the familiar blur of faces, the warm haze of the party, the ebb and flow of people moving in and out of rooms. And then—you freeze. There, across the room, you see him. Mark. He moves toward one of the bathrooms, his hand grazing against Areum’s waist as she slips inside ahead of him. They’re not discreet. They’re not even trying to be.

Your breath catches slightly, but before you can even fully process it, you catch movement from the corner of your eye—Jeno. He’s staring in the same direction, his body going rigid the second he sees what you see. And then, to your complete surprise, he moves toward you. You don’t expect it. He’s kept his distance from you all night, maintaining the careful space you both agreed upon, keeping your connection hidden from prying eyes, only touching you behind closed doors. But now, he walks straight toward you, his gaze flicking between you and Karina, his expression unreadable.

He stops in front of you, his presence a force all on its own. “Did you see that?” His voice is sharp, his eyes locked on yours.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. “See what?” you murmur, feigning oblivion.

“Mark and Areum,” he says, his voice lower now, edged with something dark, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You hesitate, instinctively wanting to redirect him, to take his mind off of whatever he’s thinking. You’re still looking out for Mark—even now, even after everything. But before you can say anything, Karina beats you to it. And unlike you, she’s not looking out for Mark or Areum.

Her words come before she can stop them, loose and careless, the alcohol fogging her thoughts. She exhales, shaking her head. “If Mark and Areum want to sneak around like it’s not obvious, like they’re not fucking behind your back, then—”

She stops, but it’s already too late. Jeno’s entire body goes still. His fists tighten at his sides, the strain turning his knuckles bone-white. The air around him shifts, something violent simmering just beneath the surface. “What?” he barks out, the word snapping through the air like a whip. His voice is louder than he intends, the sheer force of it rattling him to his core. His throat constricts as he swallows hard, his nostrils flaring with each heavy breath, and the veins in his temples pulse visibly. The shock of betrayal carves harsh lines across his face, marking the precise moment his reality irrevocably shifts.

Karina freezes. The realization of what she just let slip crashes over her face, her regret immediate, her hands gripping her phone like she can somehow take it back. But there’s no taking it back. No undoing what’s already been done. You react before the situation can spiral, before Jeno can snap, before everything explodes beyond repair. You don’t care who’s watching. You don’t care what it looks like. You reach for him—instinctively, without hesitation—your fingers wrapping around his wrist, firm but careful, grounding him, tethering him to you before his emotions take full control.

His body burns under your touch. His pulse is fast, hammering against your fingertips, his skin warm, tense, alive with the storm raging inside him. His entire body is coiled with anger, vibrating with it, his breaths sharp and uneven, barely holding himself back. But when his eyes snap to yours, something flickers. Something softens.

“Jeno,” you murmur, voice lower now, quieter, meant only for him. You step closer, pressing against his side, your grip sliding from his wrist to his forearm, then up to his bicep, your fingers curling there, your touch deliberate. His breathing is still rough, his jaw locked tight, his fists clenched at his sides, but you don’t let go. You don’t let him slip away into the chaos brewing beneath his skin.

“Not here,” you whisper, your voice steady, threading through the tension between you. Your fingers smooth over his skin, slow, deliberate. “Not now.” You step in even closer, your chest almost brushing his arm, his body burning with heat, and this—this is what pulls him back. Your touch, your voice, the sheer force of you standing between him and the edge.

“Calm down, baby” you murmur, your voice softer now, coaxing, threading through the sharp edges of his fury, dissolving them before they can cut too deep. If Jeno loses control, he’ll make a scene, and that scene will be a mess neither of you can clean up. It won’t just be about Mark and Areum anymore—it’ll be about him, about you. And more than that, it will ruin you tonight. You still have to perform at the bar later, and if Jeno walks into that place a mess, if he’s seething, reckless, unpredictable, it will throw you off for your entire performance. You can’t afford that.

Jeno shifts, his lips ghosting over your temple, down to your cheek, then finally, finally pressing against your mouth. It’s not like the usual kisses—this one isn’t about control, about pushing, about dominance or demand. It’s slow, soft, deep. He kisses you like he needs you, like you’re the only thing that can pull him out of his own head, and you let him, let yourself be his anchor. His hands roam, but not to take—just to feel, to remind himself that you’re solid, that you’re here, that you’re his.

Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss, to pull him closer, to melt into him until there’s no space left between you. His lips part against yours, and you drink in the little sound he makes, the way he sighs into you, the way his hands flex against your lower back like he wants to drag you in even deeper. But you don’t let him—not yet. Instead, you pull back just enough to press your forehead against his, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“Breathe,” you murmur, voice soft but firm. “I need you steady for me tonight. Can you do that, baby?”

His eyes flicker open, dark and burning and still brimming with something raw, but he nods. “I will be.” His voice is steadier now, his grip on you less desperate, more certain.

You smile, running your fingers through his hair one last time before pressing a final kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Good,” you whisper. “That’s my boy.”

Besides you, Karina is frantically typing, sending a message to Areum, and you don’t know what she’s saying, but you can tell she’s trying to fix her mistake. Karina is too lost in her own head, too caught up in the mess she’s created to even focus on you two, but you see the way other eyes around the room linger, staring, not expecting you, class valedictorian and Mark’s best friend to be all over Jeno but you don’t care. You don’t even blink, you just sit there, letting the moment settle, the air thick with the weight of something inevitable. And sure enough, not long after, Areum emerges from the bathroom—alone. Jeno watches her carefully, his jaw clenched, his body rigid. And then, without a word, he slips his hand from yours and moves toward her.

You watch from a distance, reading their body language, picking up on the subtle shifts in their postures. Areum is talking fast, her hands gesturing, her expression composed, too composed for someone caught in a lie. Jeno listens, his body still tense, but he’s calm—too calm. She must have controlled the situation somehow, must have lied, must have buried the truth beneath another layer of deception. But it’s fragile, a temporary fix, like putting a cap on a boiling pot of water. It won’t last.

Jeno returns to you after she leaves, his expression guarded. “She’s saying that all her and Mark are doing is fucking,” he mutters, his voice edged with skepticism. “Apparently, it’s nothing serious.”

That’s a lie. But you don’t tell him that. You just exhale, expression indifferent, letting the words sit between you.

And then, just an hour later, the night ruptures like a fault line splitting open, the pressure that had been simmering beneath the surface finally breaking free in a violent, uncontrollable quake. Tension combusts, words become weapons, and the air thickens with something electric, something irreversible. It happens too fast and yet in slow motion, like a match striking gasoline, like a storm swallowing the sky before anyone can run for cover. Chaos doesn’t creep in—it erupts, swallowing the room whole, leaving nothing untouched in its wake.

The party spirals out of control faster than you expect, unraveling like a carefully constructed experiment gone wrong. Variables shift unpredictably, the balance tips, and suddenly, everything is combusting at once. You hear it before you see it—the shift in atmosphere, the murmurs bubbling into gasps, the collective energy in the room morphing into something charged, dangerous. The equation has changed. The chemicals have mixed, the reaction irreversible.

“Shit, they’re fighting,” someone gasps, the urgency in their voice making your stomach drop.

“Mark and Jeno are going at it,” another voice hisses, laced with anticipation and dread. “It’s bad.”

“Mark’s been seeing Areum behind Jeno’s back. Jeno just found out,” a girl whispers, her voice nearly swallowed by the electric energy in the room.

The words ripple through the crowd like a chain reaction, setting off a current of whispers and speculation, electrifying the air with a palpable thrill. You close your eyes for a brief second, exhaling slow, controlled. You knew it would come to this. It was only a matter of time. Pushing through the sea of bodies, you move toward the source of the chaos, following the pull of inevitability. The commotion is centered around one of the many bathrooms in Jeno’s apartment, the door slightly ajar, figures standing tense in the dim lighting. You can’t see what’s happening yet, but you can hear it—the sharp edge of voices clashing against each other, the sound thick with anger and betrayal.

“You’re joking,” Jeno breathes, but there is no humor in it. His voice is laced with something raw, something on the edge of breaking apart. Your stomach twists. You push forward, squeezing past clusters of people, each murmur feeding into the anticipation building around you. When you step closer, your chest seizes at the sight before you.

Jeno stands rigid, his shoulders locked, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His entire body is wound impossibly tight, every muscle in his frame coiled with barely restrained fury. Mark is standing beside Areum, his jaw set, his eyes unreadable, but his stance betrays him. He is bracing. Waiting for impact.

Areum’s voice is quiet but steady. “I wanted to tell you. I just—”

Jeno cuts her off, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “When?” His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling too quickly. “How long?”

The room shrinks. Everything sharpens. The space between them is a chasm, the weight of unspoken truths pressing in from all sides. Jeno exhales harshly, a bitter laugh escaping him, humorless, sharp. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I should’ve known.”

“Jeno—” Areum starts, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“Don’t,” he snaps, his voice razor-sharp, cutting straight through her.

Areum shifts, swallowing, attempting again, “Jeno, just—please let me explain.”

His voice drops, quiet but deadly. “You don’t need to explain. It’s all pretty fucking clear.”

You see it then. The moment it fully sinks in for him. The moment he realizes just how deeply he’s been lied to. The weight of every deception, every half-truth, every secret that was never meant to come to light.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Jeno,” Areum says, voice smaller now. “I was just trying to avoid—this. This exact situation.”

Jeno’s laugh is sharp, cutting. “This exact situation?” He tilts his head, eyes flicking to Mark, then to you, and it’s like the realization crashes into him a second time, harder, knocking the air from his lungs. “You mean me finding out you’re fucking my brother behind my back?”

A beat. A shift. The crowd inches closer, the tension at its breaking point. Jeno inhales sharply, his gaze locking on Mark now, burning with something dark, something unraveling at the seams. “You had every chance to be honest with me. I trusted you. I defended you to my dad—do you even get that?” His voice catches, but he swallows it down, his grip on control slipping. “He told me this was happening, and I said he was lying. That you wouldn’t do this to me.”.

Mark and Jeno both take a step toward each other, the air between them crackling. “And I fucking felt guilty about fucking Y/N behind your back,” Jeno spits out, his voice like a gunshot through the room, “while all this time you’ve been fucking my ex behind my back, keeping it a fucking secret.”

The crowd reacts instantly. A wave of gasps, murmurs, exchanged glances. Excitement spreads like wildfire, feeding the storm of chaos, making it bigger, louder, impossible to contain. But you don’t care. You don’t even flinch. You had already shattered the illusion of secrecy an hour ago when you stood in this same room, holding onto Jeno in full view of everyone, gripping his bicep, threading your fingers through his, steadying him like he was something fragile. People had seen then. People had looked. And you hadn’t cared. Because at the end of the day, you’ve never lived your life by the weight of whispers. The truth was bound to come out, whether through Jeno’s anger or something else entirely. The revelation isn’t what shakes you—it’s how easily Jeno lets it slip. The word fuck lingers for a moment, sharp, unfiltered, and you catch on it, not because of what it reveals but because of what it means about him. He wasn’t thinking. He was just angry. Nonetheless, the word sticks to your ribs, heavy with something more than anger. You barely have time to process it before you see Mark’s face shift.

His brow furrows first, confusion knitting his features together before it smooths out into something harder. His jaw clenches, veins in his neck more pronounced, his entire body stiffening under the weight of Jeno’s words. His chest rises sharply, his lips part like he wants to say something, but for a terrifying moment, he stays silent. The silence is suffocating, a moment stretched impossibly thin, and then—

Jeno moves first. There’s no warning, no hesitation—just pure, undiluted force. His fist cuts through the air like a bullet, colliding with Mark’s jaw in a brutal, bone-rattling impact. The sound is sickening, sharp, the kind of impact that reverberates through a space and rearranges the energy of a room. Mark stumbles back, but it’s slight, controlled—his body absorbs the force, his feet recalibrating within seconds, his instincts firing before his thoughts can catch up. And then, like a perfectly synchronized counter-strike, he retaliates.

His fist meets Jeno’s face, snapping his head to the side with enough force to send him stumbling. The momentum shifts, the equilibrium disrupted. The crowd recoils, then surges forward all at once, voices breaking into a chaotic symphony of gasps, shouts, laughter, and frantic murmurs. Someone yells, “Holy shit—!” Someone else laughs, wild and unhinged, the kind of laugh that doesn’t know whether it belongs to amusement or terror. Phones are already out, cameras capturing the violence, immortalizing it in shaky frames and adrenaline-fueled hands.

But neither of them care.

Jeno recovers, doesn’t think, doesn’t pause—just moves. His entire body coils with raw aggression, and then he’s lunging, tackling Mark like a predator taking down its prey. They crash to the floor in a mess of limbs and violence, fists flying, elbows cracking against ribs, knuckles tearing into skin, all restraint shattered in an instant. They’re not fighting—they’re destroying. Years of tension, of unspoken resentment, of half-buried rage detonating in real time. A bomb that had been ticking for far too long.

You inhale sharply, forcing your breath to remain steady, your mind dissecting the scene like a forensic scientist examining a crime scene. The data is overwhelming, the input flooding too fast, but you process it anyway—Jeno’s stance, Mark’s breathing, the way the fight shifts with every punch thrown, every missed hit, every brutal connection. You calculate the damage in real-time, assess the risks, measure the fallout before it even happens.

You can’t step in. Not yet.

The second you move, the second you intervene, the dynamic changes. Right now, this is something they need to tear through. A force of nature that cannot be stopped—only endured. Because this is what happens when an experiment spirals past its breaking point. When the formula was flawed from the start, when the catalyst is introduced too abruptly, when the pressure builds and builds until containment is no longer an option. This is what happens when control is lost. When fire meets oxygen, when unchecked reactions combust in a chain of destruction that no one can reverse.

And so you stand there, watching as it all burns.

After the fight, Mark and Areum left together without sparing you or Jeno a glance. You saw the way Jeno’s jaw tensed at that, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, but you didn’t give him time to linger in it. You simply reached for his hand and pulled him out of the room, away from the crowd, away from the mess. Away from everything but you.

Being able to touch him in public, to take his hand without thinking, was everything. You hadn’t realized how deprived you were of it—how unbearable it had been—until you finally did it. The solid warmth of his palm against yours, the way his fingers tightened instinctively around you, was something you’d been aching for, something that had been kept from you. And now that you had it, you didn’t want to let go.

Jeno’s breath was still uneven, his body wound tight with the remnants of the fight, the anger, the betrayal, all of it pressing into his muscles like a second skin. You hummed softly as you glanced at him, already knowing exactly what you needed to do—calm him down, ease him, just be with him.

The bedroom is steeped in warmth, the soft glow of the bedside lamp flickering against the walls, casting everything in gold. Outside, the echoes of the fight still hum faintly beneath the surface, remnants of tension still knotted in Jeno’s body, in the bruises blooming along his knuckles, his jaw, his ribs where Mark had landed a solid hit. But here, in the quiet, away from the eyes and the whispers and the weight of everything outside, it’s just the two of you.

You guide him to sit on the edge of the bed, stepping between his parted legs. His breathing is still heavy, shallow, like he’s trying to hold something in, but when you place your hands on his shoulders, pressing gently, his body gives. Not all the way—but enough. Enough for you to slip your hands under his shirt, fingertips gliding along the rigid lines of his back, his skin burning beneath your touch. You don’t rush him, don’t speak yet—just let your fingers map out the tension, let your touch work its way through the residual adrenaline still thrumming in his veins.

He doesn’t resist when you press the ice pack to his knuckles, just exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching beneath your touch. He’s still carrying the weight of it all—anger, betrayal, frustration wound tight in his muscles—but when his gaze lifts to you, something shifts. The sharp edges dull, the storm behind his eyes settles. His breath still comes a little uneven, but there’s something softer now, something that grounds him.

“You being here means everything,” he murmurs suddenly, his voice rough from the night, from everything. His eyes track the movements of your hands, the way you’re handling him so gently, so carefully, like you see him in a way no one else does. Like you know him.

Your fingers trace the bruises forming along his knuckles, your thumb smoothing over them with barely-there pressure. “I know,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his temple, against the cut along his cheekbone, gentle, careful. Jeno tilts his head into your touch, exhales shakily. And then, after a beat, he mutters, “I don’t know how you’re so calm.”

Your fingers still against his hand, and you tilt your head, watching him. “What do you mean?”

He swallows, his gaze flickering away for a second before settling back on you. “Mark’s obviously mad at you too. I don’t know how you’re just… so calm about it.”

Your fingers still against his hand, and you tilt your head, watching him. “What do you mean?”

He swallows, his gaze flickering away for a second before settling back on you. “Mark’s obviously mad at you too. I don’t know how you’re just… so calm about it.”

You let out a slow breath, the truth is, you’re not calm. Not really. It’s just not something you can afford to feel right now. Emotions aren’t something you drown in; they’re something you hold at arm’s length until you need to face them. They settle inside you like a delayed reaction, a chemical equation that hasn’t yet reached its inevitable result

And right now? Mark isn’t your problem. Not yet.

You feel the weight of it, the way his anger should hit you harder, should sink its teeth in and refuse to let go. But it hasn’t. Not fully. Not yet. You’re the kind of person who deals with things when the time is right, when emotions have settled, when logic can filter through the noise. Right now, Mark’s emotions are raw, untamed, and throwing yourself into them would be like trying to fight a wildfire with nothing but your bare hands.

You’ll deal with him when you have to.

Mark has never stayed mad at you for long—never more than a day or two, at most. But there’s something different about this, something that lingers in your chest, a weight you can’t shake. You know this won’t resolve itself the way it always has before. You feel it, but it hasn’t fully sunk in. Not when this is more important.

You inhale, slow and steady, before murmuring, “Honestly, I can’t control what Mark is feeling, so there’s no point getting worked up about it. I’ll figure it out when emotions are stable, when things have settled. Right now, it’s not the time for that.”

Your fingers trail down Jeno’s arm, his skin warm beneath your touch, his muscles still tense. Your gaze lifts back to his, soft but unwavering. “But it is time for you and me.” You smile, small but certain, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “It’s always time for you.”

Something shifts in him at that. His expression tightens for just a second before he exhales, a slow, quiet release of tension. The grip he has on your waist eases—not letting go, just softer. He hums, voice rough. “That’s wise. Good decision.”

You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “When do I not make good decisions?” It’s a throwaway comment, something teasing, but it plants a seed, one you don’t realize will come back to haunt you.

Jeno just scoffs, shaking his head, but his lips twitch at the edges like he’s tempted to smile. The moment could settle here. It could fade into something lighter, something untouched by everything still left unsaid. But that’s not who you are. You’ve never been one to leave things buried, not when they matter, not when they sit between you like a loaded gun waiting to go off. So you take a breath and say, “Mark knew about us before the fight.”

Jeno stills. His entire body goes taut, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours.

You hold it, steady. “He knew before you outed us at the party. He didn’t have confirmation, not really—not until you said it out loud. I never fully admitted anything to him, but he knew. He’s known for a while.” You exhale. “I think he was so pissed at you because of the way you were talking to Areum and because of how you outed us. Mark’s always been protective, even when he’s mad at me. Even when he shouldn’t care, he does. And you—” You pause, watching his expression, searching for the shift. “You made it worse.”

Jeno’s jaw clenches. You feel it, the tension rolling through him, coiling in his shoulders. “It’s annoying that you couldn’t bite your tongue,” you continue, voice even. “That you let it slip like that and that you didn’t even think before you spoke.”

His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, wants to defend himself, but you don’t let him.“But,” you say, softer now, “I get why you did it. I don’t necessarily agree with it. I wish you’d kept your mouth shut, but I know you. I know the words just slipped out. I know you don’t always think before you speak, and I know that when you’re pissed, you say things you can’t take back.” Your fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns against his skin, keeping him tethered, keeping him from slipping too far into his own frustration. “But this? This worked in my favor.”

You tilt your chin up, lips curling at the edges. “I’m so fucking sick of secrets.” The words leave you like a release, a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. And the moment you say it, you mean it. You’re done hiding, done pretending, done picking up the pieces of something that was always bound to break apart. “I knew it was going to come out eventually,” you murmur, your voice calmer now, like it’s already settled into something certain. “It was only a matter of time.”

Your fingers curl against his jaw, tilting his face down toward yours. “And I’m glad it did because now,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his, “I can touch you without caring who’s looking.”

He opens his mouth to speak, frustration tightening the lines of his face, but you’re not done. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself, knowing exactly how this will land, knowing Jeno’s temper, the way he reacts first and thinks later. But this needs to be said. No more miscommunication, no more holding things back. “I also knew about Mark and Areum this whole time.”

Jeno’s head snaps up. His brows knit together, his jaw clenching with barely restrained irritation.

“What?” The frustration is immediate, sparking in his expression, tightening his muscles. You knew it would be. You knew this would bother him, knew he would hate the fact that you had that information and never told him. Before the tension can rise into something sharp, something that spirals out of his control, you reach out, fingers slipping beneath his chin, tilting his face toward yours. “I couldn’t tell you,” you murmur, your voice even, steady. “I promised both Mark and Areum I wouldn’t tell anyone, I couldn’t betray them like that, especially Areum because she knew about us too. She could have told Mark, but she didn’t. So I couldn’t do that to her.”

And Jeno—hot-tempered, reckless, impulsive Jeno—hates it. But he also gets it. You see it in the way his lips press together, the way his shoulders drop just slightly, the way his grip tightens at your waist, grounding himself the way you’re grounding him. A slow, measured breath leaves him, tension rolling off in increments, not fully but enough.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, and what you see there makes something stir deep inside you. “You always have me,” you murmur, soft but firm, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You know that, right?” And maybe it’s random, maybe it doesn’t belong in a moment like this, but your heart swells in your chest, sudden and sharp, because it’s him. Because no matter how fucked-up everything has been, no matter how much he gets under your skin, you still choose him. Again and again and again.

Jeno doesn’t kiss you right away. He just looks at you, forehead pressing against yours, his hands settling on your hips. His grip is steady, grounding, like he’s making sure you’re real. And then he tilts his chin up, his lips parting against yours, slow, deep. There’s no rush, no desperation—just the steady, unshakable pull of him. The way he kisses you is different tonight, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with need.

His hands slip under your shirt, pressing warm and firm against your spine, holding you close. You sigh into his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair, letting him melt into you, letting him take whatever he needs from you in this moment. When you pull back, he makes a soft noise in protest, his lips chasing yours, unwilling to let the moment end.

“I know you’ve had a long night,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the nape of his neck, feeling the tension there. “A rough night. If you don’t want to come, I get it but is there still a chance that you’ll be there for me at the bar?”

Jeno nods his head immediately, his hands tightening around you. His voice is sure when he speaks. “Yes. I have to be there. Have to support my girl.”

Your stomach flips. Heat blooms in your chest, creeping up your throat. You’ve never been someone who flusters easily, never been one to let words get under your skin. But this? The way he says it—so natural, so certain—it gets to you. You swallow, tilting your head slightly, trying to keep your voice steady. "You always call me that," you murmur, teasing, trailing your fingers down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your touch. "But you've never made an effort to make me anything more than that."

Your words are direct, cutting through the space between you, but they’re true. And if you were being completely honest, you’d admit you’ve thought about it more times than you can count, wanted it in ways you could never quite articulate. It’s all coming out now, spilling into the air, into the weight of this moment.

Jeno is silent for a moment, and for the first time in a long time, it scares you. But then, slowly, his lips twitch into the most beautiful, boyish smile you've ever seen, something soft, something disarming. It’s as if the fight before never happened, as if the tension and bruises and betrayal don’t exist. Right now, it’s just you and him, your own world folding in around you. His eyes flicker over your face, something thoughtful, something deep settling in his gaze. And then, softly, honestly, he says, "You know, I’ve been thinking about making you my girlfriend for a while now."

Your stomach flips violently. The words hit harder than they should, shaking you in a way you don’t expect, and you feel warmth bloom in your chest, up your throat. You let out a breathy giggle, barely able to contain yourself, shying away, pressing your face into his shoulder as if that could hide the way your body betrays you.

Jeno chuckles, his hand slipping to your jaw, tilting your face back up to him, his touch gentle but firm. "No, don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice dipping, teasing. "Look at me."

You meet his gaze, the air thick, charged, your breath catching as his thumb brushes against your cheek. "Really?" you whisper.

He nods without hesitation, without thinking. "Yeah."

Silence lingers between you, the weight of the confession settling deep in your bones. And then, your lips curve slightly, something playful curling at the edge of your voice. "Well, do it then."

Jeno blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness of your words, and then he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. The both of you break into chuckles, the tension shifting, morphing into something lighter, something sweeter.

"Not now," he says, voice dipping into something softer, something sincere. "I wanna make it special, you know? Need to make it worth your while." His hands trace slow, reverent patterns down your spine, his fingers pressing into your skin like he’s committing the moment to memory. "This is gonna be my first real relationship. I wanna treasure you. Make it something precious."

Your chest tightens. He keeps going, his lips brushing over your jaw, voice warm and close. "Might even take you away somewhere. Do it right."

You bite down on your lip, unable to fight the way your stomach clenches at the thought. Instead, you hum, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, whispering against them, "Don’t ruin the surprise."

Jeno’s hands tighten on your waist, guiding you over him, his belt slipping open with ease, and yours following suit. It’s all unspoken instinct, a rhythm you’ve fallen into, a craving neither of you can hold back.

"Since when have you been thinking about making me your girlfriend?" you murmur, your lips brushing against his between kisses, slow and deliberate.

Jeno groans softly, his fingers ghosting over the waistband of your jeans, loosening them further, his touch deliberate, reverent. He does the same to his own without thinking, unfastening the button, pushing the fabric down with an ease that speaks of muscle memory, of something instinctual between you now. Neither of you react—it’s second nature, the way your hands move, the way your bodies shift in tandem, attuned, unthinking.

“A while.” His fingers flex against your hips, pressing in slightly, grounding himself in you. And then he moves you—guides you, rolling your hips against his, dragging you over the hard press of him beneath the thin fabric, setting a slow, unrelenting rhythm. The friction pulls a breathy moan from your lips, your nails digging into his shoulders, but Jeno isn’t done. His voice dips lower, gravelly and strained as he grinds you down again, harder this time. “I’ve felt it for a while now.” His jaw clenches, like he’s trying to find the right words, something true, something raw. His eyes are molten when they flick up to yours, dark and consumed. “It’s not just the way you look at me, the way you touch me, the way you fuck me—it’s everything. The way you are, the way you think, the way you make me crazy without even trying. You don’t even see it, do you?” His voice dips lower, lips brushing your jaw, his hands gripping your hips, pressing you closer.

“The way you take care of me,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing up your back, pressing into the muscles he knows are sore, kneading them instinctively. “How you rub my shoulders after practice, working through the knots like you know my body better than I do. How you make me stretch when I forget, rolling your eyes but still guiding my arms, pressing into my back, making sure I don’t fuck myself up.” His lips ghost over your jaw as his hands move lower, gripping your waist. “The way you run your fingers through my hair when I’m exhausted, how you ice my wrist when it swells, how you press your hands over my chest after a game, feeling my heartbeat, like you need to make sure I’m still standing.” His breath hitches, his grip tightening. “When you fall asleep in my arms.”

He exhales sharply, voice breaking, his hips bucking beneath you as his fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, curling around your ribs, thumbs grazing the swell of your breasts. “The way you bounce on my cock, so fucking pretty, so perfect, the way you hold my face after, kiss me so soft like I’m something precious.” His mouth moves lower, trailing heat down your throat, his words pressing into your skin. “How you pull me in, even when you’re mad, how you touch me like you can’t help it, like you always need me close. You wreck me, baby. And I—” He exhales sharply, like he’s swallowing something heavier, something bigger. “I think I’ve always wanted this.”

“You’re gonna love my performance at the bar later,” you whisper, something fragile slipping into your voice, something unguarded. A confession wrapped in silk, in the tremor of your breath, in the way your fingers tighten in his hair like you need to hold onto him or else you’ll float away. It’s not just a song. It’s you. A piece of you, carved out and laid bare, something you’ve never given to anyone before. A feeling you’ve never let yourself say, but it’s there, lingering between you, pressing against your ribs, too big to ignore. Love.

Jeno’s breath hitches against your skin, like he feels it too. Like he knows that what you’re saying isn’t just about the performance, isn’t just about the music. His fingers flex against your hips, an anchor, as if he’s trying to keep you here, with him, trying to ground you before you slip away. Your fingers tighten in his hair instinctively, like you need to hold onto him or else you’ll float away completely, lost in the weight of everything you’re feeling, everything you can’t say.

You should be afraid of this—of how much you want him to understand. But somehow, with Jeno looking at you like this, his dark eyes locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, it doesn’t feel like something you need to run from. It feels inevitable. And maybe that’s what love is—not something spoken, not something demanded, but something that just exists, something that lingers in the spaces between words, pressing against your ribs, swelling in the quiet moments that used to be empty. It’s the way his gaze softens, the way his fingers trace absentminded circles into your waist, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t—because he already knows.

Because love has already filled the silence.

His voice is low, soft, quiet in a way that’s uncharacteristically him. Like something about this moment has settled into his bones, weighed him down, left no room for the usual arrogance, the teasing remarks. “I always love your performances at the bar.”

It’s not just a compliment—it’s a certainty, a truth that has existed long before this moment, one that doesn’t need embellishment. He says it like it’s obvious, like it’s something he’s always known, like it was never a question to begin with.

You swallow, fingers still tangled in his hair, the weight of his words pressing into your skin, warming the places that have long been cold. Your voice is barely above a murmur when you respond, something fragile slipping through the cracks. “It’s a different type of one.”

“It’s for you.” You run your hands through his hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging slightly. You moan, breath hitching, the sound spilling from your lips without restraint, unfiltered, raw. It’s the way he says it, the way his voice dips lower, thick with something dark and wanting, the way his grip tightens on your waist like he needs you closer, like he can’t stand the space between you. His hips shift beneath you, hard and waiting, heat rolling off him in waves, and something inside you snaps.

You don’t wait. You don’t need to. No one has to tell you where you belong. You know.

Your hands press against his chest as you sink down onto him, gasping at the stretch, at the way he fills you—deep and perfect, like he was made to fit inside you. Jeno groans, head tipping back, jaw slack, hands sliding up your spine before gripping your hips, holding you there, buried in the heat of you. His fingers dig into your skin, not guiding, not demanding—just feeling, just taking you in like he’s memorizing every inch of you, every roll of your hips, every shiver that racks through your body as you start to move.

"Fuck," he breathes, and it’s wrecked, desperate. "That’s it, baby, take me—just like that."

There’s nothing slow about it. It’s fast, desperate, obsessed. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails biting into the muscle as you grind down onto him, your hips moving in an unrelenting rhythm that makes him gasp, makes his grip on you tighten, bruising and possessive. His fingers dig into your flesh, pulling you down harder, deeper, making you take all of him, and it’s dizzying, the way he fills you, the way he stretches you open like he was made to be inside you. Every thrust sends sparks through your body, pressure coiling tight in your stomach, threatening to snap, and you chase it, fucking chase it, your pace quickening, body shaking as you use him, as you take him.

"Jeno," you whimper, voice breaking around his name, breathless and wrecked, and he groans, low and deep, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the strain in his neck. His eyes are locked on you, watching the way you tremble, the way you fall apart in his hands, in his lap, the way you need him like this, like nothing else in the world could satisfy you. His cock is buried so deep inside you it’s maddening, and every roll of your hips makes him shudder, makes his head tip back, makes his grip tighten like he’s seconds away from losing it.

You’re giddy, drunk on him, body flush against his, skin fevered and slick with sweat, lips parted as you pant against the side of his neck, desperate and breathless. Your fingers trace over the ink on your skin—his number, his mark, the 23 standing bold and dark against your back, a permanent claim, a reminder that you are his, have always been his. Jeno catches the movement, and his hands follow, tracing over your tattoo, then over the tiny charms decorating your bracelet, his touch reverent, almost worshipping. It makes you shudder, makes your rhythm falter, and he takes advantage of it immediately, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you, hard, deep, making you cry out. His lips crash against yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, deepening the kiss until it’s nothing but heat, nothing but need, nothing but him.

"Make me your girlfriend now," you whisper against his lips, voice so breathless and wrecked it doesn’t sound like your own. You don’t care how desperate you sound, how ruined you are, how utterly consumed you’ve become by him. "I need to be your girlfriend now. Need you to be my boyfriend."

Jeno chuckles, but it’s rough, strained, his own breath coming hard and heavy, his body tensing beneath you like he’s barely holding on. His voice is laced with something unbearably fond, unbearably warm. He presses his forehead to yours, his lips trailing over your jaw, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. "Soon," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, raspier. "Soon."

You tut, narrowing your eyes at him, rolling your hips down just to tease him, just to hear him groan again. His head tips back slightly, his hands gripping your waist tighter, fingers digging into your skin like he can’t take it, like you’re driving him insane. But before you can say anything, before you can push him further, he smirks, his fingers flexing against your thighs, his grip shifting as he drags you even closer. His voice is all heat, all fire, all Jeno when he murmurs, "Or should I just get down on one knee right now?"

Your breath catches, your stomach flipping violently, and for a second, you swear your heart stops. But you manage to scoff, shaking your head, rolling your hips just to torture him, just to feel him shudder beneath you, just to hear the way his breath stutters. He groans, a deep, guttural sound that makes something inside you tighten, makes the heat in your stomach coil even sharper.

"Shut up," you whisper against his lips, kissing him deep, swallowing his next words whole, letting your body do the talking instead.

But in your head, you’re screaming yes.

The backstage room hums with anticipation, the dim lighting flickering overhead, casting long shadows against the walls. The air is thick with the scent of old leather, warm wood, and a faint trace of lingering perfume. Your reflection in the mirror stares back at you, eyes lined dark, lips painted in a deep shade that feels bold but necessary. The black dress clings to you like a second skin, sleek and deliberate, the slit riding high against your thigh, teasing with every shift of movement. The leather jacket draped over your shoulders is a final barrier, something solid between you and the weight of tonight.

Jeno is behind you, his presence felt before he even touches you. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches through the mirror, his gaze heavy, something unreadable simmering beneath the surface. Then, finally, he moves—closer, his fingers grazing your back, barely there. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like a confession.

A shiver rolls down your spine, but it’s not from the cold. It’s from him. From the warmth of his breath against your neck, the way his hands move with slow intent, dragging the zipper of your dress up, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin. He seals you in, but there’s nothing confining about it. If anything, it feels like possession. Like something only he gets to do.

His hands grip your waist as he tugs you flush against him, his lips finding yours in a slow, teasing kiss. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push—just kisses you like he has all the time in the world, coaxing you into it, until you’re melting into him, letting him take over. His thigh slots between yours, pressing up just enough to make you gasp into his mouth, and he groans at the sound, his fingers flexing where they hold you.

“Nervous?” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, swallowing hard, your breath coming in short, uneven puffs. He watches you for a moment, eyes dark, searching. Then his hands move, turning you around, pressing you forward until your palms brace against the vanity. His grip is sure, steady, and when he leans in, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear, his voice is warm, steady, grounding.

“I got you,” he says, low and certain.

He bunches your dress up around your waist, his fingers ghosting over your skin before he hooks a finger into your lace thong, dragging it to the side. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, a contrast to the heat pooling low in your stomach, and then—his hands spread you wider, and his mouth is on you.

The first flick of his tongue is slow, languid, like he’s savoring it. He licks into you, teasing at first, just enough to make your breath hitch, to make your fingers curl against the wood. Then his grip tightens, pulling you back onto his mouth, his tongue dragging in long, deliberate strokes that have your legs shaking. He hums against you, like he already knows how good you taste, how much he loves it, and the vibration sends a shudder through you.

You whimper, pushing back against him, chasing the friction, and he groans in response, his hands gripping your hips harder, holding you steady. His tongue works you open, slow and deliberate, fucking into you in a way that makes your knees weak. His lips seal around your clit, sucking just enough to make you cry out, and then he does it again, and again, until the pleasure is unbearable.

You’re a mess against the vanity now, panting, grinding onto his face, and he lets you—lets you use him, lets you take what you need. His tongue is relentless, flicking and curling, drawing sharp, helpless sounds from your lips. Your thighs tremble, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, anything to anchor yourself as he takes you apart. He knows exactly how to push you there, how to build it up and pull you back until you’re teetering on the edge, begging for it.

And then he gives it to you. His tongue flicks, his lips seal around your clit, and the pressure tips you over the edge, your release crashing over you like a wave. Your body tenses, then shudders, pleasure searing through you in a way that leaves you breathless, undone. He groans as you come, his mouth working you through it, drawing it out until your legs nearly give out beneath you. When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet, his lips kiss-swollen, and the look he gives you—dark, satisfied, hungry—makes your stomach tighten all over again.

Jeno rises to his feet behind you, his hands trailing up your back, soothing over your trembling body. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your neck, his lips dragging up to your ear as he whispers, “You ready, baby?”

You exhale shakily, nodding, but there’s one thing you need first. Turning in his grip, you drop to your knees before him, your fingers already reaching for his belt. His breath stutters as you undo the buckle, then the button, then slowly drag his trousers down. The moment you pull him free, thick and heavy in your hand, your mouth waters.

“For good luck,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes, and his jaw tightens, his hands flexing at his sides.

His cock is hot against your palm, the weight of it familiar and yet still so overwhelming. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the flushed tip, then another, teasing, before you finally part your lips and take him in. His groan is guttural, his head tipping back as you sink lower, your tongue flattening against the underside, dragging along the thick vein there.

Your mouth works him slow at first, savoring, hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head, your tongue swirling over him with every stroke. Jeno watches you, his breathing ragged, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab your hair. You hum around him, letting the vibration travel down his spine, and he curses, his hips jerking involuntarily.

Encouraged, you take him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat before pulling back with a slick pop, your lips dragging over the sensitive head. He shudders, his hands finally coming to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your jaw, his grip tightening just slightly as you suck him back in.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice rough. “You feel so good.”

You moan around him, loving the way he reacts, how his body tenses, how his thighs tremble under your hands. You work him faster now, your tongue gliding, your lips sealing tight, your fingers curling around the base as you stroke him in time with every bob of your head. His hips start to move, small, controlled thrusts that make your eyes water, but you take it, let him push deeper, let him chase it.

He’s close now, his grip tightening, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. You can feel the way his thighs tense, the way he fights to hold himself back, but you don’t want him to. You hollow your cheeks, suck harder, and when he curses, a deep, broken sound, you know you’ve got him.

Jeno groans your name, voice wrecked, as he spills into your mouth, his fingers trembling where they cup your face. You swallow it all, licking him clean, and when you finally pull back, his eyes are heavy-lidded, dazed, full of something unreadable. He reaches for you, hauling you up into his arms, his mouth crashing onto yours, swallowing the soft, satisfied sound you make.

And then, with a low chuckle, he murmurs against your lips, “Now that’s good luck.”

The taste of him lingers as you step onto the stage.

The bar is steeped in midnight ambience, dim neon signs casting fractured glows against the polished wood, reflecting off low-hanging smoke and half-empty glasses. The air is dense with the smell of whiskey, cigarettes, and the murmur of a hundred conversations blending into something hazy, something familiar. The regulars are in their usual spots—Jihyo by the back, giving you a nod, the bartender wiping down glasses with the same practiced ease.

Your fingers tighten around the guitar. The mic stand is cool beneath your touch, the weight of the moment settling in your chest. Your jacket stays on, an added layer of armor, grounding you.

And Jeno—

Jeno is front and center, the kind of presence that commands attention without trying. He’s leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, the muscles in his forearms taut beneath the fabric of his sleeves. His fingers curl loosely around his drink, the condensation slick against his skin, but he isn’t paying it any mind. His focus is locked on you—dark eyes tracing your every movement, drinking you in like he can’t get enough.

That look—molten, unreadable, something deeper than admiration pooling in his gaze. It simmers, slow and deliberate, like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s savoring a secret meant just for him. His lips curve, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—something softer, something wrecked with unshakable pride. The kind of expression that makes heat curl low in your stomach, that makes you hyperaware of the weight of his attention pressing against your skin.

His phone is out, the screen glinting under the dim lights, recording you without shame. Not just to capture the moment, but to keep it, to carve it into permanence. The way he watches you—eyes hooded, jaw tight, fingers flexing against the table—tells you everything. He wants to remember you exactly like this. The way your lips part, the way your shoulders shift with every breath, the way you shine under his gaze.

Like he wants to keep you frozen in time. Like he wants to devour you whole.

The song isn’t a ballad, but it isn’t light either. It moves through the room with a steady pulse, a pop-rock confession—raw, aching, but resolute. There’s no pleading in the melody, no desperate grasp for something slipping away. It doesn’t beg for love; it claims it. The chords crash like waves, the lyrics spill from your lips like something inevitable, something that’s lived inside you long before it ever found sound. It reverberates through your chest, settling deep in the spaces between your ribs, refusing to be anything less than felt.

And you do feel it. In the way your grip tightens around the mic, in the heat of the stage lights catching on your skin, in the burn of every note you let loose into the air. But more than anything, you feel it in him.

Jeno watches like he’s carving the sight of you into memory, eyes dark and hooded, following every movement, every shift of your expression. He’s leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, fingers curling, flexing, like he’s fighting the impulse to reach for you, to touch, to claim. His gaze is heavy, searing, a quiet possession in the way he drinks you in—not just listening, but absorbing, consuming.

And then there’s that smile—just barely there, but weighted with something that makes your stomach drop. Not cocky, not playful, but knowing. Like he’s always understood something about you that you haven’t figured out yourself. Like he’s already seeing the way this night ends. The way your body will curve into his. The way you’ll let him have you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left untouched.

You’re sinking. Obsessed. Falling without resistance. You feel it in your gut, in the charged air between you, in the way your voice trembles at the edges of each verse. The song is still playing, but all you can hear now is the rush of your own heartbeat, the certainty that before this night is over, you’ll be his.

The song carries you forward, your fingers moving on instinct now, your voice dipping lower, softer, right before the crescendo. The moment stretches, thick with anticipation, the music swelling around you, drowning out everything else. And then—

The door opens.

At first, it barely registers. A shift in the air, a creak of hinges swallowed by the bass. A couple of voices weaving into the music, indistinct, blending into the background. But then— Another. And another. More footsteps. More murmurs. A ripple of movement at the edge of the crowd, slow but spreading, unsettling the atmosphere in a way that twists something deep in your gut. It’s subtle at first, just a feeling, the slightest disturbance, like the first pull of the tide before a wave crashes.

And then you see them—people from campus, faces that don’t belong here, slipping between bodies, threading themselves into a crowd that isn’t theirs. They stand out in ways that have nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with presence, disrupting the low hum of familiarity that exists among the regulars, the ones who understand—who know that this place isn’t meant for them. But now they’re here, pushing into a space they were never supposed to find, their arrival fracturing the careful separation you’ve spent years maintaining. You recognize them instantly, their features sharp against the dim lighting, their expressions shifting as realization dawns. You’ve passed them in hallways, sat beside them in lecture rooms, exchanged words over group projects, all within the neat, contained world of campus—the world that was never meant to bleed into this one. Yet here they are, watching, whispering, and suddenly, the air feels heavier, the walls closer, the stage too exposed beneath their gaze.

A slow, suffocating pressure builds in your chest, coiling tight as the atmosphere shifts. The stage—once familiar, once yours—now feels vast and vulnerable, the sense of safety stripped away in an instant. The walls seem to close in, the air thickening, pressing against you with an invisible weight. Their eyes find you, latch onto you, dragging over your skin like a presence you can’t shake. It isn’t admiration, isn’t curiosity—it’s something colder, heavier. Judgment. A quiet, suffocating scrutiny that settles in your bones, turning the once-electric thrill of performance into something sharp-edged and unbearable.

They recognize you. You see it happen in real time—the widening of eyes, the flicker of realization passing between them like a silent current. Someone whispers something to someone else, and then another, and then another. It spreads, unraveling through the room like a slow-moving tide, reaching deeper, further, until it feels like everyone knows. The weight of it crushes against your chest, pressing down, squeezing tight. Your fingers falter—just slightly, just enough to throw the rhythm off for a half-second—but you force yourself to keep playing, to push through the sickening unease crawling up your spine. It’s fine. It’s nothing.

But then the whispers grow. Soft at first, barely a murmur beneath the music. But they don’t stop. They multiply, curling into the spaces between lyrics, threading through the melody like something invasive, foreign, something that doesn’t belong here but has forced its way in anyway. It slithers through the crowd, low and insidious, gaining momentum, feeding off itself. You don’t have to hear the words to know what they’re saying. You know. It’s in the way their heads turn, the way bodies shift, the way their faces flicker between amusement and intrigue, between disbelief and something uglier.

And the smiles. Small, curling at the edges of mouths, poorly concealed, barely hidden beneath feigned interest. It’s worse than if they had been outright laughing. This—this knowing, this gathering of a secret that was never meant to be theirs—is something else entirely. A new kind of exposure, one you weren’t prepared for. They aren’t just watching you now. They’re assessing you, dissecting you, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to shed. The stage, once a shield, now feels like a platform for your own humiliation, like a spotlight is shining down on every single inch of you, leaving nowhere to hide.

And then it hits. Someone told them. You had been losing this place for a while, the way a heart loses its rhythm before it fails—slow at first, barely noticeable, an offbeat here, a skipped pulse there. A fracture too small to see but widening with every second, every breath, until suddenly it isn’t a heartbeat at all, just the hollow echo of something that used to be alive. You had felt it slipping, unraveling in increments, but now—now, it crashes all at once. A final, brutal arrest. The moment the heart seizes and stops.

The realization strikes like a blow to the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. The song continues, your voice doesn’t break, your hands keep moving—but your mind spirals, racing too fast, tripping over itself, scrambling for an answer that isn’t there. Who? Your brain sorts through the possibilities with ruthless efficiency, sifting through names, conversations, fleeting moments where something could have slipped. But the list is short—too short. You’ve been careful. So fucking careful. No one was supposed to know. No one was supposed to find this place, to drag the outside world into it, to strip it of its sanctuary and turn it into this.

Your stomach clenches, a violent, twisting thing that coils itself into knots, tighter and tighter until the nausea crawls up your throat. The answer is right there, clear as day, obvious in a way that makes your pulse trip over itself. You sifted through every possibility, every name, every slip of the tongue, but nothing else fits. Nothing else even comes close. There is only one explanation left, one truth staring you in the face, and it sends a sickening, ice-cold realization slamming into your chest like a bullet.

Jeno. His name isn’t just a thought. It’s a collision, a head-on impact that hits too fast, too hard, leaving your breath trapped somewhere between your ribs. Your pulse slams in your ears, drowning out the crowd, the whispers, even the music that still hums beneath your fingers. Your head snaps up before you can stop it, your gaze finding him instinctively, searching for something—an answer, a denial, anything to tell you that this isn’t real, that you’re spiraling, that you’re wrong.

But he’s there, sitting exactly as he was before, completely unchanged. Still leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, fingers flexing against the wood, but his focus remains unshaken. Still watching you. Still recording. Still grinning like nothing has shifted, like the walls haven’t closed in around you, like the ground hasn’t cracked open beneath your feet. The warmth in his expression hasn’t faltered, that quiet, devastating pride still etched into the corners of his mouth, like he’s proud of you. Like he’s pleased.

He hasn’t even looked at the others. hasn’t so much as spared them a glance. He should have noticed them. Should have seen the shift in the atmosphere, the murmurs threading through the music like a slow-working poison. Should have picked up on the way your body has tensed, on the way your voice has become just slightly too careful, too controlled, like you’re holding back something jagged, something breaking. But he hasn’t. Or—

Or maybe he has.

Maybe he’s already seen this moment before. Maybe he was waiting for it. The thought wraps around you like a noose, tightening with every second, every beat of your pulse hammering against your skull. You try to shake it off, try to shove it down, but it clings to you, persistent, insidious. It fits too well. The timing, the ease, the way he looks so completely unaffected, like he already knew this was coming. The way he hasn’t stopped recording.

Because who else could have done this? Who else would have wanted to?

Your fingers tighten around the guitar, too stiff, too strained, the tension bleeding into the chords. The pressure builds, rising like a storm in your chest, twisting into something suffocating, something wrong. Your voice holds, but it’s slipping, a tremor barely concealed in the final crescendo, in the way your breath catches just a second too late. The stage feels too open, the lights too harsh, the weight of every stare pressing in from all sides. Your world is shrinking, collapsing in on itself, and Jeno is still sitting there, watching, smiling, untouched by the wreckage.

Jeno did this.

And he wants you to know.

authors note — hi loves! if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi-give me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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reidmarieprentiss · 9 months ago

Text

Red: Part Two

Summary: Spencer is very happy with you, his new girlfriend. You two are experiencing firsts together, making each other happy as can be. But, secrets tend to unravel when you try to keep them from your loved ones. Your past haunts you everyday, Spencer knows that, and yet, he does nothing to let you into his. Falling in love is not for the weak. Neither is being forced out of it.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, fluff, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: heartbreak, angst, talks of drug use, talks of overdose, past death of parents, sister is an addict, keeping secrets, so much angst, smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, Spencer's past addiction, drug tests, protective Erin Strauss, weed, alcohol, no happy ending

Word count: 28.9k

a/n: soooo fucking sorry for this one ://// it was never going to have a happy ending ... tbh if you don't want to cry maybe just stick to the first part !! — unedited NEVER be afraid to call me out!!

can't lie i put so many projects on hold just to write this beast -- i worked on it EVERY day

main masterlist part one

Additional warnings: oral (f & m), grinding, finishing in pants (m), fingering (f), protected PinV

The entire jet was filled with a quiet buzz of curiosity as everyone watched Spencer, who was completely absorbed in his phone, a rare, soft smile playing on his lips. His eyes rolled over the screen, scanning a picture he took of you with a level of care that had the whole team captivated.

JJ finally broke the silence. “Okay, Reid,” she said with an amused grin, leaning forward in her seat. “Tell us what’s going on, or I’m taking your phone.”

Spencer’s head snapped up, startled by the sudden attention. His cheeks flushed pink as he realized the entire team had been watching him, all waiting for an explanation. He fumbled with the phone, quickly pocketing it as if trying to hide something, but the grin on his face gave him away.

"Uh, it’s nothing," Spencer mumbled, clearly flustered, but the team wasn’t buying it for a second.

Morgan smirked, leaning back in his seat. "Oh, come on, Pretty Boy. This has gone on long enough. Spill."

JJ raised an eyebrow, exchanging a knowing glance with Prentiss. "We’ve all seen that look before, Reid."

Spencer sighed. "It’s… it’s someone I’ve been seeing," he admitted sheepishly, his eyes flicking down to his phone for a moment before looking back at the team.

The jet erupted with teasing laughter and questions, all of them delighted by the revelation.

“Well, Reid, you have to introduce us!” Emily chimed in, a playful grin spreading across her face.

“Yeah, Pretty Boy," Derek added with a teasing smirk. "When can we meet the missus?”

Spencer, for once, didn’t shy away from the idea. In fact, he felt a spark of excitement at the thought of introducing you to the team. He was proud that you were his girlfriend, and the idea of his closest friends meeting you didn’t fill him with the usual nerves. But there was one thing Spencer couldn’t deny—he knew the moment they saw the way he looked at you, they’d instantly know how deeply in love he was.

And as much as he was ready for the team to meet you, that kind of vulnerability scared him just a little.

He smiled softly, trying to play it cool. "I’m sure you’ll meet her soon enough," he said, but inside, he was already thinking about how perfect it would be to bring you into his world.

—

“Y/N, darling,” Spencer mused with a soft smile, his eyes twinkling as he watched you across the dinner table. The warmth in his voice instantly caught your attention.

You giggled, squeezing his hand as it rested on the table, your thumb brushing against his skin. “Yes, dear?”

Spencer hesitated only for a second, his tone still light but a little more serious now. “Would you like to meet my friends?”

You paused, your heart skipping a beat at the question. A slight anxiety began to crawl up your throat, and you cleared it, trying to sound casual. “Your—um, your work friends?” you asked, though the weight of the moment hung between you.

Spencer nodded, his eyes soft and understanding, as if he could already sense your nerves. "Yeah," he said, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand reassuringly. "The team. They’ve been dying to meet you."

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. The thought of meeting Spencer’s team made your heart race—not just because they were profilers, but because Rossi would likely recognize you. Maybe even Hotch. It had been years since either of them had seen you, but the possibility hung in the air. You weren’t sure if they’d bring it up, and you certainly weren’t ready to share that part of your life with Spencer. Not yet.

But then, you looked into Spencer’s eyes. The genuine excitement and pride he held for you was undeniable. It was clear he wanted this—wanted you to meet the people who were like family to him. The idea of disappointing him tugged at you, and despite the nerves gnawing at your chest, you couldn’t help but smile softly.

He reached across the table, gently squeezing your other hand too, offering comfort in that simple gesture. His eyes searched yours for a moment, as if sensing something in your hesitation but choosing to let it pass, trusting you to open up when you were ready.

The thought of Spencer’s trust in you helped calm some of the swirling anxiety. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to push aside the weight of your past for now.

You took a deep breath, forcing a small smile. "I’d love to meet them," you said, though you could still feel the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

Spencer’s smile widened, his eyes lighting up. “You’re going to love them,” he assured you, his voice full of warmth. “And they’re going to love you too."

Later that evening, Spencer’s fingers traced gentle circles along your back, his touch soothing as you lay against his chest, both of you perfectly relaxed. The quiet of the evening had settled around you, a comfortable silence, until Spencer broke it with a question that caught you off guard.

“Do you have a job?” he asked.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sudden bluntness of the question. “What?”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed as he quickly realized how it sounded. “I mean,” he corrected, his voice softer, “you never talk about work, and I—I’ve never seen you go to work. Do you work?”

You smiled, lifting your chin from his chest so you could look up at him, your gaze meeting his. “Yes, I have a job, Spencer.”

He looked down at you with his brows raised, making his chin tuck in a way that was so adorably endearing you had to fight the urge to kiss him right there. “Well, do tell, baby.”

The way he said "baby" sent a rush through you, making your heart skip and your core tighten. The new pet name caught you by surprise, and you could feel your pulse quicken. You wanted to answer his question, but something inside you hesitated. The job you had wasn’t something you brought up often, and certainly not something that most people would take lightly.

You bit your lip, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on Spencer's chest as you considered your answer. “What if you think differently of me?” you teased, giving him a playful look.

Spencer chuckled softly, catching onto your teasing tone. “Depends on how you answer,” he joked back, his eyes twinkling. “But no, I would never judge you.”

You sighed dramatically, feigning annoyance. “Okay… fine,” you said, pausing for effect. “I’m a cybersecurity analyst. I just work from home.”

Spencer's face lit up with curiosity. “A cybersecurity analyst? That’s amazing,” he said, his voice full of admiration. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

You shrugged, still grinning at how smoothly it had gone. “It’s not that exciting,” you replied, feeling relieved that you could finally share a bit of your work with him. "I just stare at a screen all day."

Spencer shook his head, a genuine smile on his face. “I think it's fascinating. But I guess you're right, staring at a screen is definitely something I can relate to." His fingers resumed their gentle strokes along your back, his gaze warm.

“I didn’t mean to keep it a secret,” you said softly, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest. “I just don’t have that much to talk about. I don’t interact with anyone all day long.”

Spencer smiled, his eyes full of understanding. “It’s okay, Red,” he said, stroking his finger gently down the bridge of your nose in a soothing gesture. “You know, my friend Penelope does something similar.”

“Really?” you perked up, excitement bubbling up at the thought of having something in common with someone in Spencer’s world. Your aunt had never mentioned anyone named Penelope before, but this new information intrigued you. “What does she do?”

“She’s a technical analyst for the BAU,” Spencer explained, a fondness creeping into his tone as he spoke about Penelope. “She handles all the tech and cyber stuff for us—tracking data, finding digital footprints, that sort of thing.”

Your eyes lit up at the mention of her role. “That sounds so cool! Maybe we could exchange tips,” you laughed, already imagining the kind of work Penelope must be involved in.

“I’m so glad you want to meet them,” Spencer said softly, his voice full of relief and excitement. He breathed deeply, the rise and fall of his chest gently lifting you with each inhale. His hand stroked your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles as he looked at you with warmth and affection. “You mean so much to me,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper, like he was letting you in on a secret. “I can’t wait to show you off.”

Your heart swelled at his words, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you. Spencer, who was usually so careful with his emotions, was being completely vulnerable with you now. It made your connection feel even deeper, like you were sharing something truly special.

You smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly, your lips brushing his. “I can’t wait either,” you whispered against his mouth, feeling more at ease about meeting his team.

Spencer chuckled softly, shaking his head, still in disbelief at how elated he felt. The emotions swirling in his chest were too much to hold back, and before either of you could say another word, he closed the distance between you. His lips met yours in a deep, tender kiss, full of all the feelings he hadn’t yet put into words.

The kiss was different this time—more intense, more meaningful. You could feel the depth of Spencer's emotions through the way his hands gently cupped your face, the way he kissed you like he was afraid to ever let you go. It wasn’t just desire, but something deeper, something sweeter, like the connection between you both had finally settled into something undeniable.

Your hands found their way to his hair, fingers threading through the soft curls as you kissed him back just as deeply, wanting him to feel how much you cared too. The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

When Spencer finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath. His eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at you with such affection that your heart skipped a beat. "I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before," he admitted softly, his voice full of awe.

You smiled, your thumb gently brushing against his cheek. "Me neither," you whispered back, and in that moment, everything felt right.

—

Hotch stood across from Erin Strauss, her expression cold and unforgiving as she paced behind her desk. Her gaze was sharp, and Hotch could already tell where the conversation was headed.

“I’ve reviewed Agent Reid’s file,” Strauss said abruptly, her voice laced with disdain. She stopped pacing and folded her arms. “His performance has been... inconsistent, to say the least. And given his past—” She let the sentence hang, as though expecting Hotch to fill in the blanks.

Hotch’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression impassive. “Reid is one of the best agents I have. His mind is invaluable to this team.”

Strauss’s eyes narrowed, dismissing his defense with a wave of her hand. “That’s not enough to excuse what he’s been through. His history with drugs, Hotch. We can't ignore it.”

“He’s been clean for years,” Hotch stated firmly, his voice steady though his frustration was clear. “Reid has worked harder than anyone to get past that.”

Strauss leaned forward, her fingers tapping the desk. “I’m not here to argue his work ethic. I’m here because I’m questioning whether Agent Reid can continue to perform in the field without becoming a liability.”

Hotch felt a surge of anger but swallowed it back. “He hasn’t shown any signs of relapse.”

“Not yet,” Strauss shot back. “But the risk is always there. And we can’t afford risks like him, not in a unit as high profile as the BAU.”

Hotch crossed his arms, his posture firm. “He’s earned his place. Whatever you’re insinuating—”

“I’m not insinuating,” she cut him off, her voice icy. “I’m telling you how this is going to go. From now on, Reid will be subjected to mandatory drug tests. Monthly.” She emphasized the last word, her expression hard. “If there are any slip-ups, any signs of relapse, even the faintest suspicion, he’s out.”

Hotch’s gaze darkened. “That’s unnecessary.”

Strauss tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk, her icy demeanor unwavering as she continued to challenge Hotch. “You’re defending him again,” she said sharply, eyes narrowing. “Just like you always do. Every time Reid’s decision-making is called into question, it’s you who steps in to justify it. How many times has he put the team at risk with his recklessness, his… emotional judgments? And every time, you shield him.”

Hotch held her gaze, his face impassive though his patience was wearing thin. “Reid’s decisions are not reckless. He’s a profiler, just like the rest of us. Sometimes we have to make judgment calls, and Reid—despite his past, despite his personal struggles—makes the right ones more often than not.”

Strauss leaned back in her chair, folding her arms, her expression one of disbelief. “Judgment calls? That’s your defense? We can’t afford judgment calls, Aaron. Not when we’re dealing with murderers, terrorists, and serial predators. Reid’s personal issues cloud his judgment, and that makes him a risk.”

Hotch stepped forward, his voice firm but calm. “We work in the field. Every agent makes judgment calls—myself included. We don’t always have the luxury of time or all the facts laid out perfectly for us. Reid has an exceptional mind, and when he’s under pressure, he performs. Yes, he’s made mistakes, but so have all of us. He’s saved more lives than I can count.”

Strauss’ eyes flashed with irritation. “But his mistakes could have cost lives, Aaron. And you know that. How many times has he hesitated, overthought, or even worse, let his emotions dictate his actions? You’ve had to justify his choices to me and other superiors more times than you should have.”

Hotch’s face remained unreadable, but his voice grew harder. “I justify his decisions because they are the right ones. When you’re in the field, in a life-or-death situation, you need someone like Reid—a man who can think faster than anyone else in the room. His ability to process information, to read people, is unmatched.”

Strauss shook her head, her frustration boiling over. “You call it unmatched. I call it unstable. His mind may be brilliant, but it’s fragile. You can’t deny that. And you can’t keep making excuses for him. This is a dangerous game, and the stakes are too high for mistakes.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not unstable. He’s human. Every member of this team has had to make decisions under pressure, sometimes with incomplete information, and Reid is no different.”

“But he is different,” Strauss countered, her voice cutting through the room. “He’s the one who’s been to rehab. He’s the one who struggles with dependency. And let’s not forget the mental strain he’s been under for years. The rest of your team—Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi—they’re reliable. Reid, on the other hand, is unpredictable.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone measured. “He’s faced more than most of us could handle, and he’s come out the other side stronger. I trust him with my life, and so does the team.”

Strauss leaned forward, her gaze cold. “I don’t. And that’s why this is non-negotiable, Hotch. Monthly drug tests. If he slips, if there’s even a hint of a problem, he’s out. I will not tolerate another incident where I have to clean up his mess because you think his ‘judgment calls’ are excusable.”

Hotch stared at her for a long moment, the tension palpable. “And what happens when you push him out and lose one of the best agents this Bureau has ever had?”

Strauss didn’t blink. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

The silence hung heavy between them, and Hotch realized no amount of reasoning would sway her.

Hotch left Strauss’s office, the tension from their conversation still lingering in the back of his mind. He didn’t like this any more than Spencer would, but Strauss had made her decision, and now it was up to him to break the news. The whole situation felt like a slap in the face to Spencer’s progress, and Hotch knew the young agent wouldn’t take it well.

Hotch found Spencer in the bullpen, hunched over some files, lost in thought. The usual furrow of concentration on his brow lifted as he glanced up and saw Hotch approaching.

"Hey, Hotch," Spencer greeted with a faint smile, but Hotch could see the weariness behind it. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest as he sat down across from him.

"Spencer, we need to talk," Hotch said, his tone more serious than usual.

Spencer’s smile faded, replaced by a look of curiosity, then mild concern. "What’s going on?"

Hotch exhaled, running a hand over his face before speaking. "Strauss is implementing new protocols. Effective immediately, you’ll be subjected to monthly drug tests."

Spencer blinked, his expression falling into confusion. "What? Why now? I haven’t used in four years, Hotch. I thought all of that was behind us."

Hotch leaned forward, his voice calm but steady. "I know, and I’ve made that clear to her. You’ve been clean for years, and we all see the progress you’ve made. But Strauss doesn’t trust that your addiction won’t resurface. She’s convinced that you're still a liability."

Spencer’s face twisted in frustration, and his hands fidgeted on the desk in front of him. He let out a breath, shaking his head. "I don’t understand. I’ve done everything right. I’ve proven myself. Why does she still think I’m going to screw up?"

Hotch looked at him sympathetically. "This isn’t about you, Spencer. It’s about Strauss’s own perception."

Spencer clenched his fists, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "I thought… I thought we were past all of that. Four years clean, Hotch. Four years. And she still sees me as a ticking time bomb."

Hotch’s gaze softened. "I know it’s unfair, and I wish I could change it. But Strauss has the power to enforce this protocol. I fought for you, Spencer. I’ll always fight for you. But this is one battle I couldn’t win."

Spencer leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he processed the information. The frustration and hurt in his eyes were evident. "Why does she hate me so much?" he muttered, more to himself than to Hotch. "Why am I always the one who has to prove myself over and over again?"

Hotch didn’t have an answer for that. Strauss’s animosity toward Spencer had always been unwarranted, and no matter how hard Spencer worked, it seemed she would never let go of the past.

"You’re not alone in this," Hotch said quietly, his voice firm. "The team knows how far you’ve come. We trust you. And we’ll make sure this doesn’t interfere with your work."

Spencer nodded, though the disappointment was still etched on his face. "I just don’t get it. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. Why can’t she see that?"

Hotch reached across the desk, resting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. "Because people like Strauss only see the risks, not the person. But we see you, Spencer. Don’t let her take that away from you."

Spencer offered a small, grateful smile, though the frustration still lingered in his eyes. He had been through enough, and this just felt like one more hurdle to jump.

As Hotch walked away, Spencer sat there, staring at the papers in front of him. He had thought the worst was behind him—that his addiction, his past struggles, were finally over. But now, with Strauss breathing down his neck, it felt like he was back at square one. And no matter how hard he worked, how far he came, there was always someone like Strauss, waiting to drag him back down.

—

“Spencer!” you screeched from your bedroom, the urgency in your voice sending Spencer into an instant state of panic. He rushed in, his mind racing, worried something terrible had happened.

But when he burst through the door, what greeted him was not a disaster—well, not the kind he had imagined. You were sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by heaps of clothes, wearing nothing but your bra and underwear. The sight made him chuckle, though he was also slightly flustered, his cheeks tinged pink at the sight of you in so little.

“What’s up, Red?” Spencer asked, trying to keep his voice steady despite how his heart raced.

You looked up at him, pouting, clearly distressed. Spencer, in his cozy sweatpants and hoodie, looked perfectly at ease while you were caught in a whirlwind of indecision. “I don’t know what to wear tonight,” you groaned, gesturing helplessly at the mountain of clothes surrounding you.

Spencer chuckled again, stepping further into the room. “Y/N, we’re not even meeting them for…” he checked his watch and raised his brow, “five hours!”

“I knowww,” you whined, your voice petulant as you flopped back dramatically onto the floor. “But I want to make a good impression.”

Spencer couldn’t help but smile at how adorably worked up you were. He crouched down beside you, his eyes warm as he gazed at your scattered wardrobe. “You could show up in a garbage bag, and they’d still love you,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. “Trust me, you don’t need to stress.”

You sighed, sitting back up and grabbing a blouse. “Easy for you to say,” you mumbled, holding the shirt up. “You look good in everything.”

Spencer laughed softly, his fingers brushing against your cheek before leaning in to kiss the top of your head. “You’ll look amazing no matter what you wear. And honestly, they’re just excited to meet the person who’s made me so happy.”

You looked up at him, his words warming your heart. “You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Spencer smiled. “That’s what you keep telling me.” He glanced down at the pile of clothes again. “Now, let’s figure out what outfit makes you feel as amazing as you are.”

After a lot of playful back and forth, Spencer finally helped you choose an outfit, and you couldn’t be more grateful to have the sweetest man alive by your side. You stood in your room, back in your bra and underwear, having set out the outfit for later, a black dress with red tights, duh. As you got ready, your heart swelled with affection for him—your boyfriend, the man who already seemed to know how to calm your nerves.

Standing in front of him, you ran your hands up Spencer’s chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie. With a teasing smile, you tugged gently on the strings of his hoodie, pulling him closer. “Can I show you how much I appreciate you, handsome?” you whispered, your voice playful but filled with sincerity.

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly at your words, his cheeks flushing a light pink. He was always so adorably flustered when you teased him like this. But he smiled softly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your lips, his hands resting on your waist. “You already do,” he murmured against your lips, but there was no mistaking the way his breath hitched, betraying just how much he wanted you.

“Mm, but I want to really show you,” you breathed softly, your hands dropping to the waistband of Spencer’s sweats. His breath hitched immediately at the sensation of your fingers lightly teasing beneath the fabric, brushing against the coarse hair below.

“Wh—what did you have in mind?” he asked, his voice shaky as he struggled to keep his composure.

You smiled up at him, letting your fingers explore just a little, before you slowly began lowering yourself to your knees. “Well… I could tell you,” you said playfully, your voice dropping to a whisper, “or I could show you.”

Spencer’s breathing became ragged, his chest rising and falling with heaving breaths as he tried to process what was happening. “Oh my god, uh…” he stammered, clearly caught off guard by the sudden intensity.

You firmly grasped the waistband of his sweats then, looking up at him for permission. “Can I?” you asked gently, always making sure he was comfortable.

Spencer didn’t respond right away. His voice was quiet, almost apologetic as he confessed, “I’ve never—no one has…”

You immediately understood, pulling your hands back gently. “Oh baby, we don’t have to,” you said softly, standing up and placing a reassuring hand on his cheek.

Spencer looked at you with gratitude and an apology in his eyes. “Maybe later?” he offered, his tone tentative but sincere. “We… we need to get ready.”

You smiled warmly, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Of course,” you whispered. There was no need to push or rush anything. You had plenty of time, and you’d always respect his boundaries.

Later, after you and Spencer had finished getting ready, you couldn’t help but feel a bit pent up. Spencer looked good earlier, but now? Now, he looked downright irresistible. His button-down shirt paired with a checkered sweater vest, and those slacks—hugging him just right—had you practically drooling. But with Spencer’s earlier discomfort, you held your tongue, not wanting to push things too soon.

After a quick kiss and a quiet pep talk, the two of you were outside, hailing a cab to meet his team at the bar. Your nerves were still buzzing. You were excited for Spencer, but the thought of someone recognizing you, of someone saying something, kept you on edge. You wanted to be the best partner to him, especially with how proud he was to introduce you to everyone.

As you approached the table, your nerves flared even more, but you plastered on a confident smile. Sitting around the table were Derek, Emily, JJ, and Penelope, all of whom greeted you warmly, each with their own playful digs at Spencer.

“Well, well,” Derek grinned, leaning back in his chair as he gave Spencer a once-over. “Pretty Boy wasn’t kidding when he said he was smitten.”

Emily raised an eyebrow, smirking as she gave you a friendly once-over. “Wow, Reid. No wonder you’ve been so secretive. I would’ve kept this hidden too.”

JJ nudged Penelope, who had stars in her eyes. “I’m so happy you’re real!” Penelope practically squealed. “I thought for sure Spencer was making you up.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, laughing, as he proudly introduced you to his team, visibly glowing from how much they seemed to like you right off the bat.

You smiled, feeling more at ease, though still a bit on edge as you scanned the room. No sign of Hotch or Rossi—thank god, you thought, allowing yourself a moment to relax.

But just as you were about to take a seat, you heard it—the unmistakable voice from behind you. “Reid, is this your lady?” Rossi’s voice carried through the bar, calm and curious.

You froze, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks as you turned, your breath catching in your throat. As your eyes met Rossi’s, you immediately saw it—the flicker of recognition. Then, as you glanced at Hotch standing next to him, it was unmistakable. They both recognized you.

Your heart pounded as you pleaded with your eyes, hoping Rossi would get the message. Please, don’t say anything.

Spencer, none the wiser, smiled brightly as he introduced you. “Yes! Rossi, Hotch—this is Y/N.”

You extended your hand, swallowing your nerves as you greeted them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Rossi took your hand, his grip warm and familiar as he gave you a knowing look. But instead of saying anything, he squeezed your hand gently and winked. "The pleasure is all mine," he said smoothly, his voice betraying nothing.

You breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that for now, your secret was safe.

Hotch nodded politely, his expression neutral but his eyes scanning you, clearly making a mental note of the situation. But just like Rossi, he remained silent on the matter.

Spencer, completely oblivious, continued chatting with the group, beaming with pride as he showed you off to the people who mattered most to him. You smiled along, feeling the weight lift slightly, knowing that at least for now, your past could stay buried.

As the drinks flowed and the night progressed, you found yourself thoroughly enjoying the company of Spencer’s team. They were warm, welcoming, and great fun to be around, making it easier for you to relax. Even Hotch and Rossi, after the initial awkwardness, had lightened up, joining in the laughter and the storytelling.

It was a blast hearing them tease Spencer, recounting funny case stories and little moments from their years together. You were especially enjoying the bond you were forming with Penelope, both of you gushing over your shared love for tech and quickly finding an easy rhythm with one another. You felt like you’d made an instant friend.

But with every sip of your drink, your attention kept drifting back to Spencer. He just looked so good, sitting there, his eyes a little hooded from the alcohol, his jaw clenching as he excitedly explained some complex theory to Emily. His hands moved with purpose, fingers waving as he passionately discussed whatever topic he was on. The sight of him like that—so animated, so him—had desire steadily building in the pit of your stomach.

You bit your lip, watching him for a moment before giving in to temptation. Slowly, you slid your hand onto his thigh under the table, your fingers curling around him firmly. Spencer jolted slightly, his conversation with Emily stuttering as he tried to refocus.

He coughed lightly, glancing at you with wide eyes before quickly turning back to Emily, pretending to concentrate on the conversation while clearly trying to ignore your wandering hand.

But you weren’t making it easy for him. You smirked slightly, your thumb stroking slow circles against his thigh, inching closer. You could see the tension in his posture, how he was trying desperately to maintain his composure while you toyed with him.

Spencer stammered again, shooting you a look that was half warning, half pleading, but he couldn’t stop the flush creeping up his neck. His jaw tightened, and he shifted slightly in his seat, clearly struggling to keep it together as your touch continued to drive him wild beneath the table.

Spencer was briefly rescued by an unsung hero—Rossi.

“I’m going to get another drink,” Rossi announced, his tone casual as he looked in your direction. “Y/N, yours is looking light. Care to come with?” The look he gave you left no room for arguing. It was more of a command than an offer.

You nodded and stood, following him to the bar, your heart pounding. Once you were there, away from the laughter and teasing at the table, Rossi’s expression shifted. The warmth he usually radiated had cooled into something far more serious, almost stern.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Rossi asked, cutting straight to the point.

You sighed, leaning against the bar. “Not yet.”

Rossi’s glare was sharp, filled with concern rather than judgment. “You need to tell him, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a weight to his words you couldn’t brush off. “Come on, David. It’s not like it’s life or death.”

“No, it’s not,” Rossi agreed, his voice calm but firm. “But it’s going to matter to him. Especially now that you know. The longer you wait, the worse it gets.”

You hated how right he was. You hated that every day you kept this secret, the weight of it grew heavier. “I know,” you admitted, the frustration clear in your voice. “But what if he doesn’t want to be with me anymore? What if it changes everything?”

Rossi’s expression softened slightly, his sternness giving way to understanding. “Spencer isn’t like that,” he said quietly. “But he values honesty. Keeping this from him… it’ll hurt him more than the truth ever will. If he finds out later, he’ll feel betrayed. And you don’t want that, do you?”

You shook your head, staring down at the drink the bartender had just handed you. “No, I don’t.”

Rossi placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I know it’s scary,” he said softly. “But trust me—Spencer cares about you. He’ll understand. You just have to give him the chance to.”

You nodded slowly, taking a deep breath as the weight of the conversation settled in. You knew what you had to do, but the thought of it still sent a nervous chill down your spine.

Rossi gave you a reassuring squeeze. “Better sooner than later, kiddo.” Then, with a wink, he turned to head back to the table, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a moment.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what lay ahead.

When you returned to Spencer’s side, he didn’t even notice that you hadn’t come back with a drink. Instead, he smiled brightly and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. The warmth of his body instantly soothed you, but the mistake became apparent as soon as you breathed in his scent—clean, warm, and undeniably Spencer. The hunger inside you flared up tenfold, and you had to fight to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

Derek, of course, seized the moment, grinning mischievously from across the table. “Did Spencer tell you about the time a famous actress kissed him?”

Your eyebrows shot up, intrigued but also curious to see Spencer’s reaction. “What?” you asked with a teasing smile, nudging Spencer lightly. “No, he conveniently left that part out.”

Spencer flushed instantly, his arm tightening slightly around you as he groaned. “Oh god, not this story,” he muttered, glaring at Derek.

“Oh, come on, Pretty Boy,” Derek laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re basically a celebrity yourself for that one.”

You looked up at Spencer, eyes wide with curiosity. “I have to hear this,” you said, trying to keep the playful edge in your voice despite how distracted you felt by his proximity.

Spencer sighed, clearly embarrassed. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he said quickly, as if trying to brush it off.

Derek scoffed, shaking his head as if Spencer’s modesty was the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all night. “Not a big deal? Reid here was pulled into a swimming pool. She basically mounted him.”

You laughed, eyes widening in disbelief. “What?!”

Spencer buried his face in his hands, shaking his head in defeat, while Derek grinned like the cat that got the cream. "Yep, and the best part? The paparazzi caught the whole thing."

“There are pictures on the internet!” Penelope chimed in cheerfully, as if offering you a goldmine of information. "I saved them to my phone!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your curiosity piqued even more. “Oh, I have to see these.”

Spencer groaned, leaning back in his seat, his face flushed red. “Please don’t encourage them,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement tugging at his lips.

Derek leaned forward, enjoying every moment of Spencer’s discomfort. “Oh no, Y/N, you definitely need to look it up. It’s a classic ‘Reid in over his head’ moment. He’s all wet, confused, and awkward—it’s priceless.”

Penelope nodded eagerly. “He tried to escape, but the actress wouldn’t let him go. She had him trapped!”

You were laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. “Oh my god, Spencer,” you giggled, leaning against him. “How did I not know about this sooner?”

Spencer, though clearly embarrassed, finally cracked a smile. “I didn’t think it was relevant,” he mumbled, shooting Derek and Penelope a half-hearted glare.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Derek teased. “Don’t let him fool you, Y/N. She was all over him.”

You giggled, poking Spencer’s side playfully. “Why do I feel like I’m going to need more details later?”

Spencer groaned again, but there was a small, sheepish smile on his face as he squeezed your shoulder. “We’ll talk about it… eventually,” he muttered.

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning into him again, the tension from earlier melting away slightly as you enjoyed the moment with him and his team. For now, the weight of your secret could wait just a little longer.

The group finally decided to call it a night, but you were buzzing with excitement, eager to get Spencer alone—all to yourself. Both of you had stopped drinking hours ago, switching to water to avoid any hangovers, but the anticipation had been steadily building.

As soon as you climbed into the back of a cab together, your hand instinctively returned to Spencer’s thigh, your fingers squeezing appreciatively as they traced the thick muscle. You weren't planning on doing anything more, especially in public, but the closeness only fueled the fire inside you.

The cab ride felt longer than usual, the tension simmering between you two in the dim light of the backseat. Spencer seemed to notice it too, his eyes meeting yours in silent understanding.

But once you had Spencer inside your front door, all restraint vanished. You pushed him against a bare wall with urgency, your hands gripping his lithe waist as your lips found his neck, planting hot, hungry kisses along his skin.

"Y/N?" Spencer gasped, his voice strained with both surprise and desire. His breath hitched as your teeth grazed his pulse. "What’s gotten into you?"

You didn’t answer right away, too focused on the taste of his skin and the way his body responded to every touch. Instead, you kissed your way up to his mouth, pressing yourself against him. Between breaths, you mumbled against his lips, “Hopefully you.”

Spencer let out a low groan, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you even closer. “I’m not sure I can resist you right now,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, already losing the battle against the pull you had over him.

You grinned against his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair as the kiss deepened, the heat between you both simmering to a near-boiling point. “Please don’t resist,” you whispered against his lips, your voice low and filled with need. “You looked so fucking hot tonight.”

Spencer’s breath hitched, and before he could respond, you dropped to your knees in front of him, your hand pressing against the growing hardness in his slacks. The pressure of your touch made him buck his hips forward instinctively, his eyes widening as the sensation shot through him.

“Is this okay now?” you asked, your voice breathy with desire as you looked up at him, your hand still teasing him through the fabric. “Please, Spencer. Please, I need to taste you.”

His mind raced, a jumble of thoughts and emotions, but all of them led to the same conclusion—how could he say no when you asked him like that, when the hunger in your eyes matched his own? He nodded frantically, too overwhelmed to form proper words, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

As your fingers deftly worked to undo his belt and the button of his slacks, Spencer let out a shaky breath, his hands bracing against the wall behind him for support. He was already losing himself to the intensity of the moment, the anticipation building with every second.

Spencer swallowed hard, his nerves apparent as he shifted slightly under your touch. “What, um, what do I do?” he asked nervously, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

You smiled up at him like a vixen, your lips brushing over the now-exposed skin of his thighs, teasingly close to where he wanted you most. His breath hitched as you nosed along the front of his briefs, the friction sending a shudder through him that made him whimper.

Sticking your tongue out, you traced him through the fabric, feeling the heat radiating through it, and looked up at him with playful intent. “Try not to make me gag,” you teased, your voice low and sultry. “Pull my hair if you like… and let me know when you’re going to come.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, the tension and excitement evident in his expression. His grip on the wall tightened as he nodded, trying to follow your instructions, but the way you spoke and the feeling of your tongue against him had him unraveling already.

The moment was intoxicating, your playful control over him leaving him helpless as he tried to hold it together. Every touch, every word, was pushing him closer to the edge, and he could hardly believe this was happening.

As you pulled off the last barrier, Spencer’s briefs sliding down, you couldn’t help but grin like you’d just unwrapped the most perfect present. You’d seen him naked before, but this was different—having his hard cock right in front of you, so close, filled you with an intoxicating sense of control and desire.

You licked your lips, savoring the moment, leaning down to press a soft kiss against his head, tasting him for the first time. Spencer’s breath hitched, his back instinctively pulling away from the wall as a wave of sensation coursed through him. His hands found their way into your hair, his grip hesitant at first but growing more confident as the pleasure built.

When you finally wrapped your lips around him, Spencer’s entire body reacted, his hands tugging at your hair, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. He was already a mess, and you’d barely begun.

Pulling back for just a moment, you looked up at him with a wicked glint in your eyes and whispered, “Good boy.”

The praise hit him like a freight train, his hips bucking slightly as he let out a pathetic, needy whimper in response. He was completely at your mercy, lost in the sensation, and he didn’t care how desperate he sounded. Every touch, every word from you was pushing him further under, and he wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment, completely overwhelmed by you.

You leaned back in, taking him into your mouth again, more confident now that you’d seen his reactions. Spencer’s hands tightened in your hair as his body arched, his control slowly unraveling with each passing second. You could feel the tension building in him, hear the way his breath quickened, shaky and unsteady, as he tried to hold back.

Every movement you made seemed to push him further toward the edge. The way you hollowed your cheeks, the small flicks of your tongue, the pressure—everything was driving him wild. His hips bucked involuntarily, but you were ready for it, holding him steady as you took him deeper.

“Y/N…” he gasped, barely able to find his voice. His breathing was ragged now, and he was doing everything he could to hold on. “I’m close…”

You hummed around him in response, the vibrations almost sending him over the edge. He tightened his grip in your hair, his hips stuttering as he let out a broken moan, his body trembling from the intensity of it all.

“God, darling…” Spencer whimpered, his voice barely a whisper as he prepared to ride out the waves of pleasure, his head falling back against the wall.

Spencer’s breath hitched as you pulled back suddenly, leaving him teetering on the edge without release. His body betrayed him, a desperate whine escaping his lips as he thrashed lightly against the wall, trying to chase the pleasure you’d just denied him.

You placed a firm hand on his hip, grounding him, while your other hand came up to stroke him slowly, teasingly. "Over so soon, baby?" you asked, your voice laced with amusement, watching his reactions closely.

“I’m—” he hiccuped, barely able to get the words out, “I’m sorry, it just feels so good.”

You arched an eyebrow, teasing him further. “Thought you weren’t a virgin, Spence?”

His face flushed deep red, his breath ragged and uneven as he struggled to focus. “I’m n—not,” he stammered, his words tumbling over themselves as he tried to speak while your hand brought him back to the brink. “Just hav—ah—haven’t had this before.”

Your strokes were slow and deliberate, torturous in the best way, and you leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his tip. “Is it too much for you?” you whispered softly, your voice low and seductive.

Spencer shook his head frantically, biting his lip as he tried to hold back. “No… no, I—I don’t want you to stop,” he gasped, his hands instinctively gripping your hair tighter, his fingers digging into your scalp as he tried to anchor himself. “Please…”

You smiled at his response, watching as he lost himself to the sensations, barely able to hold on as you continued to push him further. “Good,” you murmured, “because I’m not done with you yet.”

Spencer's entire body was trembling under your touch, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as you continued to stroke him with slow, deliberate movements. His head was thrown back against the wall, his chest heaving with the effort it took to hold himself together.

You smirked, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed, completely at your mercy. His desperation was palpable, and it made you want to push him further—to see just how much he could take.

“You look so good like this,” you whispered, your voice filled with both praise and desire. “Completely undone for me.”

Spencer’s hips jerked slightly in response, and he whimpered again, barely able to form words as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. “Y/N, please,” he gasped, his voice shaky. “I—I can’t—”

You leaned in closer, pressing your lips against his hip, kissing and biting lightly as you kept your hand moving at a torturous pace. “What do you want, Spence?” you asked softly, your breath warm against his skin.

Spencer’s voice broke as he whimpered, his words nearly a plea. “You—your mouth, please,” he begged, his body trembling, the desperation in his tone unmistakable. He was so close to the edge, and you could tell he was barely holding himself together.

You smiled softly, relishing the power you had over him in this moment. “Okay, baby,” you whispered, your voice laced with both affection and desire. “You’ve been so good for me… you can have whatever you want.”

Without wasting another moment, and your hand still gently stroking him, you placed a soft kiss on his tip. You looked up at him through your lashes, watching as his entire body shuddered in anticipation. His hands tightened in your hair again after losing their grip, and you could feel how tightly he was holding on, as if letting go would make him lose control completely.

Slowly, you took him into your mouth, savoring the salty taste and the way his body reacted immediately. Spencer’s head fell back against the wall, a strangled moan escaping his lips as his hips instinctively pushed forward, gagging you.

“You’re so good,” he gasped, his voice breathless as he struggled to keep his composure. “So, so good…”

The praise only made you work harder, hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper, determined to give him exactly what he asked for. Spencer’s body trembled under your touch, and you could feel the tension building rapidly, his breaths becoming shorter and more erratic with each passing second.

“Y/N, I—” he managed to choke out, his hands tightening in your hair. “I’m gonna—”

You didn’t pull away this time. You kept going, your pace quickening and your other hand cupping his balls as you brought him right to the edge, determined to take him all the way.

And then, with a final, desperate moan, Spencer came undone completely, his body trembling as he released into your mouth, his grip on your hair tightening for a moment before he released it completely collapsed back against the wall, utterly spent.

You pulled away slowly, wiping the corner of your mouth with a smirk as you looked up at him. Spencer’s chest was still heaving, his eyes half-lidded and dazed, a blissful smile tugging at his lips.

But then Spencer’s eyes widened in panic, and his face flushed with embarrassment. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—to… in your mouth!”

You giggled, your mouth still full, shaking your head affectionately at his reaction. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you stuck out your tongue to show him exactly what he had done. Spencer’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, his breath hitching as he took in the sight.

He felt lightheaded, especially when you casually closed your mouth and, in one smooth motion, swallowed. “Jesus,” he breathed, his voice barely audible, the raw intensity of the moment catching up to him.

You grinned wickedly. “Just me, baby,” you winked, laughing as you stood up on slightly wobbly legs, your body still buzzing with the energy of the moment.

Before you could stumble, Spencer’s hands reached out to catch you, steadying you against him. “Whoa, careful, Bambi,” he teased, his voice finally regaining some steadiness.

You narrowed your eyes playfully at his comment, your smile still bright. “I could say the same,” you said, your gaze flicking downward where the hardness of him was pressing into your stomach. “Or should I call you Pinocchio? Again, Spence, really?"

Spencer’s face flushed again, and he laughed awkwardly, his hands tightening around your waist. “I—uh—yeah, sorry about that. It’s just…” he trailed off, looking sheepish as he tried to explain. “You’re kind of… really hot.”

You laughed softly, kissing Spencer sweetly on the lips. But just as you pulled away, Spencer abruptly jerked back, his eyes wide with alarm. “What?” you asked, confused by his sudden reaction.

“You have—me! In your mouth!” he sputtered, looking completely flustered.

You tilted your head, amused by his innocence. “Does that gross you out?” you teased. “Because I think you taste good.”

Spencer flushed even more, which you didn’t think was possible at this point. He stammered, his words tripping over themselves. “I don’t... I don’t know. I’ve just... never thought about it.”

You smiled playfully, shrugging as you turned and sighed dramatically. “Well, you don’t have to kiss me right now, Spence... I guess I’ll just go to bed alone.” Letting your dress fall provocatively from your shoulder, you made your way toward the bedroom, your steps slow and intentional.

Spencer’s mind raced, catching up with the teasing tone in your voice. His heart pounded in his chest as he realized what you were implying. Without hesitation, he scrambled to pull his briefs and pants back up, fastening them quickly before running after you.

“Wait!” he called out, his voice filled with urgency as he reached out to grab your hand, stopping you just before you could disappear into the bedroom.

You turned to face him, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you raised an eyebrow. “Changed your mind?” you asked, your lips curving into a slow smile.

Spencer, still catching his breath, nodded quickly. “I—I’m not letting you go to bed alone,” he said, his voice a mix of determination and longing. “I want to be with you.”

You smiled warmly, pulling him close. “Good answer, baby,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his in a deep, slow kiss, letting him feel how much you wanted him too.

That night, however, the two of you decided to take it slow and just go to bed. You could tell Spencer had done enough exploring for one day, and there was no need to push him further. After all, the night had already been filled with its own excitement.

You handed him a spare toothbrush to keep at your place, something that made Spencer smile shyly. He changed into the sweats he had borrowed earlier, and you both settled into bed, wrapping yourselves in the warmth of each other.

With Spencer nestled against your chest, his head rising and falling gently with your breathing, you kissed the top of his head and sighed contentedly. The moment felt perfect, and you were certain Spencer had already drifted off to sleep when you heard it. The words were so soft, you almost thought you were imagining them.

“I think I'm falling in love with you,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible against your skin.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you blinked, unsure if you’d actually heard it. But the warmth of his words lingered in the air, and you knew it was real. You could feel the way his body tensed slightly, like he was scared of what he’d just confessed, but you couldn’t help the wide, beaming smile that stretched across your face.

Your hand gently stroked his hair as you whispered back, “I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”

Spencer’s body relaxed against yours, and for the first time that night, you both fell asleep with the quiet comfort of knowing you were falling in love—together.

—

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed, your hand reaching out instinctively for Spencer, but finding only cool sheets. A flash of panic surged through you until you heard his voice, faint but audible, coming from down the hall. You couldn’t make out the words, but there was a tension in his tone, a heaviness that made your chest tighten.

You slipped out of bed, still groggy, and padded quietly to the door, opening it just enough to see Spencer standing in the living room. The morning sunlight bathed him in a soft, golden glow, highlighting the slump in his shoulders. He was on the phone, and even though his voice was low, you could tell he was upset.

When he heard the door creak open, he quickly wrapped up the conversation. “Hotch, I gotta go. Yeah. Bye,” he said, his tone clipped as he hung up.

You took a tentative step toward him, concern lacing your voice as you asked, “You okay?”

Spencer turned to face you, and without hesitation, he let his body fall into yours. His chin rested gently on the top of your head as he let out a deep, weary sigh. "Yeah," he muttered, though you could feel the weight behind his words. "Just work stuff."

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, trying to offer him the comfort he clearly needed. “Do you want to talk about it?” you asked softly, not wanting to push but needing him to know you were there.

“Not right now,” Spencer murmured, pulling back just enough to look down at you. His smile was small but genuine, as if he was trying to reassure you that everything was fine, even if it wasn’t. “I was trying to make coffee, but I couldn’t find your grounds.”

You laughed, the sound lightening the mood just a little. “I use disposable pods, silly.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ahh, that would do it.”

There was a moment of quiet between you as Spencer leaned back into your embrace, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. Even though he wasn’t ready to talk about whatever was bothering him, you knew he appreciated your presence. And for now, that was enough.

Once the coffee was made and the two of you settled into the comfortable chairs on your deck, the soft morning breeze creating a peaceful atmosphere, you knew it was time. Spencer sat beside you, sipping his coffee, lost in thought but content. The silence between you had been comforting, but there was something tugging at you now, something you needed to share.

You glanced over at him, watching how the sunlight danced across his face, and took a deep breath, feeling your heart pick up pace. Breaking the peaceful quiet, you spoke up softly, “Spencer… can I tell you something? About my past? It’s not exactly happy…”

Spencer’s attention immediately shifted to you, his eyes soft but concerned. He set his mug down on the small table beside him, turning his body slightly to face you. “Of course,” he said gently, his voice calm and reassuring. “You can tell me anything.”

You looked down at your hands, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of your coffee cup. It was hard, the idea of opening up this part of yourself, but if you wanted to move forward, to build something real with Spencer, you knew he deserved to know.

“I haven’t been totally honest with you,” you began slowly, your voice faltering slightly. “It’s not that I’ve lied, but… there are things about my past I haven’t told you.”

Spencer’s expression softened, and he reached out, his hand gently covering yours, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on your skin. “Whatever it is, I’m here.”

You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the words you were about to say. Spencer’s hand was still resting on yours, grounding you, giving you the strength to continue.

“When I was thirteen,” you started, your voice low, “I lost both of my parents. It wasn’t... it wasn’t an accident or some freak illness. They both died from drug overdoses.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed in concern, but he didn’t say anything, giving you the space to speak.

“My father had always been an addict. I barely remember a time when he wasn’t using something. He was... abusive. Violent, unpredictable.” You swallowed hard, the memories flashing in your mind like dark clouds. “I lived with my mom most of the time. We tried to keep away from him, hiding from him really. He was dangerous, and my mom did her best to protect us.”

You paused, feeling the lump forming in your throat, but Spencer’s thumb tracing circles on your skin kept you anchored.

“One day, when I was at school, my mom was home. She had called in sick that day, just a flu or something. But somehow, my dad found her. He showed up while I was gone.” Your voice wavered, and you closed your eyes for a second, willing yourself to keep going. “When I came home, I found them both... he had overdosed them. I guess he thought if he was going down, he’d take her with him.”

Spencer’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly, and when you looked up, his eyes were filled with compassion and something else... empathy, perhaps. He didn’t say a word, just let you continue.

“That’s how I found them. Both gone, just... gone.” You could feel your breath hitch as the memories flooded back. “After that, my little sister and I went to live with my aunt. She took us in, gave us a home, but it was never the same. My sister... she couldn’t handle what our father did. She was so young, and it broke her.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but you wiped it away quickly. Spencer leaned closer, his body almost enveloping you with comfort.

“Where is your sister now?” he asked softly, his voice full of concern.

You shook your head, biting your lip to keep it from trembling. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “She got addicted too, a few years later. I tried to help her, but she was... lost. She ran away when she was old enough, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

Spencer looked at you with a pained expression, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice breaking slightly. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you, for both of you.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch. “It was... it still is. But I guess I’m just terrified of the past catching up to me, of losing more people to the same thing.”

Spencer’s thumb gently stroked your hand, silently encouraging you to continue.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you wiped the last trace of tears from your eyes. “I love my aunt dearly,” you said, voice soft but filled with warmth. “She’s an amazing woman. Without her, I don’t know where I’d be... I probably would have ended up in foster care, or worse.”

“She did everything she could to help my sister,” you continued. “Took us both in when she didn’t have to, gave us a home, stability. But... my sister refused treatment, refused help. My aunt tried, I tried, but she just... wouldn’t listen. I think... I think she was too broken by everything that happened.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed as he listened, his eyes reflecting the deep sadness he felt on your behalf. “Your aunt sounds like an incredible person,” he said softly. “She must have cared for you both so much.”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “She did, and she still does. I wouldn’t have made it without her. She never gave up on me, even when things got really dark. But with my sister...” You trailed off, the pain still fresh despite the years. “She just couldn’t reach her, no matter how hard she tried.”

Spencer’s gaze softened even more, and he pulled you a little closer, wrapping his arm around you protectively. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that, Y/N. I wish I could take away that pain for you.”

You leaned into him, letting the warmth of his embrace comfort you. “It’s okay,” you whispered, “I’ve learned to live with it. It’s just hard, knowing that no matter how much love we gave her, my sister couldn’t be saved.”

Spencer pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his voice gentle as he spoke. “You did everything you could. Sometimes... people just aren’t ready to accept help. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t try, or that you didn’t love her enough.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to just breathe. You hadn’t shared this part of yourself with anyone in such a long time, and Spencer’s quiet understanding felt like a balm to your soul.

“She sounds like an incredible woman, your aunt,” Spencer added, squeezing your hand gently. “And so do you.”

You looked at Spencer with tears welling in your eyes, your emotions on full display. “Thank you, Spencer,” you whispered, your voice shaky but filled with gratitude. His thumb gently wiped a tear from underneath your eye, his touch soft and reassuring.

"Not just for listening,” you continued, “but for being you.”

Spencer smiled at you, a deep, affectionate smile that made your heart flutter. His eyes shone with understanding and care, and in that moment, you felt an overwhelming connection between you two. He leaned forward then, kissing you deeply, a kiss full of warmth and unspoken promises.

"Thank you for telling me," he murmured softly, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

You laughed softly, more at yourself than anything, as you wiped away the remnants of your tears. "Okay, whew, that’s that," you said, trying to lighten the mood. "Now you know. We can stop crying now."

Spencer smiled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His eyes flickered with something more, a desire to share, to open up just as you had. “Do you want to know about my parents?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded your head, giving him your full attention, ready to listen just as he had for you.

Spencer sighed deeply, his gaze far away for a moment, as if gathering the words. “My mom… she has schizophrenia. It started when I was really young, and I spent a lot of time trying to understand her illness. It wasn’t easy growing up, knowing she wasn’t like other moms. She was brilliant though, a professor of literature. She used to read to me all the time, teaching me about everything she loved. That’s probably where I get my love for books.”

You listened intently, your heart breaking a little for the boy he once was, trying to make sense of a world so complex and painful.

“My dad left when I was ten,” Spencer continued, his voice quieter now. “He couldn’t handle it anymore—her illness, the responsibility. He just… left. And it was just me and her after that.”

Spencer’s voice wavered slightly, but he stayed composed. “I spent my childhood trying to take care of her, in my own way. She had episodes, but I didn’t want her to go to a hospital, so I hid a lot of it from people. I thought… I thought I could fix it.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. Spencer glanced at you, his expression softening as he took comfort in your presence.

“I’ve made peace with it now,” Spencer said after a beat. “But it wasn’t easy. There were days I felt like I was drowning, trying to take care of her and go to school, trying to make something of myself.” He paused, then added, “She’s in a facility now, getting the care she needs. I visit when I can.”

You sat in silence for a moment, letting his words settle, understanding the depth of his pain and the strength it must have taken to survive such a childhood.

"Thank you for telling me," you whispered, echoing his earlier words. Your thumb brushed against the back of his hand as you gazed at him with admiration. "You’re a wonderful man, Spencer."

He smiled softly, his eyes brimming with affection as he leaned in to kiss your forehead.

When the coffee was finished and the emotional weight of your stories had settled, you both stood up, moving inside together. There was no need for plans, no pressure to fill the day with anything grand. You simply wanted to be together, to spend the day wrapped up in each other’s presence, doing nothing but enjoying the quiet comfort of your shared company.

—

Spencer’s day had started off on a sour note the moment he walked into the testing facility. The thought of being watched during such an intimate, humiliating process had been enough to make his stomach churn. The presence of the other agent, someone he didn’t know, standing nearby as he tried to perform an already uncomfortable task had only worsened his mood.

By the time he returned to the office, Spencer was tense, his nerves frayed from the ordeal. His team—his friends—were used to his occasional bad moods, but this was different. He hated that the drug tests were a constant reminder of a time in his life he’d fought so hard to put behind him, a scar that Strauss and her protocols kept reopening.

Penelope was the first to try and talk to him, her usual bubbly energy shining through as she asked, “Hey, Reid, how was your weekend? Did you spend it with your girl?”

Without thinking, Spencer snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. “I don’t want to talk about it, Penelope.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and he could see the hurt flash across her face before she quickly masked it with a forced smile. He regretted it immediately, but in his irritation, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize right away.

Then, Derek, ever the good friend, set a fresh cup of coffee on Spencer’s desk—a simple gesture of kindness. But when a bit of the coffee spilled over the edge onto his papers, Spencer’s patience snapped again.

“Can you not?” Spencer bit out, glaring at the small mess. “It’s everywhere now, Morgan.”

Derek raised his hands in surrender, clearly not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, alright, take it easy, pretty boy.”

Emily, sensing Spencer’s volatile mood, wisely kept her distance. She’d seen him like this before and knew better than to engage when he was on edge.

JJ, always the nurturer, tried her best to offer a soothing presence. “Spence, are you okay? You seem a little... off today.”

But instead of the comfort she usually brought, her words only stoked the fire. “I’m fine, JJ. Can everyone just stop asking me how I’m doing?”

Her eyes widened, taken aback by his harsh tone, and Spencer immediately felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t mean to lash out, especially at JJ, who was only trying to help. His apology came quickly, but it did little to ease the tension.

“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his frustration pressing down on him. “I just... I’m not in a great place right now.”

Hotch had been watching from his office, observing how Spencer was struggling to keep it together. He knew better than most what Spencer was going through, but it was clear today wasn’t a day Spencer should be in the office.

He walked over to Spencer’s desk, his expression firm but understanding. “Reid, go home.”

Spencer looked up, surprised. “I have work to finish—”

“You can take it with you,” Hotch interrupted, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You need some space. Go home, get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Spencer didn’t fight it. He nodded, collecting his things, knowing that Hotch was right. He wasn’t doing anyone any good by staying, and his snapping at the people who cared about him only made him feel worse.

As he left the office, Spencer felt a weight lift slightly from his shoulders. But the humiliation of the morning still gnawed at him, and he wondered how long this protocol would hang over his head like a dark cloud.

Things only got worse when you texted Spencer on your lunch break, sharing a silly story about a printer mix-up at work. Normally, Spencer would find your anecdotes charming, loving the way you broke them up into several texts as if you were telling the story in person. But today, the constant pinging of his phone was too much for his already frayed nerves.

He stared at the screen, watching the notifications pile up, the sound seeming louder and more grating than usual. The tension from the day—the frustration, the stress, the hidden weight of what he was dealing with—made every ping feel like it was vibrating directly into his skull.

Instead of waiting for more texts to come through, he called you. It wasn’t out of anger, but a desperate need to silence the noise and prevent the headache he felt creeping up.

“Hi, baby!” you answered, your voice bright and cheery, though you sounded a little surprised. “I didn’t realize you were on your phone. Sorry if I was texting too much—”

“I’m home. Hotch let me leave early,” he huffed, his voice sharp and tense, though he hadn’t meant for it to sound so irritated.

“Oh…” you paused, a little concern creeping into your voice. “Are you alright? Are you feeling sick?”

Your genuine worry, which normally would have soothed him, only felt like another weight on his chest today. He wasn’t angry with you, but the frustration that had been building all day finally spilled over.

“I’m fine,” Spencer snapped, his tone harsher than he intended. “I just… I’m having a bad day, okay?”

The line went quiet for a moment. He immediately regretted his words, knowing you didn’t deserve the brunt of his frustration. You hadn’t done anything wrong, and here he was, snapping at you over something as small as a few text messages.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” you said softly, the lightness in your voice replaced with a gentle, understanding tone. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

He sighed, the guilt crashing down on him. You had no idea what he was really dealing with—he hadn’t told you about the drug tests, about Strauss's constant scrutiny. He didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want you to think any less of him, so he kept it all to himself. But now, it was spilling over into how he treated you, and he hated that.

“No, I know. I’m sorry,” Spencer replied, softer now, trying to reign in his frustration. “It’s not you, I just… today’s been rough.”

There was a pause again, your voice gentle when you finally spoke. “Do you want me to come over? We don’t have to talk about it. I can just be there.”

Spencer hesitated. The truth was, part of him wanted you there. He always felt better with you around, your presence grounding him in ways he couldn’t explain. But today, he wasn’t sure if he could handle being around anyone, even you. Not when he felt so close to snapping at the slightest thing.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe… I just need some space right now.”

Your understanding was immediate, though he could hear the slight tinge of hurt in your voice. “Okay, I get it. Just know I’m here if you need anything, alright?”

“Yeah,” Spencer muttered, closing his eyes and trying to push away the guilt and frustration swirling inside him. “Thanks, Y/N.”

When the call ended, Spencer sat in the quiet of his apartment, feeling the weight of his bad day pressing down on him. He knew he should tell you what was going on, but the shame and embarrassment kept him silent. He wanted to feel better, wanted to stop snapping at the people he cared about, but today everything felt… wrong.

—

Rossi stood in Strauss’s office, the door closed behind him, his arms crossed over his chest as he regarded her with a frustrated expression. He had been simmering over this decision for days now, but he knew he had to say something. It was eating at him.

“You know, Erin, I think you went too far this time,” Rossi said, his voice low but firm. “Having Spencer drug tested every month? It’s uncalled for. The kid’s been clean for years now. He’s proven himself.”

Strauss didn’t look up from the file in front of her, her expression unreadable. “David, you of all people should understand why this is necessary.”

“I told you in confidence,” Rossi said, stepping closer to her desk, his voice gaining an edge. “Because of us. Not so you could turn around and use it against him. You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

Strauss finally lifted her eyes to meet his, her expression calm and collected. “I’m trying to protect her.”

Rossi let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You’re punishing him for something that hasn’t even happened. He hasn’t slipped up, and I don’t think he will. He’s stronger than you give him credit for.”

“He’s a liability,” Strauss said firmly, not backing down. “And I’m not going to sit by and wait for him to make a mistake that costs us all more than we’re willing to pay.”

Rossi clenched his jaw, frustrated by her unwillingness to see reason. “You’re not protecting her or the Bureau, Erin. You’re making it harder for him to succeed. You’re putting a target on his back.”

Strauss crossed her arms, her expression unyielding. “Sometimes, David, tough decisions have to be made. Whether or not you agree with them.”

Rossi sighed, knowing the conversation was hitting a dead end. “I just hope you realize what you’re doing before it’s too late.” He gave her one final look, disappointed but unsurprised, before turning on his heel and leaving her office, the tension lingering long after he was gone.

—

Spencer stood there, looking so tired and worn down, and your heart clenched at the sight of him. You could tell he was struggling, and the weight of whatever was on his mind was pressing heavily on his shoulders. You stepped closer, gently touching his arm.

“Spencer?” you asked softly, your voice full of concern.

He looked at you, his gaze softened by exhaustion, and he sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry for how I was yesterday… I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

You shook your head, stepping aside to let him in, your hand reaching for his as you pulled him through the door. “You don’t have to apologize, Spencer. But what’s going on? You’ve been so quiet. I’ve been worried.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes downcast as he stepped into your apartment, letting the warmth of your presence surround him. You led him to the couch, and he collapsed into it with a heavy sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck as if trying to ease the tension that had built there.

“I… I just had a really hard day,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Work stuff. It’s… it’s complicated, and I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

Your concern deepened, but you didn’t want to push him. You could see in his eyes that he was holding something back, something that was clearly eating at him, but if he wasn’t ready to share, you would respect that. You just wanted to be there for him, however he needed.

You nodded softly, sitting down beside him and taking his hand in yours, your thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “Okay. You don’t have to talk about it,” you said gently. “But I’m here. And if you want to just… be, we can do that too.”

Spencer’s shoulders seemed to relax a little at your words, and he let out a small breath, his fingers squeezing yours tightly as if holding on to you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I just… I just want to be with you,” he said quietly, his eyes finally meeting yours, the vulnerability in them breaking your heart. “I don’t want to think about anything else right now. I just want to be here with you.”

You gave him a gentle smile, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Then we’ll just be,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes as you kissed him, letting out a long, shaky breath as he leaned into your touch. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, letting him rest his head on your shoulder. For a long moment, you just held him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

“Thank you,” he murmured after a while, his voice barely audible, but the emotion behind it clear. “For being here.”

You stroked his hair softly, your heart full of love for the man in your arms. “Always, Spencer,” you whispered. “I’m always here.”

And though the weight of his hidden struggles lingered in the air, for now, it was enough to just be together.

The laughter that filled the room later was like music, and for the first time in what felt like days, Spencer felt light again. You were both sprawled out on the couch, popcorn forgotten as Spencer had successfully wrestled you under him, his hands expertly tickling your sides. Your uncontrollable giggles filled the room as you squirmed beneath him, trying to bat his hands away.

“Spence!” you squealed, your voice rising in playful desperation. “Stop! I can’t—”

He laughed, his own amusement bubbling up as he leaned down, pressing quick, ticklish kisses along your neck and cheeks, making you squirm even more.

“What?” he teased, pretending not to hear you, his voice lighthearted and mischievous. “Can’t hear you over all this squawking in my ear!”

Your laughter came out in breathless bursts, and you managed to shove at his chest lightly, still giggling as he finally gave you a moment to catch your breath. Spencer grinned down at you, his face flushed from laughter, his earlier heaviness completely gone, replaced by a playful glint in his eyes.

"Truce?" you gasped, still trying to stop your own giggles, your hands grabbing onto his arms to steady yourself.

Spencer tilted his head, pretending to think it over for a moment before nodding, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Alright. Truce. But only because you begged so nicely.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled up at him, your heart swelling at how much lighter and carefree he seemed now. Whatever weight he had been carrying earlier was gone, at least for the moment, and you couldn’t help but feel proud that you had been the one to help lift it.

He stayed on top of you for a moment longer, both of you catching your breath, the warmth of his body comforting against yours. He leaned down and kissed your forehead softly, his voice gentle as he murmured, “You always know how to make me feel better.”

You smiled up at him, brushing a hand through his hair. “I just like seeing you happy,” you said softly. “You deserve it.”

For a moment, Spencer didn’t say anything, just looking at you with a kind of quiet admiration that made your heart flutter. Then, with a playful smirk, he rolled off you, tugging you back up to sit in his lap. “Alright, I’ll stop tickling you,” he said, eyes glinting with amusement, “for now.”

You glared and pointed your finger in his face, making him cross his eyes like a dork. “Tickle me again, and I’ll... I’ll…”

“Yeah? Go on, honey,” he teased, his smirk growing wider as his hands continued to rub your hips.

Flustered by his confidence, you blurted, “I’ll spit on you.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that the best you got?”

You leaned in, lowering your voice as your eyes locked on his. “Careful, baby… sounds like you might actually want that.”

Spencer's smirk faltered slightly, his eyes widening in surprise before he laughed nervously. You could feel the shift in energy between you, the playful banter taking on a new, teasing intensity.

“Wha—no,” he stammered, trying to recover, but the playful glint in your eyes had him flustered.

You leaned in closer, your hands resting on his chest as you whispered in a low, sultry tone, “Mmm, you sure about that?”

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly, his hands instinctively tightening on your hips as he tried to keep his composure. “You’re… you’re just trying to get a rise out of me,” he finally managed to say, his voice a little breathless, but there was no hiding the way his body reacted to your proximity.

You grinned, feeling empowered by the effect you had on him. “And it’s working,” you teased, your lips brushing against his ear as you gently let your hips grind on his.

Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to yours, filled with affection and playful frustration. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You giggled, sitting up straight and giving him a satisfied look. “Maybe,” you said sweetly, “but you like it.”

He sighed dramatically, still flustered but clearly loving every second of your teasing. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Spencer’s hands slipped from your hips, wrapping around your waist instead as he pulled you closer. “But if you threaten me with spitting again,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a mock-serious tone, “I might have to get you back.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And how exactly would you do that?”

He smirked, leaning in closer so his lips were just inches from yours. “I guess you’ll have to find out,” he murmured before kissing you deeply, the playfulness of the moment fading into something more tender and intimate.

“You want to show me?” you whispered against his lips, nipping softly at Spencer’s lower lip, sending a shiver down his spine.

He groaned in response, the sharp, sweet pain igniting something inside him. But as much as the dirty talk stirred him, he hesitated. Spencer wasn’t as experienced as his playful words suggested, even though he'd picked up more than a few lines from the books he'd read — including a couple of romance novels that had taught him a thing or two.

Still, feeling the heat between you, Spencer nodded, leaning in for a kiss. This one wasn’t gentle or tentative, but filled with passion, tongues meeting, teeth grazing lips, and it set off a fire in both of your bellies.

Your hands gripped at his hair, pulling him closer as his hands moved up your sides, exploring every inch of you, unsure but eager. The kiss deepened, both of you giving in to the moment, feeling the intensity grow between you. It was uncharted territory for him, but he was more than willing to learn with you.

Feeling bold, Spencer let his hands slide down to cup your ass, squeezing tentatively. The whimper that escaped your lips as his fingers dug into your flesh sent a surge of pride through him. He was still a little unsure, but that reaction told him he was on the right track.

But then you pulled back slightly, your eyes glinting with mischief. “Is this what I get? I might have to threaten you more often…”

Something primal seemed to take over Spencer at your teasing words, and before he knew it, his hand came down in a sharp, quick slap against your ass. The sound echoed around the room, but it was your loud, unrestrained moan that had his pulse racing.

His eyes widened, both with shock at his own actions and the reaction it had caused. “You like that?” he asked, his voice thick with a mixture of curiosity and raw desire, unable to believe what had just happened — and how much it seemed to affect both of you.

You met his gaze, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice husky with need. “I do.”

Spencer swallowed hard, realizing he might have just unlocked something new between the two of you — something he was more than ready to explore.

Spencer pulled you back in, capturing your lips in an even deeper kiss, his tongue teasing yours while his hand came down with another sharp slap to your ass. The moan that left your mouth vibrated against his, making his head spin as you ground down on his growing bulge, the heat between you two intensifying by the second.

You both moved together in a desperate, frenzied rhythm, as if the space between your bodies was too much to bear. The need for more overwhelmed both of you, pushing the tension higher, the air thick with desire.

Spencer’s hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your movements as he let out little grunts and groans, lost in the sensation. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he threw his head back, pulling you down harder into him, his whole body shuddering as he finished with a deep, guttural groan.

Panting heavily, his fingers still dug into your hips, he slowly came back down from his high, his forehead resting against yours as both of you caught your breath. The heat between you still simmered, but the moment of release left both of you tingling and a little dazed, wrapped in the intimacy of the moment.

You looked down at him with a playful smirk, unable to resist teasing him just a little. "Spence... did you just come in your pants?"

Still breathing heavily, he nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Yup."

You let out a laugh, shifting slightly on his lap, causing him to groan at the sudden movement against his sensitive cock. "Oops, sorry, baby," you said with a mischievous grin, sitting back on his thighs. "I didn't realize you were so close."

Spencer leaned his head back on the couch, his eyes closed as he tried to steady his breathing. The angle gave you a perfect view of his sharp jawline, and you couldn't help but admire how utterly spent—and gorgeous—he looked in that moment. "I didn't either," he admitted with a small chuckle, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Lots of pent-up emotions, huh?" you teased, letting your finger trail lightly over the wet spot on his pants. He twitched at the sensation, quickly grabbing your wrist and gently pushing your hand away. He lifted his head, playfully glaring at you, though there was no malice in his gaze, only affection.

"Not funny," he muttered, trying to stifle a smile.

You giggled, leaning down to kiss his cheek, unable to resist teasing him one last time. "Maybe not for you... but I find it pretty adorable."

“Adorable? Last time you said it was hot,” Spencer pouted, his expression turning to one of mortification as the realization hit him. “Oh my god, I’ve done this twice. Maybe I am a virgin.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your heart melting for him. Leaning in, you kissed him gently, hoping to ease his mind and distract him from his embarrassment. “It’s hot and adorable, Spence,” you whispered against his lips, your tone soft and reassuring. “And, trust me, very flattering.”

But Spencer still looked unsure, his brows knitting together in uncertainty. You could see his mind working, trying to make sense of it, and you knew he wasn’t fully convinced just yet.

With a sultry smile, you leaned in closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Do you want to see how hot I find it? How hot I find you?” Your voice dripped with desire, and Spencer’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as he nodded dumbly, ready and willing to follow your lead.

You took his hand in yours, guiding it down the front of your sleep shorts, pressing his fingers against the undeniable evidence of your arousal. His eyes widened even more as he felt just how wet you were for him, his lips parting in a quiet gasp.

“That’s how much I liked it,” you whispered, watching his reaction closely. Spencer’s mouth fell open, his fingers instinctively pressing deeper, causing a soft moan to escape your lips.

“Oh wow, wow, you're really wet,” Spencer said in awe, his voice full of innocent surprise.

You let out a soft laugh, biting your lip as you ground down on his hand. “I know, baby. You really turn me on.”

His eyes widened even more, his mouth dropping open as he took in the full extent of your arousal. “No, you’re soaking my hand, darling,” he murmured, the way he said that sending shivers down your spine.

A moan slipped from your lips as you instinctively ground down on his fingers, seeking more friction. “Oh fuck,” Spencer breathed, his eyes dark with lust. “Are you riding my hand?”

You nodded, dazed and overwhelmed by the pleasure coursing through you. His fingers stayed inside, moving ever so slightly as you rocked your hips, riding him. The sensation was too much and not enough all at once, and the sound of his breathless voice only made you want more.

Spencer’s eyes flicked back and forth between your face and where his hand disappeared into your shorts, mesmerized by the sight and the sounds you were making. "I can't believe I'm making you feel this good," he whispered, more to himself than to you, the awe in his voice making you shudder in delight.

“Spence, this feels so good, my god, but… my knees are cramping,” you complained breathlessly, your body trembling from the sensation.

Without missing a beat, Spencer immediately pulled his hand away, giving you the space to move. You let out a soft whine at the sudden loss, and he smirked down at you. “Well, do you want to move or not?”

Rolling your eyes, you climbed off his lap and sprawled out on the couch, looking up at him expectantly. You were ready for whatever came next, your body still humming with anticipation. But Spencer did something completely unexpected.

Instead of wiping his hand off, as you had assumed he would, you watched as his gaze flickered down to the wetness covering his fingers. His brows furrowed slightly in curiosity, as if he were studying it. Before you could say anything, Spencer did the unfathomable—he brought his fingers to his mouth, slowly sliding them past his lips.

A deep, low moan escaped him as he tasted you, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if he were savoring the taste.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, absolutely floored by the sight. Your heart raced, heat rushing through your body as you watched him, your own arousal building even higher. You couldn’t believe how much this innocent man was making you lose control.

“Fuck,” Spencer murmured when he finally pulled his now-clean fingers from his mouth, his eyes dark with lust. “You taste amazing.”

The look on your face must have been one of pure shock because Spencer quickly followed up with a concerned, “Was that okay?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Shut up right now and kiss me,” you said, your voice urgent and breathless.

Without missing a beat, Spencer leaned down, crashing his lips onto yours. The kiss was electric, fueled by the raw intensity of the moment. You could taste yourself faintly on his lips, which only made you hungrier for him. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and Spencer let out a low groan as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing against yours as if he couldn’t get enough.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this level of desire, but with Spencer, everything felt heightened, like every touch and every kiss was sending shockwaves through you.

This was the filthiest, sloppiest, most passionate kiss either of you had ever shared with anyone. The intensity was palpable, your bodies pressed together so tightly it felt as though there wasn’t enough room in the world to contain the desire between you. You couldn’t get enough, your hands tugging at Spencer’s hair, sliding under his shirt to scratch his back, pinching his nipples, reveling in the way he responded—moaning into your mouth, his own hands gripping you with a hunger that mirrored yours.

It was hard to tell how long you kissed—minutes or hours, time seemed to blur—but eventually, Spencer pulled back, gasping for breath, his chest heaving. His eyes roamed over you, taking in the sight of your hair spread out like a halo on the couch, your chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, your eyes darkened with lust and, though neither of you had said it yet, a glimmer of what could only be described as love.

“Darling,” he panted, his voice rough and thick with need, “can we go to your bed? I want to treat you this time.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You were up in a flash, pulling your beautiful, sweet boyfriend with you, his hand wrapped in yours as you rushed toward your bedroom. You’d never moved so fast in your life, eager for what was to come, for the pleasure he promised.

Once in the bedroom, Spencer's hands wasted no time. He immediately tugged your shorts and underwear down, discarding them in a flash before pulling off your shirt with the same eagerness, leaving you completely bare before him. His eyes roamed over you with pure admiration, awe evident in every part of his expression.

“Did you get more beautiful?” he asked breathlessly, the sincerity of the compliment making you feel flushed.

You playfully slapped his chest, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Shut up,” you teased, leaning up to kiss him as your hands found the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head. But just as you reached for his pants, Spencer gently pushed you back down onto the bed.

“This is about you, my love.”

The words hung in the air, sweet and heavy with meaning. My love. It was new, but it felt right—natural, even. Before you could respond, Spencer pushed you onto the bed and lowered himself to your chest, his lips closing around one of your nipples. His mouth was soft, tender, at first, but then you felt his teeth sink in, sharp enough to make you gasp, a promise of the mark he was leaving behind.

Your back arched, pressing your body further into him, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you as you lost yourself in the feel of him—of his mouth, his hands, his love.

Spencer’s mouth continued its exploration, alternating between your breasts and sending warm pulses of pleasure through your body. His attention to detail was incredible, every touch, every kiss feeling like a deliberate act of worship. He took his time, caressing you as though you were the most delicate and precious thing in the world. The intimacy of it all overwhelmed you, a mixture of tenderness and building desire swirling inside.

When his soft kisses finally began to descend down your stomach, a light giggle escaped your lips—it tickled, playful and gentle. But that laughter vanished the moment his lips found your inner thigh, sucking a mark into your sensitive skin. Spencer’s large hands gripped your thighs, spreading them open wide for him, his touch reverent but firm.

“Spen—Spencer,” you panted, glancing down at him. His big, beautiful brown eyes met yours, glazed with determination and lust, but also something tender. He kept his gaze locked on you as he kissed along your thigh, making your breath hitch. "Have you... done this before?"

He paused, releasing your thigh from his mouth with a small, almost playful pop. “No,” he admitted honestly, “but I have read plenty about the acts of cunnilingus, and I think I will be able to satisfy you. As long as you communicate with me, okay?”

The honesty in his voice, the seriousness of his intent, sent another wave of heat rushing through you. Spencer reached for one of your hands, which had been gripping the sheets so tightly. He held it gently, reassuring you, grounding you. You nodded eagerly, your breath coming out in shallow pants, giving him permission to continue.

And without further hesitation, Spencer dove back in, his kisses now dangerously close to your core. The anticipation was electrifying, and you could already tell—he was going to be good at this. Very good.

And good he was. The second Spencer's tongue touched you, it was like fireworks exploded behind your eyes, sending electricity shooting through your veins. The intensity of it all nearly overwhelmed you, especially when you heard his voice, low and mumbled against you.

“Eyes on me,” he said, the words vibrating against you.

You forced your eyes open and looked down, the sight nearly sending you over the edge. Spencer, his head buried between your legs, met your gaze with intense eye contact as his tongue continued to explore you. The sensation, paired with the way he moaned into you, made your whole body tremble. It was impossible to deny how much he enjoyed it, the way he tasted you straight from the source, his pleasure evident in every sound and movement.

As phenomenal as it was, you still craved more stimulation. And Spencer had asked you to communicate, so you squeezed his hand, your voice shaky. “Baby?”

He hummed into you, the vibration making you whine and twitch involuntarily. “Can you... unghh—can you find the clit?”

Spencer chuckled softly, clearly amused but also eager to show that his knowledge wasn’t just theoretical. Almost immediately, he hit the target, causing your body to jerk at the sudden burst of pleasure.

“Go–good,” you gasped, your voice thick with need. “Now suck.”

And he did.

Spencer didn't need to be told twice. The second you asked, he focused his attention on your clit, enveloping it gently between his lips. A low moan escaped his throat, vibrating against you as he began to suck softly, testing the waters. Your body jolted at the sensation, your back arching as an involuntary gasp tore through you.

"Yes, just like that..." you whispered breathlessly, your grip tightening on his hand, the other fisting the sheets as waves of pleasure rolled through you. It was overwhelming in the best way, and Spencer wasn’t just doing well—he was doing phenomenally. His tongue flicked and swirled as if with practiced precision, the moans he let out making everything ten times more intense.

You could feel yourself getting closer, the tension building rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Every flick of his tongue, every pull of his lips was bringing you higher, faster. It was as if he knew exactly what you needed, and the connection between you both in this moment felt almost sacred.

Your legs began to tremble, and your breathing grew more erratic. "Spence, I’m—oh my god, I'm so close," you whimpered, your hand instinctively moving to tangle in his hair, gripping tight as the pleasure threatened to push you over the edge.

Spencer hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes still locked onto yours, unwavering, making the moment even more intense. His grip on your hand tightened as if encouraging you to let go, to surrender to the pleasure completely.

And when his tongue applied just the right amount of pressure, his lips sucking gently but firmly on your clit, that tension finally snapped. Your body convulsed, a guttural moan escaping you as the orgasm crashed over you, waves of ecstasy leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

"That's it," Spencer murmured, his voice low and raspy, sounding both proud and a little in awe as he watched you unravel under him.

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, looking down at him with a dazed smile. He hadn't pulled away yet, still gently caressing your sensitive skin with the softest of kisses, making sure you were coming down from your high as gently as possible.

“Spencer...” you managed to breathe out, your voice a mix of disbelief and pure satisfaction. You hadn’t thought it possible, but he had completely exceeded your expectations.

He grinned up at you, his mouth still glistening with evidence of your release. “I guess the reading paid off, huh?” he teased, his voice full of affection and just a hint of smugness.

You chuckled weakly, your whole body still tingling with aftershocks. "Oh, it definitely paid off..."

“Earth to Y/N,” Spencer teased, coming up beside you, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. His warm breath tickled your skin as he added with a soft laugh, “Are you alright?”

You blinked out of your daze, still recovering from the incredible experience, and turned to look at him with wide, astonished eyes. “Anytime you need a study buddy," you said, your voice filled with awe, "anytime, you call me."

Spencer chuckled, his cheeks tinged pink as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied with a wink.

After you returned to earth, Spencer gently helped you up and led you to the bathroom, drawing a warm, soothing bath. He carefully eased you both into the tub, your back resting against his chest, the comforting warmth of the water surrounding you. The intimacy of the moment was in the simplicity of it—just the two of you, cocooned in the peaceful, quiet space.

As you both settled in, the conversation flowed naturally, a mix of everything and nothing. Spencer told you more details about his extensive schooling, sharing amusing stories about his early university days, while you, in turn, told him about how you ended up adopting Poof, your beloved cat.

At one point, Spencer furrowed his brow, realizing something. “Speaking of, where is Poof?” he asked, looking around as if your mischievous cat might suddenly appear. “I feel like I haven’t seen him in a while.”

You giggled, your hand absently stroking Spencer's leg beneath the water as you explained. “Oh, he’s become the building cat," you said with affection in your voice. "The townhouses are connected by fire escapes in the back, and Poof likes to explore. He moves back and forth between the different houses. I guess you’ve just been missing him.”

Spencer chuckled softly, resting his chin on your shoulder, clearly intrigued. “A little adventurer, huh? Well, hopefully, I’ll catch him in action one of these days.”

You smiled, leaning back more into him, feeling completely at ease as the two of you basked in the comfortable rhythm of your conversation and the quiet warmth of the water.

—

Spencer sat stiffly in the chair across from Chief Strauss’ desk, his hands folded in his lap as he waited for whatever new torment she had in store for him. He was sure his tests were clean, they always were. But he also knew Strauss had been gunning for him for years now, and this meeting was likely just another way to shake him down, to keep him on edge.

As he stared at the piles of neatly stacked papers on her desk, Strauss held up a finger, signaling for him to wait as she answered an incoming call. Spencer huffed internally, trying to push down the frustration bubbling up inside him. But when she answered the phone, something about her tone caught his attention.

"Chief Strauss," she said, her voice all business at first, but then, to Spencer’s shock, a smile broke out across her face. "Oh, hi, Red, how are you, dear?"

Spencer’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing slightly. Red? It couldn’t be…could it? His mind raced, desperately trying to make sense of it. The name, the affectionate tone—it sounded eerily similar to the nickname you had mentioned your aunt called you. But that was just a coincidence, right?

Strauss continued her conversation, oblivious to Spencer’s sudden change in demeanor. "Yes, yes, of course. I’ll make sure it gets done. Oh, and how is little Poof doing?"

Spencer's heart stopped. Poof? No. There was no way this could be a coincidence now. His mind raced as he pieced it together. Red … Poof …Your aunt. His eyes widened in realization, but he kept his face neutral, trying not to betray the wave of shock crashing over him.

Strauss glanced at him briefly as she continued her conversation, still smiling. Spencer's thoughts were spinning. Was your aunt Erin Strauss?

Spencer was spiraling, his mind whirling with disbelief as Chief Strauss hung up the phone, turning her attention back to him. He was trying to maintain composure, but it was like everything around him was crumbling. She had called you Red. She had mentioned Poof. It was all too much.

“So, Reid,” Strauss began, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her. Her tone shifted back to business. “How have you been managing? With the recovery, I mean. I understand the tests have been clean, but I want to know how you’re really doing.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened. His nerves were already shot, and now with this revelation about you weighing on him, he couldn’t hold back. His voice came out sharper than he intended.

“Why does it even matter?” Spencer snapped, glaring at her. “You’ve been waiting for me to slip up, to fail. You never believed in my recovery from the start.”

Strauss raised an eyebrow, her expression hardening. "I’m trying to protect you, Reid, as much as I’m trying to protect others from you."

Spencer's stomach twisted. “Protect me? From what exactly? You’ve been gunning for me ever since I admitted to my addiction. You hate me.” His voice shook, his frustration bubbling over.

Strauss took a deep breath, her face softening, but her words cut deep. "I don’t hate you, Spencer. But I know what addiction can do to a person, to a family."

Spencer narrowed his eyes, his voice thick with suspicion. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"My sister and her husband," Strauss said, her voice wavering slightly, "they died from drugs. Overdosed. My niece is an addict too, lost to us."

Spencer felt a chill wash over him, and his voice dropped as he asked, "Y/N’s parents?"

Strauss swallowed thickly, nodding, her eyes momentarily flicking away from his. "Yes. And do you think I’m going to stand by and watch her get hurt again? Watch another person she cares about spiral into that life?" Her gaze locked back onto Spencer’s, now filled with a fierce determination. "No, Spencer. I’m not going to let you ruin her life like her father did."

The words hit Spencer like a physical blow, leaving him breathless. His heart raced, anger and guilt twisting together painfully in his chest. This threat—Strauss’s belief that he was a danger to you, that his history with addiction made him a risk—was like a punch to the gut.

"I’m not him," Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible. His hands clenched into fists on his lap. "I’m not going to hurt her."

Strauss’s gaze softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. "I hope you’re right, Reid. But I can’t afford to take chances when it comes to her. Not after everything she’s been through. So, yes, the drug tests stay. And if I see one misstep, I won’t hesitate to remove you from this team, or from her life."

Spencer felt his anger boil over, his fists clenched as he leaned forward in the chair. “You can’t stop me from seeing her, we’re both adults. You have no right to interfere.”

Strauss leaned back in her chair, calm in the face of his anger. Her voice was low, but it cut through the room with precision. “Does she know about your addiction, Spencer?”

The question hung in the air like a ticking time bomb, and Spencer froze. His face told her everything she needed to know—he hadn’t told you.

Strauss’s lips curled slightly, not in triumph but in grim acknowledgment. “Then you better not mess up,” she said, her voice cold and menacing.

Spencer stood up abruptly, the air feeling suffocating in her office. He was furious—not just with Strauss, but with himself. He knew he’d been holding something back from you, just as you had from him. He hadn’t told you about his past, hadn’t opened up about his addiction, the demons he fought to keep buried. And now he was in this twisted position, where your aunt knew more about him than you did.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

He stormed out of Strauss’s office, his heart racing, feeling cornered in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was upset that you hadn’t told him who your aunt was, hadn’t trusted him with that part of your life. But deep down, he knew he was no better. He had held back too—out of fear, out of shame.

As he left the building and stepped out into the cold air, Spencer’s mind whirled. He had to talk to you. He had to come clean before everything unraveled. You both deserved the truth.

—

You knocked on Spencer’s door that evening, a bottle of wine tucked under your arm and a loaf of fresh French bread in your hand. You’d spent the afternoon preparing his favorite pasta dish, hoping for a quiet, cozy night together after the busy week you both had. When Spencer opened the door, you gave him a warm smile.

“Hey, baby,” you greeted, leaning up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

But the look on Spencer’s face made your heart drop. His eyes were dark, his expression serious. The atmosphere was heavy, and you could tell immediately that something was wrong.

“When were you going to tell me that Strauss is your aunt?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with frustration.

You froze, the smile fading from your face. “What?”

“I found out today,” Spencer continued, stepping aside to let you in but not looking at you. “From her, actually. I thought... I thought we were being honest with each other.”

You sighed, setting down the wine and bread on his kitchen counter, turning to face him. “Spence, I was going to tell you. I just… I got scared.”

“Scared of what?” His eyes searched yours, looking for an explanation that could make this better, that could ease the confusion and frustration swirling in his mind.

You ran a hand through your hair, fidgeting slightly. “Scared because you work for her. I didn’t want things to get complicated or messy between you two. I didn’t want you to think I was keeping it from you on purpose.”

Spencer’s face softened slightly as he processed your words, but he still didn’t seem fully convinced. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me, though? I wouldn’t have cared about who your aunt is, I care about you.”

You took a deep breath, stepping closer to him, reaching for his hands. “I know, Spencer. I know. I just… I didn’t want things to get weird at work for you. And honestly, I didn’t know how to bring it up. I’ve been afraid of how it might change things, I didn’t want to add more stress.”

Spencer’s shoulders relaxed a little as he listened to your explanation. He squeezed your hands, a silent gesture of understanding. He could see the sincerity in your eyes, the hesitation that wasn’t born out of deceit but out of fear of complicating things for both of you.

“I get it,” Spencer said softly after a moment. “I just… I don’t want us to keep things from each other. It’s important to me that we’re open.”

You nodded, squeezing his hands back. “I promise. No more secrets.”

Spencer smiled slightly, his frustration easing. He let out a deep breath, feeling the tension leave his body. For a moment, he considered telling you about his past—about the addiction, the drug tests, everything that Strauss had thrown at him earlier. But when he looked into your eyes, remembering the way you spoke about your family, the raw pain in your voice, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He didn’t want to burden you with it, not when things were finally starting to feel right between you.

“Let’s just... enjoy dinner,” Spencer finally said, a small smile playing on his lips as he pulled you closer into a hug. “I’m sorry for bringing it up like that. I should’ve waited.”

You sighed in relief, burying your face in his chest. “No, I’m glad you did. I don’t want to keep anything from you either.”

You both held each other for a moment longer, letting the tension fade as the warmth of your embrace brought back a sense of normalcy. Spencer kissed the top of your head before stepping back and heading into the kitchen, ready to move forward, even if some things were still left unsaid—for now.

—

Just a few weeks later, Spencer finally had a full weekend off, he decided it was the perfect opportunity for a little getaway. He packed up everything—yourself, Poof, and plenty of supplies—and whisked you away to a cozy Airbnb nestled by the lake.

You could hardly contain your excitement, bubbling over at the thought of spending uninterrupted time with your two favorite guys. Spencer had asked you to drive while he took charge of navigation, and the car ride was nothing short of a delight.

“Turn left here, darling,” Spencer instructed with an air of confidence.

"Are you sure it’s not right?" you teased, feigning confusion as you gripped the wheel.

Spencer let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head with mock exasperation. “I’m positive. I do have an eidetic memory, you know.”

“Well, if we get lost, I’m holding that memory of yours accountable!” you shot back playfully, a smile spreading across both your faces.

When you finally pulled up to the lake house, you couldn't help but gasp. It was picturesque—a beautiful, quaint cabin surrounded by towering trees, with the glistening lake stretching out in the background.

The look of pride on Spencer’s face at your reaction made your heart swell. You were completely and utterly in love. As you stood there, taking in the stunning view and the sheer thoughtfulness of his planning, you felt like this weekend was the right moment to finally tell him how you truly felt.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you and Spencer moved seamlessly through the cozy kitchen, putting together the perfect comfort meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup. Poof danced happily around your feet, always at the ready for any fallen scraps. The two of you playfully bumped hips, stole soup-covered kisses, and teased each other in the warm glow of the cabin’s lights.

After dinner, which was full of laughter and mock arguments over who could make the better grilled cheese, you cleared the table together, setting up a chessboard for a battle of wits. You knew Spencer was a prodigy, but still, you had hope. The first few rounds were... well, an obvious defeat. But then, to your surprise, you managed to win. Once. Twice. And then three times in a row! What you didn’t know was that Spencer was letting you win, his resolve crumbling at the sight of your frustrated pout. He’d pretend to mull over a move for far longer than needed, before “accidentally” making a poor choice that would lead to your victory.

Eventually, you’d had enough of the mental sparring, and Spencer’s kisses grew softer and deeper. Together, you moved outside to the wooden deck, wrapped up under a blanket, the stars reflecting in the lake’s glassy surface. The night air was crisp and fresh, a gentle breeze brushing your cheeks as you cuddled closer.

Spencer pointed upward, tracing his finger along the sky, excitedly talking about constellations, their names, and the myths behind them. But you weren’t looking at the stars—your eyes were on him, captivated by the way his face glowed in the moonlight, his passion lighting up every word he spoke.

Without thinking, feeling overwhelmed by the moment and the deep love that filled your chest, you whispered, “I love you.”

The words felt like they hung in the air, sparkling and true under the canopy of stars.

Spencer’s face lit up as he tilted down toward you, and in that moment, it seemed as if the stars had all come to rest in his eyes, twinkling brightly with wonder and adoration. His voice was soft but filled with an almost childlike excitement, the kind reserved for a Christmas morning surprise, “Really?”

“Really,” you assured him, voice steady, your gaze never wavering from his, allowing the truth of your feelings to shine through.

He swallowed, searching your eyes as if trying to imprint every detail of this moment into his mind. “You love me?” he asked again, needing the confirmation, the words sounding so surreal to him.

“I love you, Spencer Walter Reid,” you declared, each word measured and intentional, and you watched as joy transformed his features, his eyes closing briefly in overwhelming happiness.

The next thing you felt was Spencer’s lips on yours, pressing gently at first, the kiss filled with all the tenderness and unspoken words you’d both kept hidden until now. It was sweet, slow, and beautiful, and you could feel Spencer trembling slightly, as if holding back everything he wanted to say with his lips alone. He pulled back just a breath, letting his forehead rest on yours as he whispered with a trembling smile, “I love you too.”

And then he dove back in for more—kisses deeper, breaths heavier. Your hands tangled in his hair, his fingers tracing the contours of your back, pressing you closer until there was no space left between you. What started as slow and sweet quickly turned heated, and Spencer’s kisses grew hungrier, his tongue tasting every part of your mouth, his hands wandering further down.

It was only when you felt the cool night air on your exposed skin that you giggled and gently pulled back, breathing heavily against his lips. “We’re outside, baby,” you murmured, your voice a mix of breathlessness and warning.

Spencer hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, and with a playful smirk, he pulled you to your feet, not letting your lips part from his. “Then we’d better get inside,” he said, his voice low and urgent, the promise of more lingering in the air as he led you toward the warmth of the cabin, hands intertwined, the night just beginning.

As you were guided along by Spencer's eager hand, your laughter filled the small cabin, echoing off the wooden beams of the cozy bedroom. The room itself was warm, glowing with the soft hues of amber light from the fireplace, its crackling flames adding to the perfect atmosphere. The bed looked irresistibly inviting, its blankets perfectly rumpled in a way that made you want to dive right in. But what really made the room perfect was Spencer—his face lighting up in a way you’d rarely seen before, his exaggerated wink playful and filled with the purest joy.

When Spencer sat on the edge of the bed and stretched his arms out for you, you wasted no time stepping into his embrace, your body molding perfectly into the space between his legs as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, leaning into the warmth of him. He buried his face in your chest, his voice muffled but filled with emotion as he mumbled, “I love you so much.”

You smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head as you teased softly, “I love you more.”

Spencer shook his head immediately, hair brushing your chin and sending little shivers down your spine. “Not possible,” he declared, his voice firm, like he was making a statement that was undeniable.

“Oh, I don’t know, baby,” you taunted lightly, trying to stifle the grin that was spreading across your face. But Spencer pulled back, his eyes locking with yours in a way that made you feel like the only person in the world.

A look of challenge danced across his features, his brows lifting as he quirked a smirk at you. “You don’t believe me?” he asked, voice deepening with a teasing edge.

You shook your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing, a playful glint in your eyes. And in a flash, Spencer’s face morphed into one of mischievous determination. “Oh, you little—” he began, his voice dripping with affectionate frustration as he quickly flipped your positions, pushing you back onto the bed and towering over you.

“Spencer!” you squealed in laughter, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him as he tossed his shirt aside without a second thought, revealing his smooth chest. He leaned over you, caging you in with his arms on either side of your head, and his face was so close you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your lips.

“Shh,” he whispered with a smirk, “I have to show you how much I love you.” And with those words, you knew that every second of this weekend together would be filled with a love so fierce, so genuine, that it was going to be impossible not to fall for him all over again.

Spencer's mouth moved eagerly down your neck, his lips trailing soft, warm kisses that made your skin tingle in their wake. He nipped at your earlobe, tugging it gently between his teeth, and the sensation drew a light, breathy moan from you, your back arching ever so slightly into him. The sound seemed to spur him on, and he continued his descent, pausing to suck gently on your pulse point as his hands explored your sides, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your waist.

When his hands found the hem of your top, he slowly pushed it upward, his palms grazing your ribs, sending shivers through you. You let out a sigh, already feeling yourself melt under his touch, and obediently raised your arms so he could remove the fabric entirely, leaving you bare from the waist up. Spencer's eyes darkened with desire, and you could see the way his lips parted slightly as he took you in, your form illuminated by the soft glow of the room.

“No bra?” he asked, a teasing edge to his voice, though his gaze was nothing short of reverent as it roved over your body. One brow quirked up in curiosity, his lips twitching in a smirk.

You laughed, a breathy, contented sound, shrugging as you met his gaze. “I’m on vacation.”

Spencer's smirk widened, and he nosed his way down between your breasts, inhaling deeply as if savoring your scent. His lips brushed against your skin in a whisper of a kiss. “I knew it was a good idea bringing you here,” he murmured against your skin, his voice husky with want and affection.

And as he continued his exploration of your body with his mouth and hands, you were filled with warmth and a sense of belonging, knowing that this was exactly where you were meant to be—with him.

The sensation of Spencer’s mouth on your skin sent sparks throughout your body, your breath hitching as his lips closed around your nipple, sucking gently. You arched your back instinctively, pressing yourself closer to his mouth, wanting more, needing more. He hummed contentedly, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure right through you.

His tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, switching between flicking and gentle sucking that had you gripping the sheets beneath you, your fingers twisting into the soft fabric as your eyes fluttered shut. Every movement was slow, deliberate, and filled with devotion, as if he was determined to savor every second of your pleasure.

As he worshiped your breast, his free hand trailed down your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, fingers feather-light against your skin. You could feel the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of your shorts, and when his fingers brushed the waistband, your hips bucked upward, desperate for more contact.

Spencer’s lips left your breast with a soft pop, his breath warm and ragged as he whispered against your skin, “You taste so good... I could do this forever.”

His words, filled with awe and passion, made you moan in response, threading your fingers through his hair and holding him close to you. And you didn't want him to stop; you wanted every touch, every kiss, every second of his attention to be on you, completely and utterly lost in the moment together.

Spencer’s lips found yours again, kissing you deeply, hungrily, as if he was trying to pour all the love he felt into every brush and caress. You sighed into his mouth, your own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, if that was even possible. And then, as if reading your mind, you felt his hand venture downward, fingers slipping under the waistband of your bottoms, and you gasped at the intimate touch, the sensation so electric it made your toes curl.

“Fuck,” Spencer breathed against your lips, his voice heavy with awe and desire. “You’re so wet.”

The sound of his voice saying those words sent a shiver straight through your core, and you whined softly, squirming under his touch, desperate for more. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking his fingers, trying to guide him where you needed him most. “Spence, baby,” you whined again, your voice breathy and pleading as you pressed kisses to his jaw, “please...”

His eyes met yours, dark and full of hunger, and he gave you a little smirk, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. “Tell me what you need, darling,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours as his fingers teased just outside your lips, keeping you on the edge of wanting. “Let me hear you say it.”

Your breath hitched, his teasing making you ache with longing. “I need you, Spence,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I need you to touch me, please.”

He hummed approvingly against your mouth, giving you a tender kiss before letting his fingers dip down, finally giving you what you so desperately craved. His touch was slow, deliberate, but his eyes never left yours, wanting to see every reaction as his fingers entered you.

You had anticipated the gentle, lingering touches from the last time, but Spencer had other plans. The tenderness was gone in an instant, replaced by an urgent, almost primal need to make you fall apart in his hands. The pace he set was relentless—his fingers moved in and out of you hard and fast, pushing deeper each time, and the sensation of his palm rubbing against you with every thrust was electrifying.

“Spencer—oh god!” you cried out, gripping the sheets beneath you in a white-knuckled grasp. He wasn’t just touching you—he was consuming you, each movement of his hand pulling you closer and closer to the edge, a chaotic frenzy that left you breathless. Every stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

His lips crashed against yours in a hungry kiss, all tongue and teeth, as he groaned into your mouth. “I love watching you like this,” he whispered against your lips before sucking on your lower one, his voice a low, heady drawl. “Falling apart on my fingers...”

The overwhelming sensation of Spencer’s fingers moving within you, the roughness of his palm pressing against you just right with every thrust, made you see stars. Your back arched off the bed, desperate for more, nails digging into his back, dragging red lines down his skin. You could barely speak, your words spilling out in choked, breathless cries. “Spencer—fuck—”

He leaned down, his mouth right at your ear, his breath hot as he spoke, voice dripping with husky intensity. “Does that feel good, baby?”

You nodded fervently, unable to form coherent words as you surrendered to the relentless pleasure. “Uh huh,” you managed to pant out, a whimper escaping your lips as your hips bucked wildly to meet the rhythm of his hand.

His grin was wicked as he watched you unravel beneath him, knowing exactly how his touch was driving you to the edge. His fingers never faltered, pushing deeper and faster, and the friction of his palm rubbing against your sensitive skin was enough to make you tremble. “I can feel you tightening up around me,” he murmured, voice low and dripping with lust. “Are you gonna come for me, love?”

You let out a desperate, needy moan, the pressure building to an unbearable peak, and all you could do was nod frantically, your eyes squeezing shut as the coil inside you tightened, ready to snap. “Yes, yes, I’m—I'm so close—”

You felt dizzy with the rush of it all, the world around you spinning as he drove you further toward that cliff of pure, euphoric release. You weren't sure how long you could hold out; your body felt on fire, the pleasure bordering on overwhelming. Each breath was a gasp, each moan louder than the last, and all you could think about was how badly you needed to fall over that edge. “Spence—I’m gonna—I can’t—”

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice rough and laced with raw desire. “Let go, Y/N. Come for me, right now.” His pace quickened even further, and you knew you wouldn’t last a second longer. And you didn’t, completely unraveling at his words, your body arching up into his as waves of pleasure surged through you. Your moans filled the room, raw and unrestrained, and he never stopped, his fingers working you through the intensity of your release.

You trembled beneath him, your legs shaking as the last waves of your orgasm washed over you. Spencer looked at you, eyes filled with pride and wonder, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you coming undone because of him.

Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, gently caressing your trembling thighs as you caught your breath. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes locked on yours as he cleaned them off with his tongue, tasting you again. The sight sent a renewed thrill through you, and all you could do was reach up and pull him down for a hungry kiss, needing to feel him against you, to taste yourself on his lips.

“Thought you couldn’t finish like that?” Spencer teased, his voice low and playful, recalling the first time he'd touched you like this.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head in pure bliss. “I didn’t think I could,” you admitted with a grin. Then, in a teasing tone, you added, “Have you been practicing? Should I be worried?”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, and he quickly looked away, suddenly bashful. “N-nope. I just—uh, did some... research.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to hold back another laugh as you saw the shyness in his eyes. “Research, huh?” you asked, leaning in closer. “What kind of research, Doctor? Did you... watch porn?”

Spencer’s blush deepened, and he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Maybe... a little,” he admitted in a soft mumble. “But only to—to learn, for you,” he added quickly, his eyes meeting yours with genuine sincerity.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, a warm, affectionate sound as you reached out to run your fingers through his hair. “Oh, my sweet genius,” you teased gently, cupping his face and turning him back to look at you. “You did all that research just for me? That’s so... adorable.”

His eyes finally met yours, a mixture of pride and lingering shyness in his expression. “It worked, then?” he asked cautiously, almost as if he needed reassurance.

“Oh, it definitely worked,” you replied, grinning widely before leaning in to kiss him sweetly. “And for the record,” you murmured against his lips, “if you want to keep up the research, I’m all for it.”

Spencer chuckled softly, his earlier nerves melting away as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. “In that case,” he said, a playful gleam in his eye, “I have a few more things I could show you.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased back, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Whatcha got for me, big boy?”

The nickname made him blush a deep pink, but he just rolled his eyes in that familiar, affectionate way before letting his hands roam down to your hips. With gentle care, he slipped off your bottoms, leaving you bare before him. You stayed silent, feeling a mixture of excitement and anticipation flood through you as Spencer stood and began to remove the rest of his clothes.

The moment his pants came off, you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips, your eyes widening at the sight before you. “Spence?” you breathed out, your voice filled with both surprise and desire.

He grinned sheepishly, clearly trying to play it cool, but you could see the boyish excitement behind his eyes. Then, as if remembering something important, he reached down into his pants pocket and pulled out a small foil packet, holding it up with a charming smile and revealing a condom.

“I thought... I’m ready,” he said, his voice steady but filled with tenderness.

Your smile softened at his words, and you felt your heart swell with warmth and affection. “Yeah?” you replied sweetly, opening your arms to him. “I’m ready too.”

Spencer crawled back onto the bed, moving into your embrace, his body fitting perfectly against yours. His breath was warm against your skin as he leaned in closer, and with so much love in his voice, he whispered, “I want you to be my first.”

Your hand caressed his cheek, your thumb gently brushing against his soft skin. “Hopefully your last too,” you whispered back, sealing your words with a deep, passionate kiss, your bodies melting together under the glow of the soft lamplight.

“Do you need help putting the condom on, baby?” you asked, your voice sweet and full of kindness.

Spencer's cheeks flushed a light pink as he shook his head. “I, uh, I might have practiced,” he admitted sheepishly.

You couldn’t help but giggle, your heart swelling with even more affection. “How is it possible to keep loving you more and more every second?” you asked, the sincerity clear in your voice.

Spencer chuckled, leaning in to kiss you deeply, letting his lips linger against yours for a moment before he pulled back. He focused intently on rolling the condom on, and you found the way he bit his tongue in concentration absolutely endearing. It was a small detail, but it only made you fall deeper for him.

When he finished, he looked back up at you, his eyes filled with that gentle, earnest love you’d come to know so well. “How do you want me?” you asked softly, wanting to make this perfect for him, for both of you.

Spencer’s gaze softened even more, and his hand came up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “Just like this,” he murmured, his voice low and full of warmth. “I want to see you, all of you.”

You gave him a reassuring smile, opening your legs and wrapping them around his waist, pulling him closer. The world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you, your bodies close and your hearts even closer.

As Spencer’s tip teased through your slick folds, you couldn't help but let out a high, keening sound, the sensation electrifying. Spencer’s own response was a low groan, the vibration of his voice adding to the intensity between you.

His brow furrowed slightly as he tried to keep control, feeling how ready you were for him. “I’m... probably not going to last long,” he admitted, his voice laced with nervousness and excitement.

You reached up to cup his cheek, pulling his gaze to yours, offering the softest smile. “I don’t care, Spence,” you said, your voice steady and full of love. “I just want to be with you.”

Spencer’s eyes softened even more, and he nodded, more to himself than to you, as if to reassure his own nerves. Slowly, carefully, he lined himself up, and with a gentle, deep breath, he began to push in.

The feeling was overwhelming for both of you — he was entranced by the heat and tightness enveloping him, and you were spellbound by the fullness of having him inside you for the first time. You both let out soft gasps, your hands finding his as you squeezed tightly, tethering each other through the rush of emotion and sensation.

He paused for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours as you both breathed together, as one. “You feel… unbelievable,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder, as if he couldn't believe this was really happening.

“Fuck, baby, I’ve never been this full,” you moaned, your voice thick with pleasure and awe at the way he stretched and filled you so perfectly.

“Shit, Y/N,” Spencer groaned, his hips already making shallow, instinctual thrusts as he tried to hold himself back. “You can’t say that—” he panted, feeling your words shoot straight through him. “This will be over way too fast.” He looked down at you, the flush of his cheeks meeting the pink of his lips, and the way his face was contorted in bliss made you tighten around him. You couldn’t help it. The way he was falling apart so easily was the hottest thing you'd ever seen.

“Fuck!” he shouted, his control slipping as he pounded a fist into the pillow beside your head, burying his face against your neck for a moment. “Can I—can I move?” His breath was ragged and desperate. “I need to move. Please.”

You nodded frantically, needing him just as much, your hands sliding down his back to grip his hips, urging him to let go. “Fuck me, Spence,” you whispered right against his ear, your voice soft yet commanding. And that was all the permission he needed.

He started moving, pulling out just enough to feel the drag of your walls before thrusting back in, his rhythm quick and needy. He was lost in the feeling of you, and each movement sent waves of pleasure through both of you, driving him closer to the edge with every stroke.

Spencer’s hips moved steadily, finding a rhythm that left both of you breathless. He surprised himself, really, the way his body instinctively knew how to take care of you, how to give you everything he could in each thrust. The intensity between you built, hot and fast, with every roll of his hips, with every gasp and moan that filled the small, cozy room.

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, anchoring him to you like you never wanted to let go. Your arms wrapped around his neck, bringing his forehead against yours as the pleasure built between you, the closeness of your bodies only deepening the connection you felt. “I love you,” you whispered right into his ear, your voice trembling as you said the words that were so true and so filled with emotion it made your eyes sting with happy tears.

Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut at your words, his breath hitching before he responded, “I love you too, darling.” And then he kissed you—deeply, passionately, like you were his entire world and nothing else mattered. His lips moved with urgency, soft and fervent, as his pace quickened, thrusting deeper and more desperate, as if he was pouring everything he felt into you, wanting you to feel every bit of his love with each motion. The world outside seemed to fade away, and it was just the two of you, wrapped in love and warmth and the sweetest kind of bliss.

Spencer's mind was racing, but finally, his instincts kicked in, sending him a signal—an idea of exactly what you needed. He wanted to make sure that you felt everything, that he was giving you all the pleasure he could. With a slight adjustment, he pulled back just enough to slide a hand down to where the two of you met, his fingers deftly finding your clit and rubbing in quick, steady circles.

“Oh!” you cried out, your whole body jolting with the sudden burst of pleasure. Your back arched high off the bed, presenting your chest to Spencer like a gift he was eager to receive. Without a moment’s hesitation, his mouth found your breast, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking, the combination of sensations sending sparks down to your very core.

The feeling was overwhelming—Spencer’s hips driving into you in a rhythm that felt just right, his fingers working you to the brink, and his mouth hot and wet on your sensitive skin. Your moans filled the room, your fingers burying themselves in his hair, pulling him closer as your entire body trembled, the edge of release so close you could almost taste it.

“Oh my god—oh, god!” you screamed, your voice breaking as the pleasure built to its peak. “Fuck, I’m gonna come!” And then it hit—your core clenched around Spencer with such intensity that he nearly lost his rhythm, almost slipping out of you as your body reached its climax.

And if Spencer thought you felt amazing before, now? Now, with your release, everything felt heightened, your walls fluttering around him, tightening and then loosening in waves that left him gasping. The slickness of your arousal made every thrust so much easier, so much more electric, that it sent shockwaves through his entire body. It wasn’t long before the overwhelming sensation tipped him over the edge, and his pace grew erratic, desperate, until he reached his own peak.

“Oh, fuck,” he panted, his voice strained with pleasure as he thrust one last time, burying himself as deeply as he could. “Shit, baby, fuck, I—I’m coming,” he stuttered, his eyes squeezing shut as he let go, every muscle in his body tensing before his release washed over him in shuddering waves.

His head fell to the crook of your neck as he finished, holding you close, both of you breathless and trembling in the aftershocks, your bodies slick with sweat and blissed out from the intensity of it all. Spencer stayed there, still buried inside of you, both of you just holding each other in the soft glow of the room, relishing the warmth, the closeness, the love.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blissful haze, wrapped in kisses, long cuddles, and moments of intimacy that made you feel closer than ever. Spencer shared his own stories, some quirky, some heartfelt, while you let him into corners of your past that had remained sealed for years.

One evening, as you were snuggled into his chest, the comforting scent of him surrounding you, you whispered something that had been tugging at the edges of your mind all weekend. “Aunt Erin started the nickname Red…” you murmured, your voice soft against the rise and fall of Spencer’s breathing. He said nothing but tightened his arms around you, letting you know he was listening.

“But Mom and Dad called me Red too,” you continued, voice cracking slightly at the memories. “For Mom, it was a term of endearment, something she shared with her sister. It felt special... warm.” You paused, taking in a deep breath. “But for Dad… it was manipulative. He used it like some sort of charm, thinking if he called me by a special name, I’d forget everything—the pain, the anger—and welcome him back with open arms.” You swallowed, feeling the lump in your throat. “And then my sister... she started using it too. Only when she needed something—money, a place to crash. For a long time, it was tainted for me, a reminder of everything I wanted to forget.”

Spencer’s thumb stroked soothingly over your arm as you spoke, his quiet presence grounding you. “But you… you revived it for me,” you said finally, looking up into his warm, understanding eyes. “When you call me Red, it feels like it means something good again.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as he whispered, “I’ll always make sure it means something good. I promise.”

You let out a shaky breath, a mix of relief and contentment washing over you. In that little lakeside haven, all that existed was the two of you and the love you shared—everything else just melted away.

—

The trip was exactly what both of you needed. A chance to unwind, to just be together without the pressures of everyday life. When you returned the next day, Spencer was quick to ask if you could drop Poof off at your place and then come back to his apartment. He claimed it was just in case he got called away for a case in the middle of the night and needed to be near his things. But you knew better—it was really because he loved the way his sheets smelled like you when you were gone.

You didn’t argue, though. After all, the feeling was mutual, and you cherished any excuse to be wrapped up in Spencer’s space. So you made the trip back home, feeding Poof, and then promptly returned to his place to settle in for a relaxed night. The morning came too quickly, and he left for work with a gentle kiss pressed to your forehead and a spare key taped to the fridge with a note: “For whenever you need it. –S.”

Later, after you finally pulled yourself from the cozy bed and began to get ready for your day, you found yourself wandering around Spencer’s apartment, making coffee and searching for your favorite sweatshirt of his—the one that was ridiculously oversized, the one you loved to wrap yourself up in. Usually, it was draped over the back of the couch or hanging near the door, but today it was nowhere to be seen.

Thinking it might have just ended up back in his closet, you made your way there, rummaging through his neatly hung clothes. And there it was, folded on a shelf like it had been waiting for you. You reached for the familiar fabric, feeling the comforting softness in your hands, but as you moved it, something else caught your eye—a small box tucked away behind the stack of sweaters.

Your stomach twisted into knots when you read the label: Dilaudid

No. No, no, no. You felt your blood run cold, and for a moment, you were on autopilot. Hands trembling, you reached for the box and placed it on the bed, the world around you narrowing to just that single object. When you opened the lid, a flurry of papers greeted you—hospital discharge summaries, case files, rehab forms, and NA slips—all bearing Spencer’s name. Each one a piece of a puzzle you didn’t know existed, each one revealing a part of Spencer you had never seen before.

Your breathing grew shallow as you flipped through them, the weight of their contents heavy in your hands, in your heart. You knew what all of this meant; you'd lived through the nightmare of addiction with your own family. And then, as if that wasn’t enough to send your world spiraling, you found it—an unopened needle and a vial of Dilaudid. Enough to kill someone, enough to hurt, enough to drag someone back into the darkness you'd spent your whole life trying to escape.

Your world felt like it had tilted on its axis, everything you knew and trusted suddenly thrown into question. One thing you knew for certain—you couldn’t spend another second in Spencer’s apartment. You needed space to think, and every second you stayed in the apartment, surrounded by the echoes of this newfound reality, the more suffocating it felt.

Quickly, you collected your things—your bag, your phone, absolutely not the sweatshirt that now felt so wrong to hold—and with a trembling hand, you grabbed the key Spencer had left on the fridge. As you locked the door behind you, a cold finality settled in, but then you just stood there, staring at the little gold key in your hand, paralyzed by indecision.

Do I leave it? Take it? Do I even want to come back here? Could there possibly be a good reason for why Spencer had kept this from me, for why he had hidden this massive part of himself? Your thoughts spiraled, but you couldn’t find a single strand to cling to.

Finally, shaking your head, you made your decision. You slid the key under the door, hearing the tiny scrape of metal on wood as it disappeared into the apartment you had thought was your safe place. And then you ran, down the stairs, through the lobby, to your car. You didn’t let yourself feel anything until you were back in your own home, the door shutting behind you like the closing of a chapter you didn’t know if you could reopen.

Sliding down to the floor, you hugged your knees to your chest and sobbed. All the memories came rushing back—the nights of worry, the fear of losing someone to the relentless pull of addiction, the feeling of not knowing what each day would bring. Even if Spencer wasn’t using now, even if this was something from his past, it didn’t stop the memories of your family from crashing over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under.

Poof, sensing your distress, padded over to you and rubbed his warm body against you, a small comfort in the chaos. He curled up in your lap, purring as you wrapped an arm around him, trying to steady your ragged breathing.

After what felt like hours, when the tears had finally slowed to silent streams, you wanted to call Aunt Erin, to demand answers, to understand. But the thought of telling her how you found out—of potentially risking Spencer’s job and livelihood—made you hesitate. And so you stayed there, on the floor of your apartment, crying softly as Poof purred in your lap, the comforting vibration of his presence the only thing grounding you in that moment.

—

Spencer had been looking forward to this moment all day—the idea of coming home to you, imagining what it would be like to share a space, to fall into that soft domesticity he craved so much. He fumbled with his keys, finally getting the door open, and stepped inside. “Y/N?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the empty apartment. No response. Maybe you were napping? “Darling?” he tried again, a little louder this time, hoping to hear your sweet voice drift in from another room.

The silence felt heavy, like something was wrong, but Spencer tried not to jump to conclusions. He wandered to the bedroom to change, figuring he could call you and ask if you were just out running an errand. But when he walked in, he immediately saw it—the box. It sat wide open on the bed, papers scattered as if someone had frantically sifted through it.

All the air seemed to leave the room in that moment. Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat heavy and frantic, echoing in his ears as if the walls themselves were closing in. He rushed to the bed, hands shaking as he tried to close the box, to somehow undo what had been done. But it was too late. You had found it. You knew.

Fumbling for his phone, he tried calling you, hand slick with sweat as he pressed your contact and held it to his ear. The line rang, and rang, and rang until your voicemail picked up. “Hey, it’s Y/N, leave a message and—” Beep.

He tried again, then again, desperation mounting with each missed call. “Y/N, please call me back. Just—just call me back, okay?” Each voice message grew more frantic, more pleading as he left you one after another, interspersed with shaky, jumbled texts trying to explain, trying to beg for a chance to talk.

Eventually, when it was clear you weren’t going to answer, Spencer felt his heart sink to depths he hadn’t known existed. You had shut him out. He was drowning in his own panic, guilt clawing at his insides like a living thing, and he felt like he had nowhere to go—no way to reach you, no way to make this right.

Swallowing thickly, and feeling like his pride was an irrelevant casualty in the wake of losing you, he called the only person who might know how to get through to you. “Agent Reid?” Strauss's voice was clipped, professional, and instantly cold.

He tried to speak, but his voice cracked on the first word. “Strauss, it’s—it's Y/N, she found... everything. It was an accident. Please, just—can you check on her? I don't know where she is, I—” His voice broke, desperation clawing through the line.

Strauss let out a long, slow sigh. “You’re a moron,” she said simply, and then the line went dead. No reassurance. No promise to help. And that silence was the worst of all.

That night, Spencer barely moved from his spot on the bed. He sat, still fully dressed in his work clothes, the fabric wrinkling under the weight of his exhaustion as he curled around his phone, holding onto it like a lifeline. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot from the tears that he couldn’t stop, the grief for what he feared he’d lost seeping into every pore.

The box still sat on the bed, its presence an accusation. A reminder of everything he had hidden, everything he might now lose. And in that moment, it felt like the walls of his apartment were closing in, trapping him in the silence of his own regret.

The morning light brought no solace to Spencer as he dragged himself out of bed, the weight of the previous day hanging over him like a storm cloud. His eyes were gritty and raw from the lack of sleep, his mouth dry as he went through the motions of getting ready for work, each step automatic. Splash water on the face. Brush teeth. Dress. His phone sat on the counter, silent—no new messages from you. Just the one from Strauss.

My office, first thing.

The words filled him with dread, and as he walked into the office, each step felt like he was dragging lead weights tied to his feet. When he reached Strauss’s office, she was already seated behind her desk, her expression a vicious, unreadable mask. He took the chair across from her, his back stiff as he prepared for the worst.

“I spoke with Y/N,” Strauss said, her voice clipped, cutting like ice. Even just hearing your name was a punch to the gut. He winced, bracing himself. He had to know—whatever the truth was, he had to hear it. “And?” he managed to ask, the word barely a whisper, as if speaking louder would make it all too real.

Strauss’s gaze was sharp, unforgiving. “I’m not speaking as your unit chief when I say this—you fucked up, Spencer.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Spencer’s worst fear was crashing down around him. He could already feel the numbness setting in, dulling the pain, shutting down every emotion except the guilt that gnawed at his insides like acid. “She doesn’t want to see you,” Strauss continued, and though the words were steady and cold, each one landed like a bullet.

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. There was nothing else to say, nothing to do but stand and leave, holding on to the last shred of composure he had left. Every step out of Strauss’s office was heavier than the last, each stride echoing in his ears as he made his way to his desk. He threw himself into his work with ferocity, desperate for a distraction, any distraction, to fill the void.

Meanwhile, miles away, you sat staring blankly at your laptop screen, trying to focus on the lines of code that blurred in front of you. But your mind was tangled in a mess of thoughts and questions, none of which had answers. What was he going to do with that dose? Is he still using? Was he going to use it all at once? Was he going to use it on me, like Dad did to Mom?

You hated how the questions came unbidden, every fear of your past dragging itself to the surface like an unrelenting tide. You couldn’t help but remember the night you found your parents—your father, using drugs to take your mother away. The thought that Spencer could be carrying anything like that darkness, even the slightest potential for harm, made your heart twist in agony. You loved him, but did you really know him? Could you trust him, after this?

Every answer felt just out of reach, and all you could do was sit there, heart heavy and confused, trying to make sense of it all while feeling like the ground had dropped out from under your feet.

—

Three months had passed, a stretch of time that had felt both impossibly long and painfully short to Spencer. Three months since you’d walked out of his apartment, since the wall he’d carefully built around his heart had crumbled, since he’d been able to see you, touch you, speak with you. The only thing that got him through each day was work, the relentless cases that pulled him into the minds of others and away from his own chaos. But even then, in the rare moments of quiet, you still lingered in his thoughts.

Today, however, even work couldn’t serve as a distraction. Derek leaned on the edge of his desk, the grin on his face faltering when Spencer didn't meet his eyes. “Look, man,” Derek said, his tone soft, with that note of understanding that made Spencer want to crawl out of his own skin. “I know you’ve been bummed after your breakup with Y/N, but the team is going out tonight. You should come, it might cheer you up.”

Derek’s words, although well-intentioned, felt like a punch in the gut. He knew Derek meant well, and that the rest of the team did too, but they didn’t know the real reason things ended. Spencer couldn't tell them; it wasn’t just his story to share. He couldn’t explain the heartbreak that came from the discovery, the misunderstanding, the silence. All he could do was shake his head, eyes downcast as he muttered, “I’m good, man. Thanks though.”

Derek sighed deeply, clearly not ready to give up. “I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said, cracking his knuckles in a display of mock intimidation. “But if you don’t come out tonight, I’ll tell Penelope that you’re the one who spilled coffee on her favorite keyboard.”

Spencer’s head whipped around so fast he almost cricked his neck, his eyes wide with horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would, kid,” Derek nodded seriously, his expression deadpan but the mischief unmistakable in his eyes.

Spencer could see there was no way out. Derek had cornered him, and he knew Penelope’s wrath was something to be avoided at all costs. “Fine,” he conceded, huffing out a breath. “But only for a bit.”

Derek’s victorious fist pump made him chuckle despite himself. “Yes! You won’t regret it, Reid. We’ll have a blast, just wait.”

And so, later that evening, Spencer found himself tucked into a booth at the team's favorite bar, nursing a drink that burned his throat but warmed his insides. The atmosphere was light, almost buoyant—stories were exchanged, laughter flowed as freely as the drinks, and for once, he found himself genuinely enjoying the company without the constant ache that had settled in his chest since you left.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Spencer was starting to feel something close to relaxed. The chatter around the table and the warmth of his friends seemed to ease some of the tension in his body, if only for a little while. He could breathe, even laugh at times, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like maybe—just maybe—things could be okay again.

As the team sat around their booth, the energy high and the laughter loud, Spencer was oblivious to what was about to unfold. It wasn't until Derek's loud whistle pierced the air, catching everyone's attention, that he noticed something had shifted.

“Damn, who is that fine lady?” Derek smirked, his eyes fixed on a woman who was strutting across the bar in a purple dress that left little to the imagination.

“God, that dress is basically lingerie,” Emily leaned in to whisper, sounding a mix of admiration and awe. “I want it.”

The team shared quick glances, some amused, some appreciative of the daring outfit that hugged the woman's body perfectly. Even Spencer's eyes lingered, caught by the vibrant shade of purple—his favorite color. She looked like she had stepped out of a dream, a vision of elegance and seduction that was hard to look away from. But her face was hidden beneath waves of hair, and the dim bar lighting made it difficult to make out her features.

After a few moments of admiring glances, the conversation returned to its usual flow—until a table of rowdy men called out loudly, catcalling and beckoning the woman over. As she walked closer, the team finally got a good look at her face, and all their eyes widened in shock.

It was you.

Spencer’s heart dropped to his stomach, but he didn’t even have a chance to process what was happening before Derek nudged him sharply. He pointed in your direction, where you were now leaning over the table of men, the dress dangerously low-cut, and your cleavage all too exposed. For a moment, the sight of you, dressed so provocatively and surrounded by a group of ogling strangers, felt like a punch to his chest.

Without thinking, and fueled by the anger and confusion that came crashing over him like a wave, Spencer stood abruptly. He didn’t care about the table’s booing or the way the men protested as he stormed over. All he could think about was getting you away from them. He grabbed your arm and yanked you back, his grip firm, his eyes blazing.

"Come with me," he demanded, his voice low and tight with emotions he didn’t know how to name.

You laughed as Spencer dragged you outside the bar, letting the breeze hit your face, the night air cool against your flushed cheeks. But as the realization of who was gripping your arm sunk in, the smile fell away.

“Spencer! What the hell! Let me go!” you snapped, pulling your arm away and shaking him off with all the force you could muster.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he spat, his voice filled with anger and... something else you couldn’t quite place—hurt, maybe?

You only laughed bitterly in response, the sound sharp and humorless. “Oh, you mean besides getting dragged around by a liar? What are you doing?” You met his gaze defiantly, your words dripping with contempt.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed as he searched your face, noticing for the first time the redness in your eyes, the slight glaze that wasn't quite right. “Are you... Are you high?” His tone was almost disbelieving, as if he couldn't fathom what he was seeing.

You nodded exaggeratedly, barely stifling another giggle. “As a kite.”

His anger flared again, and he practically yelled, “Are you kidding me? You hate drugs! You hate everything to do with them, and now you’re... using?”

“It’s just weed, Spencer!” you shot back, your voice loud and edged with frustration. “Sorry if I needed to relax! I’ve had a lot on my mind, okay?”

Spencer paused for a moment, clearly wrestling with how to respond, his eyes flickering between you and the ground. He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it, your words spilling out with no filter, no restraint.

“What were you going to do with that dose, huh?” you challenged, your voice shaking. “Were you going to kill me, just like my daddy?”

The words hung in the air like a slap, and Spencer’s face paled, the color draining away as if you’d punched him. “Y/N, no. God, no—I... I don’t know...” He sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair as he struggled to find the right words. “I guess... I kept it around in case.”

“In case what?” you pressed, eyes narrowing, your anger boiling over.

“In case I... wanted to...” He shook his head in frustration, unable to even finish the thought. “I don’t know! It’s stupid, but I just—”

“Fuck, Spencer,” you said, disgust heavy in your voice. “How could you?”

“I haven’t touched it in years!” he protested desperately, his voice cracking with the weight of his plea. “I’m clean, Y/N. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but you wouldn’t let me explain! I’m not like your dad—I’m not.”

The comparison made something inside you snap, and before you knew what you were doing, you were leaning in close, your eyes boring into his as you hissed, “Once a junkie, always a junkie.”

Spencer stood there, stunned, your words slicing through him like shards of glass. The hostility radiating off you was something he had never witnessed before, and it hurt—hurt in a way that made it hard to breathe, to think, to respond.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, voice shaking. He wanted to believe you didn’t mean it. That this was just the high talking, the anger, the frustration. “Y/N, please. You know I’m not like—”

But you cut him off with a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “No, Spencer, you are. You kept that shit around like some kind of lifeline, like a fucking safety net. How am I supposed to trust you? How am I supposed to believe anything you say when you’re hiding something like that?”

He could see the pain and betrayal in your eyes, and it tore him apart. Spencer felt the weight of your words settle in his chest, heavy like a stone. He reached out to touch your arm, trying to ground you both, but you yanked away, the motion sharp and final.

"Y/N, please, I know it looks bad. I know it seems like I’m keeping something from you, but I swear to you I’ve been clean for years. I swear that it was never about you, it was just—" Spencer’s voice cracked, struggling to find the right words. “It was a part of my past I was ashamed of. I didn't know how to tell you without losing you.”

Your eyes flashed with a mixture of hurt and anger. “And now you have.” Your voice was low, trembling with barely contained rage. “You know, I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to help you through whatever you were struggling with. But you didn’t let me, Spencer. You made a choice to keep me in the dark. And now I’m supposed to what? Trust that you’ll never fall back into that?”

Spencer’s eyes were wet, brimming with desperation. “I would never do that to you. I swear, I would never—”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” you said, your voice cracking, betraying the emotions you were trying so hard to hold back. “I don't know if I can do this anymore. I can't keep looking at you and wondering when you're going to relapse or if you're hiding something else from me.”

He shook his head frantically, panic setting in as he reached for your hands. “Please don’t do this. Please, Y/N. I love you. I know I messed up, but let me make it right. Just—”

“You can’t fix this, Spencer. I don't think you can," you whispered, and you pulled away, turning from him. Your body felt heavy, like it was weighed down by all the anger and sorrow. And for a moment, all you could do was stand there, willing yourself not to break down in front of him.

The silence stretched on, suffocating. Finally, you took a deep breath and forced yourself to walk away, leaving Spencer standing alone in the cold night air, his heart shattered, his world upended.

He called after you, but his voice sounded far away, like it was drowned out by the noise in your head, the whirlwind of emotions that wouldn’t let up.

You stopped in your tracks, feeling the urge to get the last word in, knowing the wound it would leave. Slowly, you turned around, and your voice was ice-cold as you spoke. “Oh, and Spencer?”

He looked up, a glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes, desperate and raw.

“For the record,” you said, the words burning on your tongue, “if you had just been honest about your past... I would've understood. I wouldn’t have judged you. No matter what happened, no matter how bad it was—I would've accepted you. I would've even helped you get rid of the box.”

You watched as the hope drained from his face, the realization settling in. Then, without another word, you turned your back on him and left for good, leaving Spencer to stare after you, alone and devastated.

Your words cut through the air like a knife, leaving Spencer staring after you, the hope in his eyes collapsing into devastation. He felt like the ground beneath him had opened up and swallowed him whole, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move, couldn’t reach out, couldn’t make this right.

As you walked away, the finality of your steps echoed louder than anything he’d ever heard before. Spencer’s heart felt like it had been ripped out of his chest, and he couldn’t help but replay your words over and over: If you had just told me...

And just like that, the what-ifs became deafening. What if he’d been honest with you from the start? What if he’d trusted you with his pain, his struggle, his history? What if he hadn’t let fear dictate his actions?

Spencer ran a trembling hand through his hair, his chest heaving with silent sobs as you disappeared from view, the night swallowing you whole. And with each step you took, he knew it was one step further from ever getting back what he’d lost.

You had been willing to stay, to support him, to love him even at his lowest—if only he had given you the chance.

But he didn’t. And now, the person he loved more than anything in the world was gone. All he could do was stand there, his hands trembling, his heart breaking, whispering into the empty night.

“I’m sorry... I'm so sorry, Red.”

But it was too late.

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