#so i feel like i need to BE somewhere that forces me to do that

[redroomreflections]

Her Best Secret

1950s Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha and R are having an affair.

Note: I wrote this after watching Mother's Instinct with Anne Hathway and Jessica Chastain. I needed to make it gay. I don't know what this is truly but it's here.

Warnings: Smut and fluff kind off.

Picket fences. Two-and-a-half children. A dog in the yard. A steady job. A house on a quiet street. Nuclear family. Marriage. College. This was what life was about. The checklist of happiness, painted in bright colors and polished to perfection, like the chrome trim on the cars Sam sold so well.

Tonight, it all seemed true. The music drifted out from the open windows of Steve and Natasha’s house, mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass and neighbors' laughter on the patio. The neighborhood had turned out to celebrate Sam’s big promotion—another shiny star on the life everyone was striving for. You stood by the punch bowl, watching as Natasha twirled beneath Steve’s hand in the center of the makeshift dance floor. Her laughter was light and infectious, her cheeks flushed in a way that made her even more stunning under the string lights. She looked happy—effortlessly so.

Your gaze lingered a moment too long before you turned away, your hand brushing absently over the fabric of your dress. Sam was recounting the story of his big sale to an eager group of neighbors somewhere nearby. You could hear his voice rise and fall, full of charisma and charm, the same traits that had swept you off your feet all those years ago.

"Mama, come dance with us," Claire demanded as she tugged on your hand. Your daughter was the perfect mix of the two of you, and she never ceased to make your heart swell. You smiled down at her, smoothing the hair out of her face and taking in her toothy grin.

“In a minute,” you promised, swirling the punch in your glass. “Let me finish this.”

“Okay,” Claire shrugged, already distracted. She launched into her version of the jitterbug as “Why Do Fools Fall In Love” spun on the record player. Her tiny feet shuffled wildly, arms flailing with abandon. It wasn’t quite the jitterbug but hers, and she owned it.

You smiled, watching her. The song brought back memories of Sam. You could almost feel the warmth of his hands around your waist, guiding you through the steps, the two of you laughing and stumbling over each other in the middle of your living room. A good memory.

“It’s a great party, right?” came a voice behind you.

You turned to see Sarah Wilson, her warm smile disarming as always. She was one of those rare people who could make anyone feel at home. Your sister-in-law had been a steady presence in your life, offering unsolicited advice and unwavering support.

“Oh, of course,” you nodded, eyes flicking between Claire’s eclectic moves and Natasha and Steve, who were swaying comfortably in the center of the dance floor. “Everyone seems to be having a good time.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Sarah chuckled, nodding toward the dance floor. “I didn’t think Natasha would ever get Steve out there. That man’s all business. But look at them now.”

You smiled into your glass, forcing a little laugh. “They seem like they’re enjoying themselves.”

“Speaking of enjoying,” Sarah said, her tone shifting as her gaze landed on Claire. “Your little one’s a great dancer. She’s got rhythm for sure.”

“Thanks,” you said, feeling a touch of pride.

“Have you two thought about giving her another playmate?” Sarah’s voice was casual, but her eyes gleamed with curiosity.

The question was unexpected, and you took a step back. It was a fair question. Most couples with kids would have more than one. You had known that since the day Claire was born. But the thought of having another child—with Sam, of all people—made your stomach churn.

Sarah was waiting, and you knew her well enough to know that she would keep pressing until you answered.

"Oh, well,” you began, fumbling for an answer, “I’ve been thinking about returning to work. It’s just not the right time for us.”

Sarah arched an eyebrow, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “Work, huh? Well, I’m sure Sam has his own thoughts about that.”

Before you could respond, Sam appeared beside you, his arms wrapping around your waist. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his easy grin softening the tension in your chest.

“Oh, nothing,” Sarah said lightly, though her tone betrayed her nosiness. “We were just talking about Claire’s dancing—and whether she might get a little brother or sister someday.”

Sam glanced at you, his brow lifting in amusement. “Is that so?”

You felt your cheeks warm as you shrugged helplessly.

“She said she’s thinking about returning to work,” Sarah added, her teasing smile turning to him.

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “Come on, Sarah. Leave her alone. She’s got enough on her plate without you playing matchmaker for the kids. If you'll excuse me, I want to dance with my wife."

Sarah rolled her eyes at her brother. Then, with a quick wink to you, she said, "Okay, okay, I can take a hint. But don't go too far. We're doing the fireworks after dinner and need help setting up all the chairs."

Sam took your hand and pulled you out onto the dancefloor, ignoring his sister, twirling you playfully before pulling you close. His eyes shone, and you wondered how much he had had to drink. It didn’t matter. You needed this right now; you needed to feel the warmth of his skin against yours and a distraction from seeing her with him.

"I didn't know you were thinking about returning to work," he said, his eyes searching yours.

"It's been on my mind, yes," You nodded.

"I thought we agreed you didn't need to," He tilted his head slightly. "You'd be leaving Claire with a babysitter or at daycare. We can afford to take care of her ourselves."

"I know, but..." You trailed off.

He grinned down at you, his frown barely noticeable as he leaned closer. “But what?”

You laughed softly, letting him spin you again, your hesitation hidden behind the dance. “I just… I like the idea of doing something for myself again, you know?”

Sam pulled you close, his hand firm at the small of your back. His grin widened, his tone teasing. “You mean besides raising the most beautiful kid in the neighborhood?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his charm. “Exactly,” you quipped, tapping his chest lightly. He pulled you tighter to him.

"I know it's what you want," He whispered. "But you look so beautiful when you're pregnant."

You rolled your eyes. "You're ridiculous, Sam."

"I'm just being honest," He said, his tone light and playful.

"You're drunk, and I'm tired." You tried to pull away, but he held fast, his hands firm on your hips.

"You know you want to," he teased, his breath hot on your ear. Finally, he sighed. "I love you."

"I love you, too," You muttered, closing your eyes as his lips brushed your temple. When he moved to kiss your lips, you didn't pull away. You loved Sam. You really did. You always had.

And yet...

"Okay, lovebirds,” came Natasha’s voice, cutting through the music with playful ease. “Sam, let me take her away. It’s my turn to dance.” She said it with a teasing grin, the kind that made her so easy to like. Natasha, your closest friend, was a familiar presence, one the neighborhood never found threatening.

Sam chuckled, loosening his hold on your waist. “Fine, but don’t wear her out,” he replied with mock seriousness. "I need her tonight."

You pulled away and offered him a polite smile, careful not to meet his gaze.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Sam exchanging a glance with Steve. The two men shrugged, their silent communication as effortless as their friendship. They knew nothing could come between the two of you.

“You alright?” Natasha asked softly, her voice low enough for only you to hear.

“I’m fine,” you replied.

She smiled, her lips curving into that mischievous way of hers, her eyes sparkling like she already knew the truth. “Good. Let’s go find some real fun.”

Before you could respond, she grabbed your arm gently but insistently, steering you off the dance floor and down toward the basement. She fumbled for the light control before pulling the string.

“What are we doing down here?” you asked, a small laugh escaping as she guided you to the landing. "I'm going to twist my ankle."

Natasha continued. “Sometimes a girl needs to breathe,” she said lightly, though there was an undercurrent to her words. "And Steve keeps the good beers down here."

"Well, thank God for Steve," you laughed.

"Amen," Natasha nodded as she rumbled through the deep freeze. "Ah, we only have one."

"We can share it," You shrugged. "We have the best stories, and I think we've earned it."

"Cheers," Natasha said as she raised the can and pulled the tab to open it. She wasn't anticipating the rush of foam that exploded from the top, so she stepped back in horror. Droplets landed on the floor and her dress.

"Oh no," You groaned.

"Shit," She muttered, trying to brush the beer off her front.

"Oh, no. Natasha, I'm so sorry. Come here," You reached for the paper towels on the table and tried to wipe off the beer. "I think I made it worse."

"Yeah, me too," Natasha muttered, frowning as she dabbed at the wet stain. "God, I can't believe this. This is the worst."

You sighed, trying not to laugh. "It's not that bad. Just tell people it's a design feature. Or... or pretend it's a bloodstain. Tell people you got a little violent."

Natasha's laughter bubbled up, and she gave you a playful shove. "Don't joke like that! My blood is supposed to stay on the inside, thank you very much. Also, it's clear, and blood is red."

You chuckled, reaching for the can. "Here, give me some of that."

Natasha relented and watched as you sipped from the can. Her eyes never seemed to leave you.

"So...how's Sam?"

"He's...good."

Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's it?"

You shrugged. "What do you want me to say? He's...good. Things are good."

"Mmm," she hummed, tilting her head slightly.

"What?" you asked, your voice coming out more defensively than you intended.

"What were you guys talking about?"

"Nothing. It was nothing. Just...work. Stuff. Things. Nothing important."

Natasha pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh."

You sighed, trying not to fidget under her stare. "He wants another baby."

Natasha blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"How do you feel about it?"

"I don't know," you shrugged. "I mean, I love Claire, and I don't know if we're ready for another baby. And..." You trailed off.

"And?"

"It's just...hard," you admitted quietly. "He's so attentive when I'm pregnant, and I get to spend a lot of time with him, and then when the baby comes, he gets so busy. It's just...hard. And sometimes, I think maybe it would be better if we didn't have any more kids."

"You don't want Claire to have a sibling?" She probed. "Are you guys being careful?"

"By careful, do you mean not letting him finish inside me?"

"Um, yes?"

"Then yes," you confirmed, nodding. "Do you really want to hear the ways Sam and I are practicing safe sex?"

Natasha laughed, the sound soft and low, a private melody just for you. “No, no, I don’t,” she said, shaking her head slightly. She would rather you not sleep with him at all. She sighed, the corners of her mouth tugging downward, then licked her lips—a slow, deliberate motion that drew your attention, as it always did. That shade of red was your favorite on her, and she knew it.

Her green eyes met yours, steady and probing. “Are you happy?”

The question hit you like a stray gust of wind, sudden and disarming.

“Of course,” you replied, the words tumbling out too fast, too practiced. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

Natasha raised a single, elegant eyebrow, the expression laced with skepticism. “Because I can tell when you’re lying,” she said plainly, her tone cutting through your defenses like a knife through butter.

Your shoulders slumped slightly as you leaned against the countertop. The calm surface grounded you, though it couldn’t stop the swirl of emotions rising in your chest. “It’s just hard sometimes,” you admitted quietly, almost to yourself.

Her gaze softened, the sharp edges of her wit giving way to something warmer, something more tender. “Yeah, I know,” she murmured.

She set down the beer can she’d been holding, the metallic clink almost imperceptible under the weight of her words. Her fingers drummed on the countertop; the rhythm was uneven, nearly hesitant, as if her thoughts were tangled in the silence between you. The crimson polish on her nails caught the dim light, matching the glow in her eyes as she studied you.

“Sometimes,” she began, her voice barely audible, “I think we forget we’re allowed to want more.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the implication hanging like unspoken truths. You glanced back toward the stairs, where laughter and music blasted above you, but it felt a world away from this moment.

“And what if we can’t have more?” you asked, your voice trembling just enough to betray the depth of the question.

Natasha’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Then maybe we take what we can get,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving yours. Before you could respond, Natasha's lips were on yours. Soft. Warm. Inviting. Her arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from her body.

A quiet moan escaped her, muffled against your mouth, and you could taste the sweetness of the beer lingering on her tongue. You closed your eyes, losing yourself in the warmth of her touch, in the familiar scent of her perfume. Your mind raced, and yet your thoughts were perfectly still. Her body was so different. Her touch was so different.

A loud thump, followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter, cut through the air. Then a cry and a scream of "Mama" followed. Natasha pulled away quickly, her face flushed, her breathing uneven. You glanced at the ceiling, the spell between you broken. That was the cry of your child.

"I should probably go and check on her," You said while Natasha spoke.

"We should probably get back," Natasha murmured.

You nodded, unable to meet her eyes. Wiping your mouth, you glanced back at her before heading upstairs.

*****

You could smell the firecrackers before you saw them, the sharp scent of smoke mingling with the sweet smell of hamburgers grilling. Claire sat in your lap, the three-year-old tired and sleepy from all the excitement. You couldn't blame her after the day chasing the other kids around the house.

Claire leaned her head against your chest, her eyes heavy with sleep. You rubbed her back absently, smiling at how her small hand curled around yours.

The sky was dark, but the backyard was lit by the string lights draped over the trees and the fireworks in the sky. You were amazed at how she could sleep through this. Sam sat next to you in the grass, his arms wrapped around your waist and his hands rubbing your side. He felt at home.

Briefly, you could see a flash of the light catching across a couple, and your eyes moved towards them. It was Natasha and Steve. He stood almost a foot taller than her, his arms wrapped around her midsection as she leaned back into his chest. They looked comfortable like they belonged together. How their bodies seemed to mold into each other was the kind of thing romance novels talked about.

They were so beautiful together.

The thought made you uneasy.

Sam leaned over and whispered in your ear, his breath warm on your skin. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," you murmured, leaning into him. "Just a bit tired. She's a heavy sleeper."

He chuckled softly, his hand reaching up to caress your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin, and you closed your eyes, enjoying the sensation.

"You know, it's our anniversary tomorrow," He said, his tone casual, but the meaning behind his words clear.

"Oh," you said, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice.

"Yeah, five years," he smiled.

"Wow, I can't believe it's been that long," you admitted.

"Me neither," he grinned, kissing your lips softly. You couldn't see Natasha's eyes on the two of you.

Sam looked up and noticed the fireworks lighting the sky. He nudged Claire and whispered, "Come on, sweetheart. You're going to miss the fireworks."

Claire lifted her head, blinking blearily. "No, Daddy. I'm sleepy," she whined.

"Come on, pumpkin. Let's watch the show," Sam coaxed, his voice gentle and coaxing. Claire groaned softly but let Sam lift her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, her tiny hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. “Alright, pumpkin,” he said with a chuckle, “just for a little while.”

You watched them walk toward the edge of the patio, where the first bursts of fireworks lit up the night sky. Claire’s sleepy eyes reflected the vibrant colors as she yawned against her daddy's chest.

Five years. It was a long time. You'd built a life together. One you were proud of. One you were comfortable with.

Your eyes drifted to the couple again, and your chest tightened. Natasha and Steve looked so natural together. So at ease. And then there was you, feeling like an imposter. You weren’t the girl Sam fell in love with anymore. You weren't the one who wanted all the same things he did. And you couldn't tell him. You couldn't shatter his image of you.

Sam whispered something into Claire's ear, lifting her head to look at you.

"Mama, come watch."

"In a minute, baby," you called, your voice thick with emotion.

You swallowed hard, trying to fight back the tears. How could you be so selfish? Sam had given you everything. He had given you Claire. You were blessed, yet you couldn't seem content with what you had.

Natasha echoed in your mind: Sometimes we forget we're allowed to want more.

*************

Tuesdays were sacred. At exactly 12:30, without fail, Natasha would appear at your front door, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as she walked the three doors down. By the time the clock struck the half-hour, you would already have the kettle whistling on the stove and the good china laid out.

It started as a casual thing—a neighborly gesture during those quiet, lonesome afternoons when the house felt too big and Sam was at work. But over time, it became something more. A ritual. A promise.

This Tuesday was no different. You were finishing the vacuuming when you heard Claire shriek with laughter from the living room. You smiled to yourself, knowing what that meant.

You rounded the corner, the vacuum still humming, and saw Claire spinning in circles as Natasha crouched down to her level, a broad smile on her perfectly painted red lips.

“She’s getting good at this,” Natasha teased, catching Claire mid-spin and lifting her off the ground.

“Too good,” you replied, switching off the vacuum and leaning against the doorway. “She’s going to join the circus at this rate.”

Natasha laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Her gaze traveled to the hallway and the bags of groceries waiting by the front door.

"Let me help," She said, setting Claire back on the floor.

"Thanks," you murmured, grabbing the nearest bag. "I don't know why I let Sam talk me into doing this today."

"Probably the same reason I let Steve convince me to get the new patio furniture," Natasha chuckled, following you into the kitchen.

"He can be persuasive, can't he?"

"Yeah, yeah, he can," She agreed, her tone wistful.

"It's not a bad thing," You said, placing the bags on the counter.

"Tasha, come play," Claire begged.

"In a minute, little one," Natasha promised. Claire nodded and rushed back into the den with her toys.

"How about some tea?" You offered.

"You read my mind," Natasha smiled.

You took the teapot from the cupboard and filled it with water, watching as the steam rose from the spout. Your thoughts drifted back to that night in the basement, and you wondered if Natasha felt the same. There had been many nights like that. Many shared kisses. Shared looks. You think back to that night months again when you'd given her her first orgasm at the hands of a woman.

It was a moment that changed things. It was the moment you knew you were done pretending.

"I'm glad we have this," Natasha murmured.

"Tea?"

"No, silly. Time." She turned to look at you, her green eyes softening. "I'm glad we have this. This friendship."

You couldn't help but smile. "Me, too."

"So," Natasha said, leaning against the counter and folding her arms over her chest, "how are things going with you and Sam?"

You shrugged. "Good."

"That's all you're going to give me?" She prodded, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"There's not much to tell," you admitted.

"You guys had an anniversary a few nights ago," Natasha reminded you.

"Do we discuss the juicy details like that still?"

Natasha hesitated, then shook her head. "No, but I'm asking because I care about you, and I know Sam has been a bit persistent about the baby thing."

You sighed, turning back to the stove. You were silent.

"I'm sorry," Natasha said quietly. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, no, it's fine," you assured her. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Nothing."

"Hey, it's just me," Natasha reminded you gently, reaching out to touch your arm. "You can tell me anything."

You hesitated, then blurted out, "What are we doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Us," you said, gesturing between the two of you. "What are we doing? Is this just a...thing?"

Natasha blinked, her expression unreadable. "A thing?"

"Yeah, like, I don't know, an escape or something," you tried to explain. "Like, a distraction."

Natasha shook her head slowly. "No, no, I wouldn't say that."

"Then what would you say?"

"I'd say that I enjoy spending time with you. I'd say that you're a beautiful, smart, funny woman, and I'm lucky to call you a friend."

"But what does that mean?"

Natasha stepped closer, her hand moving from your arm to the small of your back. Her gaze never left yours, her eyes searching for an answer to a question she couldn't quite voice.

"It means that I care about you," she said softly. "And if you ever need a distraction, I'm here."

"What if I don't want a distraction?" You breathed.

"What do you want?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You didn't answer. Instead, you pulled her across the kitchen to the laundry room. You left the door open to hear Claire in case she needed you. In an instant, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to hers, kissing her like it was the last time.

She kissed you back, her hands resting on your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. Her tongue parted your lips, and you tasted the sweetness of her breath. Her hands moved lower, sliding over your curves, and you moaned softly against her mouth.

"Tasha," You gasped as her fingers traced the waistband of your jeans, her touch burning hot against your skin.

She broke the kiss, her eyes dark and hooded. "Yes?"

"I want you."

"I'm yours."

Her lips crashed against yours, and her hands fumbled with the button of your jeans, her touch making your skin tingle.

"Tasha, we can't Claire's here." You reminded her between kisses.

"She's playing," Natasha muttered, her fingers finally popping the button. Before either of you could ponder her statement, the front door opened. In a flash, Natasha was in the kitchen, pushing the rest of the groceries into the fridge as you attempted to gather your bearings. She was so fast.

"Hello?" Sam's voice called from the foyer.

"We're in the kitchen," You answered, closing the laundry room door and ensuring it was locked.

Sam walked into the kitchen, his suit jacket draped over his arm and his tie loosened. "Hey," he smiled. "I thought I'd surprise you guys."

"Well, it worked," Natasha laughed.

"Sorry, I forgot my lunch. I'll grab it and head out," Sam said, moving past the two of you. He glanced between you, his gaze lingering on your face.

"I'm going to finish the dishes," You murmured, turning away.

Sam stopped and frowned. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile. "Just feeling a little tired."

"You should rest," Sam stepped closer to you. "Have a cup of tea?

"I will."

"Good," Sam leaned forward and kissed your cheek. "Love you."

"I love you too," You said, the words coming out automatically. Sam lingered, landing another sweet kiss on your lips.

Natasha looked over her shoulder at you, her expression unreadable. "Sam, before you go, can I ask a favor?"

"Of course."

"Can I borrow a screwdriver? We're working on the deck chairs, and one of the bolts keeps slipping," She explained, her voice surprisingly steady.

"Sure, no problem," Sam said, digging through a drawer. He pulled out a screwdriver and handed it to Natasha. "Here you go."

"Thanks," Natasha smiled. "Oh, and before I forget, I'll have those pictures of Claire for you next week."

"Thanks," Sam replied. "And thanks for keeping them company."

"My pleasure," Natasha grinned.

"Okay, I'm heading back out. See you later, baby," Sam kissed you once more before disappearing into the foyer. The front door opened, then shut, leaving the house strangely empty.

"That was close," Natasha said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "Yeah, it was," you agreed. "But it was worth it."

"Do you regret it?"

"No," you said without hesitation.

"Me neither," She murmured, stepping closer.

You leaned into her, resting your head against her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. "Tasha?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being there. For being my friend. For just being...you."

Natasha hugged you, her arms wrapping around your waist and her chin resting on your head. "Anytime," she said softly, and you knew she meant it.

*****

Drive-In Night was interesting. It's a couple's night, truly. The four of you would get together and watch whatever movie was playing. This time, it was How to Marry A Millionaire. You all piled into Steve’s car, a vintage Chevy that seemed as timeless as its owner. It was a tight fit, but no one complained. The air buzzed with the crowd's excitement as headlights flickered across the makeshift parking lot of the drive-in theater.

Natasha sat into the passenger seat, leaning her elbow out the window, her eyes scanning the packed lot with a subtle smirk. “I’m impressed, Rogers. Didn’t think you’d show up for something so… pink.”

Steve laughed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “What can I say? I’m broadening my horizons.”

From the backseat, you chuckled. “You mean Natasha dragged you here, didn’t she?”

“Guilty,” Steve admitted, glancing sideways at Natasha, who simply shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like Sam and I had a choice.”

Sam, beside you, snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Real gentlemen, right?” He stretched his arm along the back of the seat, pulling you closer. “But hey, don’t think I’m above enjoying a rom-com. I’ve got range.”

Natasha tilted her head back, laughing. “Sure, Wilson. You’ll be crying by the second act.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Sam fired back, grinning.

You rolled your eyes fondly. They constantly bickered like this, but it was good-natured. You could tell they were friends. Real friends.

The movie began, and the warm glow of the screen washed over the car. The plot unfolded with charm, full of meet-cutes, sassy best friends, and conveniently timed rainstorms. It wasn’t bad, but you couldn’t help but notice Sam shifting every so often, clearly restless.

“Alright,” Sam announced midway through a particularly swoony montage. “Steve, snacks?”

Steve glanced at Natasha, who was far too engrossed in the movie to notice him leaving. “Yeah, good idea. You girls want anything?”

You and Natasha exchanged a look. “Popcorn,” you both said in unison.

Sam and Steve left the car, their silhouettes fading into the crowd as they made their way to the concession stand. Moving closer to the front seat, you shifted and settled comfortably against the backrest.

Natasha glanced over her shoulder, a smile playing on her lips.

You smiled back.

The moment passed.

"You're so far away," You whispered.

"I know," she whispered back, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. "Come closer," She whispered. You climbed into the front seat, quickly glancing at the long concession line.

"Is this better?" You asked, settling in.

"Much," she said, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You're cute," She said. What she was doing was risky business. While it was dark, anyone with eyes and the guts to look your way could see.

"So are you," You responded.

"I want to kiss you."

"You do?"

"I do."

"I want to fuck you," She said.

Your heart hammered in your chest, the heat between your thighs growing with each passing second. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You leaned in. Her hand rested on your thigh, rubbing you through your skirt. "Tasha," you whimpered.

"Yes, kitten," she whispered.

"We can't"

"Why not?"

"It's too risky."

"No one's looking."

"What about Sam and Steve?"

"They're at the concession stand. And the movie is loud."

"But what if someone hears?"

"We'll be quiet."

"We've never been quiet," You giggled.

"We'll try," she whispered. She knew she didn't have much time. She needed this to happen and fast. Her hand slipped under your skirt, and she felt the dampness of your panties.

"Jesus, you're soaked."

"I can't help it."

"Neither can I."

She slid her hand down, pushed your panties aside, and plunged her fingers inside you. Your hips bucked, and you bit back a moan.

"So tight," She moaned.

"So good," You whimpered. She was an expert by now. She knew your body well and learned how to make you cum.

She fucked you hard and fast, her fingers hitting all the right spots. She was gentle while somehow being able to get you there so quickly. You couldn't moan or tell her how close you were. You couldn't even thrust into her fingers. You could only sit there and take it. Your face remained natural even as you closed your eyes. The pleasure was too intense, and you wanted to focus on it. You wanted to savor every second.

When you came, you bit down on your lip, drawing blood. Natasha watched you come undone under her hand.

"You are perfect," She whispered, leaning in and kissing your cheek. You were a trembling mess.

"Tasha," You breathed, trying to catch your breath.

"I can't wait to do that again," She said.

"Me too."

She kissed your cheek once more before sitting back.

You were her best secret.

[nerdygirlramblings]

omegaverse 141

a/n part of this once again inspired by @dragonnarrative-writes and their comment on a previous chapter. also, if you have ideas for a title, that'd be great 😂

cw: a/b/o dynamics and typical omegaverse breeding (m! and f! omegas can get pregnant) mentioned

previous

In the interim between your meeting with Captain Price and dinner with the task force you call your family pack. You know your moms and dad will give you their honest opinions, and right now you want that more than anything.

"Hey pretty girl," Dad says when he picks up the video call. "Everything okay? You usually don't call on a weekday unless we've planned it." For a moment you simply take in his smile and the way he's trying to reassure you.

You deflect. "How are you feeling, Dad?" He's carrying another litter, and after losing the last two, you know how important it is to everyone that this one is successful.

"Your moms have pretty much put me on bed rest," he says, rolling his eyes. "But you called us, honey, what's going on?"

You sigh. This is what you called them for. "Well, I wanted your opinion on something," you tell him.

"Just my opinion, or do you want the moms' too?"

You tell him you want everyone's opinion, so he moves through your childhood home to where your moms are, each room he passes drawing forth another bittersweet memory that has you missing him and your pack even more.

He finds your moms in your childhood bedroom, being transformed into a nursery, again. He sits on the rocking chair you remember, the one that floated between the three kids' bedrooms each time there was a new litter. Once your moms are standing behind Dad, you tell everyone about the offer to join Price's task force, and by extension his pack.

The more you tell them, the more your mind snags on how appealing being part of a pack is. But you can't help but be scared of the implications of that desire. Despite how Price laid things out, it's going to be hard enough to prove you're worthy of being on the 141, and if you become part of their pack, you'll never escape the talk about sleeping your way on the task force.

Your parents can tell your mind is somewhere else when you hear Mum insert your name into Bowie's "Space Oddity."

"Sorry, Mum. Wha' was i'?"

"I was just saying this - the task force, I mean - sounds like a great career opportunity. But I can't abide how much more danger this puts you in."

Mama adds, "Sounds like this alpha knew how to broach this. Didn't cock it up. And I agree with Mum, this is much more dangerous than what yer doing now. But sweetie, ya didn't see yerself when ya talked about what this would mean ta ya. And what doors it might open for other omegas like your brother."

You tear up. Both your moms see this for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity it is. You notice no one's mentioned the other half of Price's offer. "Dad?" you prompt, "Wha' da you think?"

Dad watches you for a few minutes, smiling but sad: you can see it in his eyes. "I think you need to say yes, honey. Even if it scares us more, i's the right thing fer you." Your moms don't chime in; they don't need to. But you need want their thoughts on becoming a pack omega, Dad's in particular.

"And the other part?" you ask quietly, looking away.

"Honey, becoming pack omega fer yor moms was one of the hardest and easiest decisions I ever made. I love yer moms," you watch their faces through his declaration, both putting a comforting hand somewhere on him, "and they gave me all of you pups. If Price is as good an alpha as he is a Captain, if 'e's a guiding hand for his pack, then you couldn't have a better mate. In the end, trust your omega."

And that's the crux of the matter isn't it. Your omega has been scratching at your hind brain all afternoon because she wants to take Price up on both offers as soon as possible, but you need to be smart about optics and your career.

You tell your parents you love them and thank them for their honesty, promising to tell them what you decide before the ink dries. You end the call with a few minutes to spare before dinner and take that time to pull your emotions together.

next

[mmso-notlikethat]

What You Wanted, What I Needed

Bucktommy Ι WC 4.3k Ι M Ι Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fix-it (if you want it to be) Ι cw: Dubious Consent this is inspired from this post .. Ooh look another Drunk!Tommy fic 😶‍🌫️ Below or on ao3

The bar was loud and crowded, the kind of place where people disappeared into the noise and shadows. Tommy sat hunched over the counter, nursing what must have been his third—or maybe fourth—whiskey of the night, after a couple of beers. His face was flushed, his shirt slightly untucked, and his metallic eyes heavy-lidded from a haze of alcohol and exhaustion.

“Hey there, handsome,” a voice said, low and syrupy.

Tommy turned his head sluggishly to see a man sliding onto the stool next to him. The guy was tall, with dark hair slicked back, and he wore a cocky smirk that immediately set Tommy on edge.

He sighed, the sound almost defeated. “Not interested,” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly as he turned back to his drink.

The man chuckled, unfazed. “Aw, come on. You don’t even know what I’m offering yet.”

Tommy frowned, blinking blearily at the whiskey in his glass. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “I’m not interested.”

The man leaned closer, resting his elbow on the counter and angling his body toward Tommy. “You look like you’ve had a rough night. Maybe I can help you forget about it.”

Tommy’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “Yeah? You got a time machine in your pocket?”

The man laughed, though there was a sharpness to it. “No, but I’ve got other things that might help.” He leaned in further, his voice dropping to something more intimate. “What’s got you so down, huh? Work? Love life? You can talk to me.”

Tommy shook his head slowly, his movements uncoordinated. “I don’t wanna talk,” he said flatly.

“Then maybe we don’t have to talk,” the man replied, his tone suggestive.

Tommy finally looked at him, his expression half-annoyed, half-bemused. “You don’t take a hint, do you?”

The man smirked, undeterred. “Not when I see something I like.”

Tommy sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just want to drink, alright? Alone.”

“Drinking alone is no fun,” the man countered, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Besides, I can see it in your eyes. You don’t really want to be alone. Not tonight.”

Tommy frowned, something tightening in his chest at the words. He didn’t reply, his gaze dropping back to his drink.

The man took his silence as an invitation, shifting closer until their arms nearly brushed. “Come on, don’t play hard to get. I know what you want.”

Tommy stiffened, his discomfort growing. “I said no,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual strength.

The man’s eyes flicked down, and his smirk widened. “Yeah, sure. You’re saying no, but your body’s saying yes.” He nodded toward the faint outline of a bulge in Tommy’s pants.

Tommy flushed, embarrassment mingling with frustration. “That’s not—”

Before he could finish, the man’s hand was on his thigh, squeezing lightly as he leaned in.

“Relax,” the guy murmured, his lips brushing against Tommy’s ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Tommy froze, his body stiffening as the man pressed a hard, insistent kiss to his lips. His sluggish mind struggled to keep up, the alcohol dulling his instincts and making him feel disconnected from his own body.

The man tugged at his arm, pulling him off the stool with surprising force. “Come on,” he said, his voice low and coaxing. “Let’s find somewhere more private.”

“Wait—no, I—” Tommy stammered, his voice weak and unconvincing as the man began steering him toward the bathrooms.

“Shh,” the man murmured, a smug grin curling his lips as he pressed Tommy against the wall just outside the hallway leading to the bathrooms. “You’re overthinking it.”

Tommy’s hands came up, palms weakly pressing against the man’s chest. “I’m not—just stop, alright?”

But the man didn’t stop. Instead, he leaned in, capturing Tommy’s mouth in a hard, forceful kiss. The pressure of his lips was overwhelming, silencing Tommy’s protests as the man’s hand slid down to grip his ass firmly.

Tommy let out a muffled sound of protest, his hands pushing harder against the man’s chest, but his strength was fleeting. The alcohol coursing through his veins left his movements sluggish and uncoordinated, his mind hazy and slow to react.

“Relax,” the man said against his lips, his free hand sliding under the hem of Tommy’s untucked shirt to graze the bare skin of his lower back. “You’re just nervous. I’ll make it good for you.”

Tommy turned his head, breaking the kiss as he shook it weakly. “No… I don’t want—”

The man silenced him again, this time by nipping at the side of his jaw, his lips trailing down to the sensitive spot just below Tommy’s ear. His grip on Tommy’s ass tightened, pulling their bodies closer together.

Tommy’s breathing hitched sharply, a soft, involuntary moan escaping his lips as the man’s teeth grazed his skin. His head spinning not just from the alcohol but from the intensity of the moment. His body felt disconnected from his mind, and his protests faltered. For a fleeting moment, he stopped resisting, his hands dropping limply to his sides.

The sound seemed to spur the man on. He smirked against his neck, sensing the shift. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice smug and coaxing. “I knew you wanted this. Just like that. Let it happen.”

Tommy shivered, his chest rising and falling unevenly. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol clouding his judgment or the overpowering weight of the man’s presence, but for a moment, he didn’t push back. His protests faltered as a wave of disoriented emotion surged through him. Desperate for something he couldn’t name. Maybe if he leaned into this—into him—it would quiet the ache. Tommy tilted his head back and leaned forward, pressing his lips to the man’s in a clumsy, uncoordinated kiss.

The man grinned against his lips, one hand sliding further down Tommy’s back while the other cupped his jaw to keep him close. “See?” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. “You’re into it. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

One hand slid lower, undoing the button of Tommy’s jeans with practiced ease.

Tommy flinched at the action, his hands coming up weakly to push at the man’s chest. “Wait, uh—” he started, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man grabbed Tommy’s wrists with his free hand, pinning them against the wall beside his head. “Stop pretending,” he murmured, his voice low and smug. “You don’t have to play hard to get anymore.”

Tommy’s head lolled slightly, his eyes fluttering shut as confusion and exhaustion clouded his thoughts.

“Hey!”

The voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a knife. The man froze, his hand stalling mid-movement as both he and Tommy turned toward the interruption.

The man stopped, his scowl deepening as someone tried to step between him and Tommy.

“Let him go.”

“What’s your problem, man?” the guy shot back, his grip still tight on Tommy’s waist. “Mind your business.”

The person didn’t flinch, their stance firm and unwavering. “He’s my business. And he said no. So, let him go. Now.”

The man scoffed, his sneer widening. “He’s into it. We’re just having a good time. Right?” He looked at Tommy, whose head lolled slightly as he struggled to focus.

Tommy blinked sluggishly, his body swaying as he processed the question. “Uh… yeah,” he mumbled, the words barely coherent.

The man smirked triumphantly, tightening his grip on Tommy’s arm.

But then, Tommy’s lips parted again, a faint flicker of recognition cutting through the haze as he murmured, barely audible, “Evan…?”

The man frowned, glancing back at the newcomer—Buck. “Fuck off. This has nothing to do with you.” His hand tightened on Tommy’s arm, trying to pull him away.

Tommy winced, his body swaying.

The tension in the air snapped.

“I said, let him go.” Buck’s voice was low and dangerous now, and before the man could react, his fist connected with his jaw in a clean, decisive punch.

The man staggered back, his hand flying up to his face as he let out a curse. “You son of a—”

“You’re done,” Buck snapped, his voice a sharp edge.

The man hesitated, his eyes darting between them. He muttered another curse, but this time he took a step back, rubbing his jaw before storming off into the crowd.

Tommy stumbled as the grip on his arm disappeared, but strong hands caught him before he could fall.

“Evan…?” Tommy slurred again, his voice barely above a whisper as he blinked up at the person now holding him steady.

Buck’s jaw tightened, his protective stance softening as he steadied Tommy with a firm grip. “Yeah, Tommy. It’s me.”

Buck’s eyes dropped briefly to Tommy’s disheveled appearance—his shirt untucked and his jeans still undone. Silently, Buck adjusted the hem of Tommy’s shirt, smoothing it back into place. Then, with careful, efficient movements, he fastened the button on Tommy’s jeans and pulled up the zipper. His touch was steady and unhurried. Tommy didn’t protest, his body leaning limply into Buck’s care.

“There,” Buck said softly, his hands brushing Tommy’s arms briefly. “Okay, Let’s get you out of here.”

*

The car ride was tense. Tommy leaned against the window, his face turned away from Buck.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Tommy muttered, his voice pouty and petulant.

Buck glanced at him briefly, frowning. “Do what?”

Tommy turned his head, his cheeks flushed. “Interfere. I had it under control.”

Buck let out a sharp breath, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “He was dragging you to the bathrooms, Tommy. That’s not under control.”

Tommy pouted, his voice stubborn. “I wanted it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Buck said, his frustration slipping through.

“I did!” Tommy snapped, his voice cracking. “I wanted to feel something. You didn’t have to take it away.”

Buck glanced at him again, his voice dropping. “Tommy, he was taking advantage of you. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

Tommy scoffed, his voice sharp and cutting. “What, couldn’t stand seeing me with someone else?”

Buck blinked, momentarily stunned. “What!” he snapped, his voice louder than he intended, before catching himself. His grip on the wheel tightened as he exhaled sharply, his tone more controlled now. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Tommy turned back to the window, pressing his forehead against the glass mumbling, “Maybe I wanted to be taken advantage of,” he mumbled, his voice quiet and bitter. “That’s what I’m good for anyway.”

Buck’s jaw clenched, his grip almost breaking the wheel as a wave of frustration and hurt washed over him. He said nothing for the rest of the drive.

*

Once inside Tommy’s house, Buck guided him to the couch. Tommy flopped onto the cushions with a heavy sigh, letting his head fall back. He stared up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

“You don’t have to stay,” Tommy muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion and alcohol.

“I’m not leaving you until you sober up a little,” Buck said, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over Tommy, who barely acknowledged it.

Tommy sat up suddenly, his movements unsteady and jerky. His glassy eyes locked onto Buck’s, and for a moment, he just stared at him. Then, his lips twisted into a bitter smile.

“Why not?” Tommy asked, his voice trembling. “Because you feel sorry for me?”

Buck crouched in front of him, resting his hands on his knees. His expression soft as he said quietly, “No, Tommy. Because I care about you.”

Tommy let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and broken. “You care about me?” he echoed, his voice rising slightly. “Then why did you let me leave? Why’d you let me push you away?”

“Tommy,” Buck began, but Tommy cut him off.

“No!” Tommy snapped, his voice cracking. “Don’t give me that look again. I know, okay? I know I fucked it all up. I know I ruined everything!”

Buck’s heart ached at the raw pain in Tommy’s voice. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches away, but Tommy jerked back, clutching the edges of the blanket tightly. His hands shook, and his eyes darted away, unable to meet Buck’s gaze.

For a moment, Tommy sat in silence, his breaths uneven and shallow. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the blanket like a lifeline, his lips pressing into a thin line. Buck exhaled softly, standing up to give Tommy some space, his movements hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure what he should do.

Tommy’s gaze flickered toward him briefly, his expression unreadable before he looked away again. The quiet stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Then, Tommy’s voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper. “You took it from me,” he said, his tone fragile, as if the words themselves might shatter him.

Buck frowned, his brows knitting together. “What are you talking about?”

Tommy’s eyes filled with tears, and his voice cracked as he said, “That guy. You took him away, so—so give me this. Please.” His voice wavered, his tone desperate, as he reached out, his trembling hand brushing against the buckle of Buck’s belt.

Buck stared at him, stunned. “Tommy, no. That’s not—”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Tommy whispered, his voice breaking. His glassy eyes locked onto Buck’s, his desperation palpable. “No one has to know. Just… please.”

Buck froze, his breath catching as the weight of Tommy’s words crashed over him. His stomach churned, his heart breaking at the sheer hopelessness in Tommy’s voice.

“I’m sober now, I promise,” Tommy said suddenly, his voice shaking as he gripped Buck’s shirt with trembling hands. “I know what I’m saying. I do.”

Buck’s brow furrowed, his heart twisting at the clear lie. He gently caught Tommy’s wrist. “Tommy, stop. You’re not sober, and this isn’t about anyone else. It’s about you. You’re hurting, and—”

“Please, Evan,” Tommy interrupted, his voice cracking as his hands fisted in Buck’s shirt. His grip was tight, frantic, as though letting go would mean losing everything. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to take him away and leave me with nothing. Just—just give me this. Let me have this.”

Buck opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Tommy surged forward, his hands gripping Buck’s shirt tightly. With surprising strength for someone so unsteady, Tommy tugged Buck downward, closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together in a desperate kiss.

For a moment, Buck froze. Then, against his better judgment, he leaned into the kiss, his hands landing lightly on Tommy’s hips. Tommy clung to him like he was drowning, his fingers twisting in Buck’s shirt as he deepened the kiss, pouring all his heartbreak and longing into it.

But then Buck’s mind caught up with his emotions. He felt the trembling in Tommy’s body, the dampness of the tears on his cheeks. This wasn’t right.

Buck pulled back slightly, his hands gently wrapping around Tommy’s wrists to lower them. “Tommy, stop, no,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion

Tommy shook his head, his tears falling freely now. “Why not?” he cried, his voice breaking. “Because I’m pathetic? Because I ruined everything?”

“No,” Buck said softly, cupping Tommy’s face. His thumbs brushed away the tears that streaked Tommy’s cheeks. “Because you deserve more than this. We both do.”

But Tommy wasn’t ready to give up. He clung to Buck’s shirt, his grip tight and frantic. “I need you,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Please, Evan. Just—just make me feel something. Anything.”

“Tommy…” Buck’s voice broke slightly, his own eyes starting to sting as he fought back the swell of emotion. “I can’t. Not like this.”

“Please,” Tommy whispered against his lips, his voice so weak it was almost inaudible. “I can’t—I can’t do this alone anymore.”

Buck’s breath hitched, his heart breaking at the desperation in Tommy’s voice. “You don’t have to,” he murmured. “I’m here Tommy.”

Tommy let out a choked sob, collapsing against Buck’s chest. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he whispered, his words muffled against Buck’s shirt. “I don’t know how to fix me.”

Buck’s arms instinctively wrapped around him, holding him close, but before he could respond, Tommy tilted his head up. His warm, uneven breath brushed against Buck’s neck.

“I just—I feel so broken,” Tommy murmured, his lips grazing Buck’s skin as he spoke. His hands slid up Buck’s chest. “You make it better, Evan. You always made it better. Just… let me have this.”

Buck froze as he felt Tommy press a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck.

“Please,” Tommy whispered, his voice trembling. His lips moved against Buck’s skin, trailing kisses up toward his jaw. “I need you. Just for tonight. Please…”

“Tommy,” Buck said, his voice breaking, a mixture of pain and restraint. “This isn’t the way. You know it’s not.”

Tommy ignored him, his tears still falling as he clung to Buck with desperate strength. “Why not?” he whispered, repeating the question again and again, his voice cracking. “Why not me? Why can’t I be enough for you?”

Buck pulled back slightly, cupping Tommy’s face in his hands to make him stop. “That’s not what this is about, Tommy. You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”

Tommy shook his head, his teary eyes locking onto Buck’s. “Then why did you leave? Why didn’t you fight for me? For us?”

Buck’s heart ached at the raw vulnerability in Tommy’s words, but a flicker of anger rose at the unfairness of his accusation, tightening his jaw. “I didn’t leave,” he said quietly. “You’re the one who left, Tommy. And it killed me, but I swallowed it—because I thought it’s what you wanted.”

Tommy’s lip trembled, and he tried to lean in again, his mouth brushing against Buck’s. “Then take me back,” he pleaded. “Take me back, Evan. I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Just—just don’t leave me alone.”

Buck caught his hands, stopping him before their lips could meet. “Tommy,” he said, his voice firm but trembling slightly. “I can’t—not like this. You’re hurting, and you’re not thinking straight. I won’t take advantage of this. You mean too much to me.” He paused, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he added, “Tomorrow, if you still want to—if you remember—we’ll talk. Properly. You and I will fix things.”

Tommy let out a strangled sob, burying his face in Buck’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to fix it—me,” he repeated, his voice breaking. “I don’t even know where to start. I keep trying, and I keep failing. I’m so tired, Evan. I’m so tired of failing.”

Buck’s arms tightened around him, his hand running soothingly up and down Tommy’s back. “You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to do it alone, either.”

Tommy clung to him like a lifeline, his fingers digging into Buck’s back as he cried quietly. “I just want to be enough for someone,” he whispered, his voice raw. “For you.”

Buck pulled back slightly, brushing the tears from Tommy’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Tommy, you’ve always been enough,” he said softly. “You just have to believe it.”

Tommy closed his eyes, leaning into Buck’s touch. For the first time that night, he stopped trying to fight or plead. He let out a shaky breath as his body relaxed slightly in Buck’s embrace, though his breathing hitched unevenly. His sobs grew quieter but more erratic, his body still trembling with the weight of his emotions.

Eventually, exhaustion took over. Between the waves of violent sobbing, Tommy began to doze off, his grip on Buck’s shirt loosening but not letting go entirely. Even in sleep, his body shuddered occasionally, and soft, broken sobs escaped his lips.

Buck stayed with him, his arms still wrapped securely around Tommy, offering what comfort he could. He watched as Tommy’s tears continued to slip down his cheeks, even in sleep.

Buck’s heart ached, a deep, overwhelming weight pressing against his chest. He leaned his forehead against Tommy’s for a moment, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered , his voice breaking. “I’m sorry for everything—what happened tonight, that guy and what he tried to do, for not seeing how much you’ve been hurting, for not being there when you needed me most.”

After a while, Buck gently shifted Tommy onto the couch, making sure he was lying comfortably. He tucked the blanket around him, brushing stray strands of hair from his tear-streaked face.

Tommy stirred slightly, his lips parting to mumble something. A soft sob escaped him, even in his unconscious state.

Buck stood there for a moment, watching him. The sight was almost too much to bear. Finally, he turned and quietly slipped out of the house, leaving a glass of water and a folded note on the coffee table.

*

Tommy woke up on the couch, his head pounding like a drum and his mouth as dry as sandpaper. A dull ache radiated behind his eyes, making him squint against the faint light streaming in through the window. His stomach churned violently, the nausea hitting him hard and fast.

He spotted a glass of water and a neatly folded note on the coffee table, but before he could even reach for them, his body lurched, and he barely had time to scramble off the couch. Stumbling toward the bathroom, he gripped the doorframe as he heaved into the toilet, his entire body trembling from the effort.

When it finally subsided, he sank back against the wall, his breathing ragged. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. “ugh at 40, I have to stop drinking. At all.”

The sour taste in his mouth only added to the misery, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand before dragging himself back toward the couch, eyeing the water like it was a lifeline.

He collapsed onto the cushions, letting his head fall back with a groan. The pounding in his skull hadn’t subsided, but it wasn’t just the hangover gnawing at him. Flashes of the previous night flickered in his mind—disjointed and hazy, but heavy enough to make his chest tighten.

He leaned forward carefully, his hands trembling as he reached for the folded note. His name stared back at him in Buck’s familiar handwriting.

Tommy, Get some rest and drink plenty of water. Call me if you need anything. but Tommy... please don’t call me if you don’t remember last night, or if you didn’t mean the things you said. - Buck Evan

He stared at the note, more fragments of the night before flashing through his mind. Buck’s arms around him, his steady voice grounding him, the gentle way he wiped away his tears. The memory made his chest ache, but it also sparked something else—a flicker of warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

But then other memories surfaced—hazy and disjointed, but vivid enough to twist his stomach. The man at the bar, his smug grin, and the way Tommy had clung to him, desperate to feel anything that might fill the emptiness inside. He remembered Buck stepping in, the sharp sound of his voice, and the flash of anger in his eyes.

And then—Tommy swallowed hard—the way he’d begged Buck, the way he’d reached for him, grasping at something he couldn’t name, pleading for something Buck couldn’t give. Shame curled in his chest, tangling with the lingering ache of loneliness and regret.

He let out a shaky breath, staring at the note again. Buck had been there. He’d stayed, even when Tommy had fallen apart. But had he stayed out of care… or obligation? The thought gnawed at him, leaving him feeling exposed.

His gaze drifted back to the glass of water on the table, the simplest of gestures that felt heavier than it should. He picked it up and took a few sips, the cool liquid doing little to soothe the dryness in his throat or the weight in his chest.

Fragments of the night before continued to flicker through his mind, uninvited and relentless. The man at the bar, his smug touch. The desperate words he’d hurled at Buck. The way Buck had looked at him—not with pity, but something deeper, steadier.

Tommy rubbed a hand over his face, groaning softly. What if Buck regretted staying? What if the note was just a polite way of drawing a line? The thought made his stomach twist.

And yet, despite the shame, despite the uncertainty, the pull to hear Buck’s voice was stronger.

Tommy reached for his phone, his hands trembling slightly. His thumb hovered over Buck’s name in his contacts. He hesitated, the words he wanted to say swirling in his mind but refusing to settle.

Finally, he typed:

Hey, coffee? Our regular place?

He stared at the message for a long moment, his heart pounding as he debated whether to press send. His finger hovered over the button, and then, with a deep breath, he tapped it.

The message sent, and he immediately felt a wave of nerves wash over him. What if Buck didn’t respond? What if last night had been too much? What if he’d just made everything worse?

But before he could spiral further, his phone buzzed in his hand.

Of course.

Tommy blinked, staring at the reply. It had come almost instantly, and the simplicity of it made his chest tighten, an ache that was equal parts relief and uncertainty.

He exhaled shakily, a small, hesitant smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t a declaration or a promise to fix everything. But it was something…

A step forward.

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”  — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

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

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day. 

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision. 

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated. 

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager. 

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining. 

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met. 

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library. 

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why. 

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler. 

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors. 

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself. 

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him. 

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory. 

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair. 

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library. 

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional. 

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo. 

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously. 

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers. 

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment. 

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way. 

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it. 

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses. 

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions. 

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying. 

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized. 

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English. 

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир. 

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk. 

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different. 

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs. 

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter. 

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact. 

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.” 

“Are you by any chance from Russia?” 

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces. 

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.” 

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through. 

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.” 

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it. 

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added. 

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.” 

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies—not Russian realism. 

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it. 

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped. 

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book. 

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had. 

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going. 

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review. 

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace. 

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.” 

“Thanks,” he replied shortly. 

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job. 

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Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left. 

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you. 

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure. 

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention. 

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed. 

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library. 

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory. 

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” 

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading. 

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?” 

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained. 

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown. 

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.” 

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.” 

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?” 

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier. 

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.” 

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company. 

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with. 

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added. 

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest. 

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria. 

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket. 

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created. 

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word. 

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?” 

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.” 

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal. 

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure. 

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly. 

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking. 

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration. 

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?” 

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?” 

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to. 

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile. 

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.” 

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you. 

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense. 

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities. 

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around. 

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment.  It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked. 

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated. 

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is. 

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin. 

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point. 

“A few.” 

“More than one?” 

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.” 

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.” 

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?” 

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?” 

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end. 

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.” 

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault. 

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had. 

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly. 

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.” 

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?” 

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—” 

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”  

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him. 

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.  

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see. 

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway. 

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?” 

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of. 

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing. 

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?” 

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.” 

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard. 

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually. 

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.” 

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about. 

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?” 

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that. 

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do. 

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The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there. 

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first. 

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse. 

“I listened to The Kick Inside.” 

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?” 

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?” 

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books. 

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.” 

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?” 

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said. 

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice. 

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.” 

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace. 

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.” 

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.” 

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse. 

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.” 

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.” 

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.” 

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.” 

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions. 

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body. 

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—” 

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.” 

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”  

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?” 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs. 

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh. 

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained. 

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?” 

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.” 

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly. 

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead. 

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it. 

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?” 

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though. 

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.  

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country. 

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.” 

“Kidnapped in his own home?” 

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?” 

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge. 

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it. 

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.” 

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?” 

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.” 

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work. 

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that. 

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.” 

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.” 

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked. 

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books. 

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it. 

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him. 

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?” 

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.” 

You held your breath as he gathered himself. 

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out. 

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.” 

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?” 

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.” 

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.” 

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout. 

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t. 

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it. 

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains. 

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job. 

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.  

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by… 

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain. 

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.” 

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?” 

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good. 

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo— 

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.” 

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?” 

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked. 

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all. 

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book. 

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.” 

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.” 

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker. 

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.” 

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed. 

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.” 

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job. 

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid. 

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up. 

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you. 

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it. 

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces. 

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.” 

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.” 

 “Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion. 

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.  

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?” 

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case. 

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor. 

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?” 

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name. 

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time. 

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation. 

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair. 

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him. 

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number. 

Restless and impossible, the situation was. 

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like. 

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously. 

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too. 

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move. 

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.” 

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you. 

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress. 

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.” 

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically. 

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.” 

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.” 

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply. 

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?” 

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in. 

“Yeah.” 

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you. 

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin. 

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes. 

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket. 

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?” 

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you. 

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest. 

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close. 

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window. 

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped. 

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve. 

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his. 

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious. 

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in. 

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered. 

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips. 

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.  

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours. 

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch. 

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate. 

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones. 

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot. 

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?” 

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. 

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?” 

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.” 

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended. 

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?” 

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—” 

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to. 

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?” 

“Yeah, that could work.” 

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew. 

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying. 

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.  

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”  

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub. 

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra. 

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence. 

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?” 

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position. 

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down. 

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance. 

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?” 

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth. 

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…” 

“Rude?” 

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.” 

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.” 

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was. 

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down. 

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process. 

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm. 

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm. 

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—” 

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.” 

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic. 

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement. 

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck. 

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body. 

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile. 

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him. 

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”  

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly— 

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?” 

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.” 

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.” 

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before. 

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide. 

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles. 

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.” 

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?” 

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.” 

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt. 

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.” 

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”  

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers. 

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence. 

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles. 

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly. 

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes. 

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

[admirationandromantics]

O.M.G.

I FOUND THIS PROFILE A COUPLE DAYS AGO I AM IN SHOCK YOUR WRITING IS AMAZING. back to the request, how about a submissive Josh?...where he moans and begs to be fucked and looks at you with his puppy eyes? omg that would be perfect♡

p.s.: thank you so much for your work! it's really fantastic:)

You're too sweet!!! I can definitely see him just sitting on his knees, begging you to fuck his brains out, yes. I guess many see him as kinda dominant, but I personally think he’s a switch. Anyways, enjoy some sub Josh headcanons! 

Submissive Josh

You’ve been teasing him all day, knowing that he’s been hot and bothered, not having had a chance to do something about it. You arrive inside, and he immediately starts kissing you, hoping it’ll lead somewhere. You kiss him back, but pull away quickly to take off your coat and outerwear. Taking a long time so he just stands there like a lost puppy, waiting for you to give him attention again. 

“Something wrong, Josh?” “Fucking hell, I’ve waited all day, please, just please” “A whiny mess, are you?” 

You sit him down on the sofa, placing yourself on top, straddling him. His hands wander, of course, but you don’t mind. He’s allowed to this time. While kissing, you feel him twitch underneath you, hips starting to grind against you, begging for attention. 

“Josh… You’re not gonna get anything if you keep this up” He whimpers in reply, stopping himself from getting off on you. Your hand goes to the back of his head, grabbing his hair and pulling it back. He looks up, making you lock eyes with this adorable messy man. They’re glossy and desperate, wide-eyed like a puppy, begging you for satisfaction. 

“You want me to do something?” “Yes” he whimpers, hands going up your waist. You cup his bulge, the small touch making him let out a desperate moan for more. “Tell me how much you want it” “So, so much. I need you so bad” 

With a satisfied answer, you get off his lap, unbuttoning his pants painfully slow as he starts regulating his breathing. You drag his pants and boxers down, his dick popping out throbbing and red. You take hold of him, pumping a few times slowly, causing his head to fall back on the cushions as he moans your name. 

However, you’re not done teasing him, and your tongue makes its way to his shaft, small licks all over, especially on his tip. His hips bulge automatically, wanting you to take him fully. “Can you” “Use your words” “Please suck me off, get me off, right now, please” 

He looks down, breathing heavily, chest heaving and eyes pleading. How can you say no to that? Finally, you fully take him, letting him into your mouth and filling as far as you can go, hand still squeezing his shaft and other one massaging his balls. You suck your chins in, making sure not to hurt him with your teeth. 

He pleads for you to go faster, repressing the urge to hump his hips into you, grabbing your hair and forcing your head down on him. You sense his tension, steadying yourself on his thighs as you up your speed, making him finish not long after. It had been a long day teasing him after all, and you’re surprised he even lasted this long based on it. 

You take it, showing him your tongue filled with his liquid, and swallowing it right after. He looks at you in awe as you take your place on his lap again, kissing him deeply and letting him taste himself.

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 32: One Final Breath Of Lungs To You

Content warning: Sukuna gets an extra warning for being a menace, blood, wounds, dismemberment, angst (!)

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Devil’s At Your Door - SWARM, TINYKVT Oh My Goth - Razed In Black Before I’m Dead - Kidney Thieves

* * * * *

Chapter 31

* * * * *

You run. 

It’s all you can do.

Feet pounding against fallen leaves, you tear through damp moss and hurl yourself blindly through the forest. Weaving around trees, veering around rocks, you fight for any semblance of direction, desperate for options—anything to survive this. Because if the King of Curses doesn’t kill you, your own heart will. The muscle slams so violently against your ribcage that the force alone might stop you dead.  

And, fuck, he’s coming.

The monster has given chase.

You can feel him—without needing to glance over your shoulder, without seeing the space you’ve carved between you. His presence arrives heavy at your back. First, it’s his energy that slides across your skin. Then comes the sound of his feet, crashing closer on each step.

Run.

Don’t stop.

It’s all you can do.

You can’t even think—there’s no time, no space to unravel everything you've learned tonight. Seven years ago. Your first encounter. And the way he’s waited for this moment, for you, for this. To see what you’re capable of. To push you. To face you.

And you want to turn around. To stop running. To fight him. Hurt him. You should. He deserves it. But you don’t. 

Branches lash at your face, tearing into skin as you plunge deeper into the dark. You lift your arms to shield your eyes, because this fucking forest seems determined to slow you down. Still, you go.

Run.

And run.

Run until your legs burn and ache, until your feet are covered in dirt, until the fire in your lungs is unbearable.

By the time you spot a massive tree ahead, your breaths arrive in panting gasps inside your throat. You dive behind it, pressing your back to the trunk, struggling to steady your heaving chest. The night is silent, but for the wind and the screaming pulse inside your ears.

Breathe.

You inhale, trembling. Hands tight and only tightening further around the tantō. You look down at it sitting in your palm. Graze your thumb over the engraved markings. His markings.

You hate that it’s his.

Hate him.

Hate him.

“I hate you,” you whisper under your breath.

Another swipe across the hilt. Your hands are a mess. Mottled and discoloured. You can feel your energy ebbing and flowing in your panic and anger. Out of control and only getting worse.

Your head lifts, eyes trailing up the gaunt branches above until they reach into the cold, black sky, where only a few stars sit.

Is this what you wanted?

This is what he wanted.

A slow crunch sounds over the leaves.

You freeze. Whip your head to the noise. You know that terrible sound.

Footsteps.

Closer. And closer.

“Hiding are we?” A deep, disembodied voice rattles through the darkness.

Branches snap to your left. Your eyes jump in that direction, head angling around the tree before pulling back.

The footsteps stop. The forest falls silent.

Quiet.

Back crushing into the bark, you ease along it, away from where you think he’s coming from.

“You’re so much like your father…” You hear him shift again, heavy feet dragging across the ground. “Hiding, instead of facing me.”

The grip on your weapon turns choking.

I’m not like my father.

The creature stops again. 

I’m not like him.

A cruel laugh rumbles from somewhere, sending shivers racing along your spine.  

“I’m aware of where you are,” Sukuna drawls, his voice calm, almost bored, winding through the brush with an ease that makes you hate him more. “Come out for me, snake.”

A gust of wind rattles through the woods, peeling leaves from their branches and scattering them to the ground. The forest breathes with you, alive and waiting.

Licking your lips, you slowly pull away from the tree. There has to be a way out of this. Because how the hell can you fight him? It’s impossible. Your death at his hands feels inevitable.

You could give up. Let the vow claim you instead.

No.

No.

You already know the answer—it’s just one good touch. That’s all you need.

Then, this will all be over.

Eyes scanning the surrounding murk, you back away, soundless.

Don’t breathe.

You hold your breath.

His footsteps resume.

Your eyes dart, searching the dense forest, every shadow, every shape that could be him in the night. Spotting another tree not too far away, you run to it, laying yourself against the jagged wood.

“You know,” Sukuna continues, as if in thought, “I never understood it. How someone could look at me and think, ‘Yes, that’s what I want.’”

There’s a pause. Your heart pounds into your throat as both your eyes and ears strain.

“Did you think you could change me?” His footsteps pick up again. “That I’d return to you after tearing through lives, reeking of blood and skin, just to slip beneath the covers and hold you close? Kiss you like some adoring husband—” Your brow furrows. “—lay my mouth over yours so you could taste the iron of another’s on my tongue? Is that what you were so desperate for? Because I can assure you.” His voice becomes a hiss through clenched teeth. “The taste of flesh under my teeth is far more satisfying than anything you could have given me.”

It shouldn’t hurt to hear him say these things, but it does. Too much. These cruel words break you enough for a sting of tears to threaten your vision.

Taking another step, you back away toward the next cluster of trees.

“Do you remember the first time I touched you?”

You stop.

A quiet breath punches past your lips. You know what he’s doing—goading you, pushing harder and harder.

Attack him.

“How hard you shook under my hand. Your cunt so eager, so fucking hungry. Like a starving dog, finally tossed a scrap of meat.”

Hurt bleeds into rage, climbing deeper inside your chest until its grip becomes choking. That moment, so vulnerable and personal, was something shared between you, and now it’s tainted, reduced to lies and fabrications. He had led you somewhere new, uncharted, all while trying to get close to you for this. And you had been trying to get close to him as well so you could kill him.

Both of you, in your own ways, had sought the other’s demise. Both a betrayal in some way.

More angry tears rise to stand in your eyes, desperate to fall.

“Fuck you,” you mutter quietly, taking another step—then another, the forest floor whispering underfoot.

Lost in your emotions, you barely notice the ground shifting below you. One more step and your heel catches on something brittle. A sharp jab shoots through the soft arch of your foot, and suddenly, you stumble. Panic as your legs buckle, sending you crashing into the dirt. You land hard on your side, the impact jarring your shoulder.

Shit!

Too loud.

Although he’s already aware of where you are, it’s confirmed when his deep, mocking laugh skitters over you.

“Clumsy thing."

Gritting your teeth, you blink down at where you’ve fallen and notice the ground isn’t just soil and foliage. Pale, jagged and sun-bleached fragments shine dully, sheltered within the earth. Old bones. White and broken, your feet tangled in the remnants of what was once a person's ribcage—one of Sukuna’s offerings, left to rot in his mass grave of devoured humans and animals.

Quickly, you retrieve your feet from the skeletal cavity and ignore the scorch of bile rising up from your belly.

You’d forgotten about this hellhole.

How could you?

And yet, you can’t entirely blame yourself. He’s been lulling you into a sense of comfort, slowly eroding your carefully guarded walls over time.

Pushing to your elbows, your gaze sweeps the ground again, and something else amongst the bones snags your attention.

An offering. A relic from long ago. A katana—either deemed unworthy or simply that it never made its way inside the shrine. It’s old and rusted, its tip broken, and its edge dull. But it’s still useful.

Hand engulfing the hilt, you grab it and rise to your feet. Crouching low, your fingers grip the tantō in your other hand. The katana may feel awkward, but you know it will serve its purpose.

At least, you hope.

Breaths shallow and steady, you circle the nearest tree. The only path forward is to kill him. The only way to get there is to attack.

“That’s all it took, wasn’t it?” Sukuna’s voice edges closer.

“Took what?” you spit, stepping carefully around the roots and bones at your feet. “Tell me. I’m dying to hear more of your arrogant voice.”

Weak and small. That’s what he proclaimed you once to be.

But you aren’t.

You never thought you were.

Broken, perhaps—but never weak and never small.

It’s clear now. Ryomen Sukuna never truly knew who you were then, just as you never truly knew who he was.

And that’s fine.

If he calls you a snake, then so be it.

You’re a snake—hiding in the grass, ready to strike.

“Just a touch,” he says. And you know he’s close now. “A sliver of my attention. And you fell apart like you’d been waiting your whole miserable life for it!”

Your eyes narrow.

Attack him.

You roll your shoulders, steadying your grip.

“So needy.”

You step closer to his voice.

“Your soul starved.”

Around the trunk, a flash of pink hair.

“Desperate for affection. Desperate for tenderness.”

One breath in. One breath out.

The monster ambles into view, his muscled back to you.

Attack him!

“Come out!” Sukuna growls, anger flaring. “Show me what that affection of yours is worth!”

From out of the darkness, your voice is a shriek of outrage as you lunge toward him.

The katana arcs. 

Sukuna turns.

Viciousness splits his teeth across his face.

His upper hands snap up, catching the weapon. The impact vibrates through marrow. Jaw clenching, you lean into it, but his grip tightens, his strength cracking the brittle blade.

But you aren’t done.

With his focus locked elsewhere, your other hand darts in. The tantō glints, and you thrust it forward, aiming for his stomach. 

But Sukuna’s lower hands move faster than you anticipate. One clamps around your wrist mid-thrust, the other intercepting the blade before it makes contact, the grip crushing the smaller blade from your grasp.

The tantō falls. A calculated sacrifice.

Because this was never about the fucking weapons.

When the blade hits the ground, you rotate your wrist inside his hold.

Fingers curving inward just enough, you let them graze along the underside of his forearm. The warmth of his skin against yours is nice, the touch intimate.

For the briefest moment, Sukuna’s entire presence stills.

Eyes cutting forcefully upward, a slow, bitter smile rolls across your lips.

“And now you’ll know what I’m capable of,” you snarl.

Your voice doesn’t sound human as your energy pours into your fingertips. And when the power does come, it comes faster than ever before. The King of Curses must sense it, too, because the moment he does, he drops your arm and abruptly steps back. You grin, watching as confusion twitches its way across his face before giving in to realization. 

His arrogance has cost him.

Climbing furiously along his lower left arm, the dappled stain spreads outward from where you touched. He shakes it as if to remove the decay rotting his flesh, and your eyes shine, knowing it will do nothing.

Freedom.  

At last.

You spit out a laugh, a mad, disjointed cackle.

Threatening red eyes jump to you in response, and without hesitation, the monster lifts his upper right arm, two fingers extending, and he brings it down in one brutal strike.

And severs his own arm.

You blink, watching the limb drop to the ground.

Blood spurts, oozing into the brush as the decay carves out its corrosive path. The flesh blackens, turns rancid, cracking and splitting apart, before the corruption eats the dismembered limb entirely, seeping into the earth.

By the time you drag your reluctant gaze back to Sukuna, all four of his eyes have widened, pupils dilating with something that looks disturbingly like exhilaration. Head tipping back, a shudder courses through him, and all his eyes roll, dark and wild.

Shit.

You step back.

Calm.

You back away.

“I always knew,” he murmurs, voice trembling with a sadistic kind of ecstasy. “That you were a sickness.”

Another step.

He rolls the stump of his shoulder, regrowing the severed arm. His mouth curves up.

“But I never knew how much until now.”

Then he moves.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

You hurl the katana at him. He swats it aside like it’s nothing, laughing as it hits the ground.

“You know, the third time you tried to kill me, when I had my nose shoved against your clit, you went for my head.” He circles two fingers near his temple. “I’ll admit, that was clever. The brain is... inconvenient to heal, especially with that—” he gestures toward your hands. “What are we calling it anyway? That nasty little trick of yours?”

You keep stepping back, but he keeps coming.

“A decay of the body,” you state, forcing your voice to sound calm.  

Sukuna nods, expression stamped into one of enchantment.

“And what happens once the rot spreads?”  

Your eyes dart behind you, ensuring you won’t collide with a tree, before snapping back to him.  

“The body can’t sustain itself.” Your words climb an octave. “And it splits open.”

At “splits open,” he looks feral.

“Oh, my darling!” he practically booms, making you recoil. “You are fascinating! And to think, I let you get so close to me with those hands of yours.”

Four eyes drag over you, studying you with a primordial stare equal parts appraisal and disgust.

“Yet here I am, wondering…” His teeth grind into a sneer. “If I should give you another chance to try.”  

Panic spreads as his muscles tense. His naked torso swells, all four hands clenching and unclenching, ready to attack.

“Let’s see if you can.”

You don’t see him move.

In seconds, the distance between you disappears, and he arrives with his upper right hand hurtling forward.

Feet pivoting, you twist into a half turn to avoid the strike. A rush of air brushes past your face—he just missed. But the next blow is already careening toward your head.

Panicking, you drop into a crouch, narrowly escaping. He corrects his stance, instantly driving his lower left hand toward your stomach.

You roll, dodging. Barely.

Up and then—

Left.

Right.

Sideways.

Backwards.

Over.

Under.

Fuck!

It becomes harder to track him—his speed a blur. And he’s toying with you, the strikes landing everywhere but near your outstretched hands. Your torso. Your chest. Your legs. Your—

The ground is gone.

Stomach lurching, you’re whipped into weightlessness, spinning, then crashing back down to the earth. 

Your body tumbles, rolling over and over and over again until you land hard on your back.

Above, the stars are gone. Around you, fallen leaves and twigs puff out. A moment, and only a high-pitched trill rings inside your ears from the heavy impact.

You lay there, gasping, reeling.

Get. Up.

If you don’t, you’ll die.

You blink, then push up to your knees, suck in a tight breath, reorient yourself.

Pressure.

You lift your head.

Sukuna’s energy suddenly surges.

Terror, as you realize—too late—there’s no time to move.

From out in the dark, you see one of his hands swipe the air.

Then pain.

It cleaves into you, hot enough to sear all the way from tendon to bone to the roots of your teeth.

You look down.

Blink down.

Trying to make sense of what he’s done.

Blood. Sticky and warm. It soaks slowly but vividly through the fabric of your yukata, spreading from the clean slash cut into you from shoulder to collarbone.

“Whoops.”

His chuckle reaches you.

“Looks like I missed.”

It’s clear he’s done playing.

Lifting a hand, you clap it over the wound.

It hurts.

Fucking hell, it hurts.  

Fingers trembling, you hold the flayed skin together, desperately trying to stave off the agony.

“You know what happens now.” Sukuna’s voice brings your chin up, and you find him standing at a distance, the width of the dark forest framing him like a throne.

“I’ll take your head next,” he states, his upper right arm extended, the tip of his two fingers pointing toward your neck. “Unless you fight back.”

He starts walking toward you.

“So fight back.”

You blink at him, trying to decide what to do, and all the while, an ache in your fingers throbs painfully equal to the wound he’s inflicted.

Panic? Or something else?

Eyes dropping to your hands, the discolouration now crawls and licks its way up to your wrists.

Your gaze darts back to Sukuna. He’s closer now, but he doesn’t need to get near to kill you—so why hasn’t he done it yet?

“Fight back!” he orders, swinging up his arm.

With no time to think, you dive forward, dropping to your hands and knees, and plunging your fingers into the earth.

You’ve never done this before. But it’s your only idea. One stupid, desperate idea you might not even be capable of.

Fingertips groping, you search. Feel. Look.

Most of the vegetation is lifeless. You need something alive for this to work. It has to be alive. You think, you hope—panic hinging on the faint memory of that night inside the rocky overhang when you destroyed the moss with a touch.

“Come on…” you whisper, teeth clenched as his footsteps draw nearer, louder.

You don’t dare look up. Your eyes stay fixed on your hands, the way they move around through the darkness.

Rock. Dead grass. Broken branches. Fallen leaves. Sap. Soil.

“Come on!”

“Hurry up, winter flower.” His voice ahead coos. “Else, I’ll peel back your skin like pretty red petals.”

“Shut up!”

Sukuna chuckles.

Shrivelled mushrooms. Damp bark. Dirt and dirt and dirt and—

Then you feel it. Cool and soft against your skin.

Moss. Alive.

Quickly, so quickly, you focus, flattening your palms and massaging deeper into the network of its body.

Please fucking work!

The connection gushes. Power slides into your veins, lifting every hair along your body. A floodgate thrown wide open—something unlike anything you’ve felt before.

From where your hands touch, the ground begins to peel away like dead skin. 

Rot spreads.

Everything alive within its path withers, turning sickly brown, then souring into dust. 

It keeps going. Spreading.

Plants and brush disintegrate first, followed by the roots of a nearby tree. With its foundation devoured, it crashes to the ground. Then another falls. And another. And another.

Animals scatter in every direction, screaming and swarming away from you in a hopeless attempt to escape. Birds take flight. Mice, rabbits, insects—anything with legs scrambling through the undergrowth—rush to flee as fast as they can.

And it doesn’t stop.

The chaotic energy inside you keeps wailing. Uncontrolled and untamed.

But you pour everything into it anyway. All your hatred. All your rage. Take it all and feed it toward him. 

Because if he’s taught you anything, it’s that anger is a pathway to power.

Isn’t it?

As if in a trance, your shoulders undulate and dip. Your hands digging into the earth, breaths short, ragged inhales.

This is what you wanted!

Eyes glazed with euphoria, you look up and find the monster. He’s grinning, violently wide, stepping back just enough to stay ahead of the outspread.

“Good girl. That’s it!” He steps lightly, heavy body agile within the chaos. “Show me more. Keep going!”

Confusion paints your expression at his unexpected praise. More than that, the look on his face. He looks pleased, ecstatic, delighted... almost proud. Proud of what you’ve done, of what you’re doing. It’s so disorienting and contradicting that you don’t even notice when the decay slows, its frenzied path tapering out until it stops completely.

The grin on his face vanishes, replaced by a deep frown.

All at once, he’s moving toward you, feet treading through the fractured destruction you’ve just caused.

Moonlight filters through the remaining trees, slicing in pieces and illuminating the powerful lines of his body.

A warning rings out inside your mind.

“I said, show me more of you!”

Before you can move, he reaches where you kneel and bends down. Snatching your wrists, he wrenches your hands from the soil with his lower hands and lifts you up in his grasp.

“Fuck you!” you spit as he deliberately pushes your fingers into clenched fists, his massive hands engulfing yours, ensuring you can’t touch him.

Shoulder screaming in pain, you thrash uselessly against the hold, powerless to free yourself.

Suddenly, his upper left hand clamps around your head. Palm pressing into your face, two fingers part just enough to keep your view unobstructed while the others dig painfully into your jaw.

“When I tell you to show me,” he snarls, his voice deep and cruel, “you show me!”

Before you can respond, something tugs sharply at your yukata, yanking you forward and forcing your back into an arch.

Through the narrow gap between his fingers, you see his maw has opened and is dragging the fabric inward between its massive teeth.  

A feeble cry of rage flies from your mouth, muffling against his palm, legs kicking wildly in the air.

He laughs.

“I wonder what you’ll taste like, crushed inside there,” he hums, then pauses.

The pull grows stronger. Your body edges closer. His laughter grows more manic. You can see him glaring at you through the outlines of his fingers. 

“We can find out. Unless you do something.”

The maw drags you in further, its massive teeth grazing the softness of your hip.

You frantically wiggle your hands, trying to move a finger, any of them.

Nothing.

Panic.

“I hate you!” you shout, your voice ripping through the night, loud enough to echo.

Sukuna’s mouth twitches, throat turning solid. For a moment, you want to look away, but you can’t. Something quiet passes across his features, making your heart stagger. You can’t name it, and you don’t care. It vanishes like everything else.

“You hate me?” he says flatly before his face darkens. “Speaking of hate as though you’ve truly tasted it. What a sacrifice you must have endured.” He leans in while pulling your face closer with his palm. “I’ve fucking despised you for seven long years!”

Another yank. You shriek at him, kick your feet aiming for anything. Dampness soaks your legs. Something wet slides across your thigh. The large tongue presses against your exposed skin through a tear in the fabric.

Your rage mutates, reforms and takes shape.

It's becoming difficult to breathe.

You thrash violently, but Sukuna doesn’t let go.

A strange pricking sensation needles along your hands. With his hand clamped tightly over your face, it’s not something you can see.

But you feel it.

A pulse.

It picks outward and moves, pushing further this time—flowing through your hands and into somewhere else. You aren’t sure, but it stings along your skin.

The King of Curses’ grip suddenly loosens with a growl. His fingers release you, and you drop to the ground on your backside, gasping and coughing for air. 

Looking up, you see the maw with a strip of fabric pinched between its teeth, but the smell of decay has your eyes shooting up. Rot spreads rapidly along Sukuna’s lower arms. The flesh splits, devouring him.

You don’t care how you managed to pull it off, and you don’t wait to see what happens, either. You know what’s coming. He’ll dismember his own limbs to stop it.

Scrambling to your feet, you turn and run.

Get back to the shrine.

Hopefully, now that he’s seen what you’re capable of, the vow is fulfilled.

This will grant you time to get away and maybe enough space to head to the stables, collect Ayana and escape this place.

Sprinting through the trees, weaving around rocks, the blood from your shoulder taps steadily to the ground. Your desperate gait carries you quickly, and slowly, the shrine comes into view, peeking through the crowded trunks of trees.

Bursting out of the forest, you make it into the garden, clambering onto a stone path, before you feel him.

Energy. Pressure. Right at your back.

No!

You try to move for cover, but suddenly, you’re hunching over with your breath torn away.

Another sharp slice carves through your body, this time, across your lower back. The fabric resting there, and the skin, shredded.

Mouth agape, you can’t breathe, the cry of pain lost somewhere inside your throat.

Drip, drip, drip.

Warm blood trickles down your backside, winding in slow currents between your thighs before pooling at your feet.

You stop moving, teeter on your heels, unbalanced by the force of the strike.

There was no hesitation behind that cut. But still, he hasn’t gone for the killing blow. Not yet. Though, like this, you might bleed out before he gets the chance.

Blinking rapidly, you force yourself to move.

You have to.

Because if you’re going to die, it will be inside his shrine, cursing him and this place to hell with one final breath of your lungs.

The slow drag of your legs across Sukuna’s private garden is agonizing, each step a nauseating limp.

When you reach the verandah, you know he’s behind you. You can hear the full weight of his feet.

Pushing yourself up the steps and into his chambers, you bang the door shut behind you. Staggering through the darkened room, you move toward the door leading to the corridor, the passage you’ve walked through so many times, and reach for it.

Where would be the best place to bleed out?

It’s a morbid thought, but the idea of Uraume or Ren having to scrape your broken body off the floor brings a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Because they’re all liars.

All of them.

But none more than the abomination at your back.

Palms outstretched, you reach the door. Your hands, now clear from the discolouration of rot, touch the wood just as the garden door behind you falls open.

You don’t hear Sukuna step inside. 

He’s silent.

But the silence lasts for only seconds.

“Fuga.”

Inside the room, the silver-blue moonlight scattered across the walls is swallowed by a sudden eruption of firey red. Warmth explodes, spreading across your body and sinking deep into the wounds and cold sweat at your back.

Eyes falling shut, you still, dropping your hands limply to your sides.

From your dreams or, rather, memories, you already know what awaits you. Divine flames. Hot and burning with the intent to kill.

How is it that after all of this—after everything you’ve done just to protect your sister—this is how it’s supposed to end?

The sacrifice you’ve made. The bullshit you’ve endured.

When will it stop?

Because you’re tired. 

So damn tired.

Blood pitting against the floor, you slowly turn. The blazing arrow, aimed directly at your chest, illuminates the night from the garden door where it’s been drawn. Its angry glow reflects the fury of the demon wielding it.

Blinking at all that orange and all the red flickering embers before you, you let out a soft, panicked laugh.

Sukuna draws back further, twisting his forearm, the tension in his body visible as he lifts his chin.

From where you stand across the room, you swallow, straighten, and mimic his motion, tilting your head upward to try and meet his gaze. Dying while staring into those familiar red eyes seems a fitting end.

A heartbeat passes.

Then two.

Chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, you continue to stand there and wait.  

And wait.  

And wait. 

And nothing happens.  

He doesn’t release it.

He declared you were to die here tonight.

So, why hasn't he released it?

A muscle pulses in his jaw while his nostrils flare. Upper right elbow cocking rigid, he pulls the arrow back further—every tendon standing out against the red glow, the flames shuddering under the weight of his power.  

Again, you brace yourself, expecting to feel the heat of it lancing through your body, flesh burning from bone. And still—nothing. 

Your mouth tightens with frustration.  

“If you’re going to do it, then do it already!” you snarl, hands locking into fists.

A pause.

You wait.

With renewed fury, his eyes harden.

And back, and back, and back he pulls.

Clarity gathers.

A thousand moments stretch out in a single heartbeat—terrible ones.  

Your father shouting, striking you. The cat you accidentally killed under your hand at nine. Waking to the bloody remains of your mother and unborn sibling after touching her. Meeting the King of Curses on the dirt-packed road. The blade in the dark as Sayuri stabbed into you. Onishi’s eyes, cold and cruel. All the nightmares of your sister being violated because of your failure—and all the ones that followed.

You blink, refocusing on the man before you. Watch him hold your life in his hands and force yourself to think of everything else.

Falling asleep warm and safe next to your mother. Your sister’s smile, her words dragging you from the darkest corners of your life. Uraume’s quiet care when you were at your most vulnerable. Strolling through the shrine’s blooming garden with Ren. Ayana, riding her, the cool breeze on your face when she runs.

And still, always last.

All of Sukuna’s hands on you for the first time—the way it felt, the way you didn’t agonize over someone’s touch, his body close to yours. His hands healing you after Sayuri’s assault, and every time after. The look on his face—the fury, the concern—despite his claim to feel nothing.

The flames before you collapse, hissing and dissipating to nothing. They die out. The room returns to cool darkness, smoke lingering for a moment, then curling out the garden door and into the night. The King of Curses lowers his arms to his sides. 

You blink. Furrow your brow. Confused. Angry. Annoyed. Frustrated.

He can’t.

“I knew it,” you breathe, shifting in the bloody slick forming at your feet. “You can’t…”

You pause. Blink again. Try to tame your heart that beats too loudly.

“All these hesitations, the declaration to kill me…”

Another pause.

“You can’t do it,” you say, tilting your head gently, pitying him. “Can you?”

Sukuna says nothing, but his red eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

You take a small step forward.

“You are a hypocrite.”

Another step.

“Spineless.”

One more.

“Just like everyone you claim to be beneath you.” Your voice is quiet before it rises with the hammering pulse inside your veins. “You are fucking coward, Ryomen Sukuna!” you finish in a wild shout, teeth bared.

If ever there was a mistake you couldn’t take back, it was now.

Gone is the hesitation in his eyes, replaced only by aggression. Feet padding softly, you back away as if that look has seared into you. Seared and burned away that hesitation.

From across the room, his powerful legs and gait carry him toward you. In an instant, he barrels into you, wrenching a cry from your lungs. His lower hands seize your wrists, yanking and bending them so your fingers are tucked into the small of your back, unable to touch. 

“You are an affliction. One that should be dead a thousand times over!” he snarls, towering over you, eyes wide open as if he's finally realized something terrible.

His full weight crashes down against you as his upper right hand wraps around your throat and squeezes.

“Then why aren’t I!?” You suck down a ragged breath, fighting against the pressure.

“Quiet!”

When his hold tightens, the veins in his forearm flex and his eyes—so very dark in the dim room—lock onto yours.

“I’ll just have to crush the life out of you.”

With a violent push, you lurch forward, closing the remaining space. Grip tightening, his face dips toward yours, so near you can see the fine striations in his red irises. So close, the rings in his eyes appear endless, their depths pulling inward. His pupils darken, absorbing the silver-blue light, and in them, you see your own reflection.  

But it’s not just your face you read in that gaze. It’s everything else.  

Hatred. Anger. Hunger. Desire. Want.

The pain of wanting. A longing so consuming that your heartbeat stumbles and falls still.

Against all reason, your chin tilts upward, inviting something you can’t quite name, but you, too, feel that longing. And everything else. Every raw, visceral emotion you’ve felt these last few months burns between you like fire.

Sukuna’s grip tightens further. Your throat aches, his fingers jab in, his brow twitching with rage. It creases, hardens, then softens.

And you hate that, hate this duality between him.

Hate it.

Hate all of it.

The confusion. The hurt. The desperation. The torment. The need.

“Do it already!” Agony catches your shout coming out as a strangled hiss.

It falls quiet save for your struggling breaths for air and his heavy breathing. The King of Curses stares down at you with those void, demonic eyes of his, his weight pressing you harder into the floor.

“If we hate each other so much, then finish it!” Your glare clashes with his widening sneer. “Kill me! I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you! So release me from this cursed fucking union!”

His fingers dig deeper, harder, crueller, thumb moulding firmly against your windpipe. Darkness creeps along the edges of your vision.

Trembling, your lashes shudder. Trembling, you try to breathe.

His gaze narrows, his bare torso heaving, nostrils flaring. All four of his eyes drop to your lips.

Your mouth parts in a final, desperate attempt to inhale.

And then—

Exhale.

But it doesn’t come. It’s gone, cut off, swallowed.

A snarl rips from Sukuna's chest as he surges forward, hauling you closer, crushing you against him. The hand squeezing your throat releases, only to bury violently into your hair, fingers gripping the back of your head and yanking you to him. Your eyes widen, you tense, lips nearly brushing his, but he stops, just barely.

A moment of resistance.

Like all the other times before.

You lock eyes, faces so close, mouths parted you feel his breath mingling with yours. Your hearts pound in unison, chests heaving, panting. A small, involuntary whimper escapes your throat, and Sukuna’s jaw clenches tightly in response.

Then, madness takes over.

His mouth slams down while you push up on your toes to reach for him. The desperation, the fury, the need—it’s all-consuming. The pain in your body, the wounds, the exhaustion. Gone.

They all fade to nothing as your starving mouths finally find each other and seal together.

[sykesandskittles]

CHAPTER 7

Harlow

HIS LIPS ARE TOUCHING MINE, and I hate to admit it, even to myself, but my brain goes foggy. My knees go weak, and my heart feels like it’s trying to hammer its way through my ribs.

I hate this. I hate how quickly my body responds to him.

I suck in a breath and try to pull away, but Noah holds me tightly. His huge arms are like iron bands that are twisted around me, cadging me in. Holding me in place.

You’re already mine.

A fissure of heat cracks open inside me. I want so badly to belong to someone. I’ve always dreamt about that—finding my person. What would he look like? How would we find each other in this huge, crazy world?

But never, ever, in my mind’s eye did I see someone like Noah Sabastian as my person. And I’m not going to start imagining it now. He’s a hot guy who makes electricity zip through my veins. But that’s it.

If I’m being honest with myself, Nathan is more my speed. Quiet and a little awkward. Not handsome, but not hideous either, not that looks really matter all that much to me.

Swallowing, I pull my head back slightly and look Noah square in the eye. “Let me go.”

One side of his mouth curls up sardonically. “Freedom is going to cost you.”

I know he’s just referring to my physical freedom in this moment, but the prospect is tempting anyway. Mainly, because tingles have already started sweeping over my body, and honestly, a couple more minutes in his embrace, and I don’t know what I’ll do.

“What do you want?” I bite out.

“I want you to suck me off,” he says evenly.

I look at him like he’s an alien. “I’m not doing that here.”

After the words jump from my mouth, it occurs to me that I didn’t tell him to fuck off and dream on. I’m such an idiot. I just said I wouldn’t do it here. But that obviously implies I’d be willing to do it somewhere else.

Honestly, though, the thought of Noah’s hard cock in my mouth… sends heat coursing through me. Fuck. I’m more twisted than I’ve ever given myself credit for. But worse than that, I’m no better than every other girl on this fucked up campus.

“A kiss will do for now.”

The smile on his face tells me everything I need to know. This is all a game to him. This beautiful guy just loves toying with me, and I get the feeling, it’s more for amusement than anything else. Maybe he’s bored with the other girls, and fancies someone a little more challenging—someone who doesn’t automatically fall at his feet. But whatever his reason, I really don’t have time for any of it.

“My friend is waiting for me,” I say .

He laughs under his breath, which is really just a puff of air. “Sounds like a her problem to me.”

He leans in and brushes his mouth against mine. The heat from his lips sears me, and I suck in a breath. My head is swimming from the whiskey, which isn’t helping my situation at all.

“Don’t,” I whisper, but too late. Just as the sound leaves my lips, he kisses me. It’s a hard kiss, filled with unspoken words of longing and control—and fuck me, but his veracity actually turns me on. I melt beneath him. Like, every other fucking simp here, I fucking melt.

My hands find the muscles of his shoulders, and like a damn fool, I open my mouth, just slightly. Inviting him in. Inviting the devil into my

soul.

Electricity zips through my veins, and I find myself leaning into the kiss as his tongue twists with mine. He devours me, and I let him. In fact, I like it far more than I should.

“Hey, yo, Noah.” A voice breaks through the darkness, slicing through our little stolen moment. “Nicholas brought a fucking bong. You better get in here before it’s sucked dry.”

I’m breathless when he pulls away. With a devilish grin, he pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look at him. “You taste like candy,” he says, amusement in his tone. “I can see how someone might get lost in you.”

What a strange thing to say.

I blink at him. “No one has ever gotten lost in me.”

He laughs, and releases my chin, turning toward his bro. “We’ll be there in a sec.”

I catch a glimpse of the guy, just as he’s walking back into the house. I think that one is Nick. He’s tall with dark hair and built like a beast. As he turned away, there was a dark glint in his eye, and I can’t help but wonder if he intentionally interrupted our kiss.

Noah takes me by the elbow and guides me inside.

“I need to find my friend, Talia , ” I say, tripping over the little mounds in the sand. It’s a weak excuse to get away from him, but it’s all I’ve got.

He doesn’t respond to me, and with all the loud music, I wonder if he even heard me. I try to tug my arm out of his hold, but that just causes him to tighten his grip.

Perfect.

He pulls me through the crowd to a room in the back. As we pass through the living room and kitchen, I scan every face for Talia , but I don’t see her at all.

We step over the threshold into the garage, which is set up like a den. The furniture is plush, and there are a lot less people in here. It’s obviously the inner sanctum where the elite of the elite get away from the unwashed masses.

“Yo,” Noah says, flicking his chin.

Several people immediately launch off the sofa, creating space for me and Noah to sit. I sit on the edge of the sofa cushion, too nervous to completely relax. Noah, on the other hand, sinks right in, like he’s sitting

on his throne. Maybe he sees this entire town as his throne. I wouldn’t be surprised.

Everyone is just drinking, playing pool, or bullshitting, and I take the opportunity to look around. I recognize a couple of faces—Nick, and Nicholas, but I don’t see his twin, Jolly. He must be out there amid the partygoers somewhere.

But one strange thing I notice is that every girl here is slicing me up with their stares. I’ve invaded their territory, and they’re not happy about it . If only they fucking knew I don’t want to be here any more than they want me here. They can have Noah Sabastian for all I care. I’d be happy to

hand him over to any one of them.

As Noah talks in low tones to some guy next to him, I pull my phone out and text Talia .

Where are you?

I swear to God, if she ghosts me and doesn’t show up at this party, I’m going to be pissed. I didn’t subject myself to Noah’s attention, just for her not to show. I’m doing this for her. If she didn’t look so damn depressed this morning, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be tucked under my blankets watching something mindless on YouTube.

Someone hands me a cup. “Here. It’s the good stuff. Not that swill they have out there.”

I scrunch my brows together, but I take it. I don’t know if I should trust a drink that someone just randomly gives me, but I also don’t want to be rude. I guess I’ll just hold it until I can find somewhere to ditch it.

“Thanks,” I say, looking at the girl who gave it to me. It’s Wyn. “Oh, hey!”

“Hey, girl,” she says with a smile, sitting in an empty chair next to the sofa, closest to me. “Harlow , right?”

“Yup.”

She laughs. “Everyone on campus is talking about you. I told you, right?”

I scoff. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Wyn takes a sip from her red solo cup and leans back in her chair. “I mean, you are fucking the hottest guy on campus, and that’s newsworthy at

ExU.”

I slide a quick glance to Noah, who is currently being fawned over by three very attentive sorority girls. I should probably feel jealous or something, but honestly, I’m just a little relieved his focus is diverted away from me for the moment.

“I’m not fucking him,” I say. “I’m here to meet Talia if she’d ever fucking text me back.” I glance at my phone again. Nothing. “Have you seen her tonight?”

Wyn shakes her head. “Nope. Sounds like you need a tracker on that girl. My friends and I all have an app that tells us exactly where the others are.”

That sparks a memory, and I gasp, sitting up straighter. “Oh, my God. You’re brilliant. Talia installed something like that on my phone a couple of weeks ago.” I search through my phone for the app. “I totally forgot about it.”

A couple of weeks before coming to ExU, Talia insisted we install tracker apps on our phones, so we could find each other easily on campus. Thank God! I mentally praise Talia ’s foresight.

I find the app and open it. It pinpoints Talia 's phone instantly, and it’s….on the beach, about a half-mile away. “What the fuck is she doing there?”

Wyn leans in. “Let me see.”

I show her my phone, and she squints, trying to orient herself on the map. She uses her fingers to zoom in. “Hold up, that’s weird. This stretch of beach here–” She indicates an area on the map “–is private. No one goes there.”

Something in her voice, the way she says that, makes my heart jump up into my throat. “I should make sure she’s okay. ”

Wyn nods. “I’ll go with you. Let me just tell Gabriel I’m leaving.” I wave off her offer. “Oh, no you don’t—”

“I know these beaches like the back of my hand. Plus, it gives me a reason to get out of here.”

I watch Wyn cross the room and whisper into a guy’s ear–handing off his shoulder. This must be the guy she’s dating, the guy she mentioned yesterday. He’s cute—I’m mean, all the guys around here are—but he’s not quite as beautiful as each one of the Sacred Sons. That level of perfection seems exclusive to them.

Wyn pulls away from the guy, and he nods. She heads back over to me with a smile. “Okay, ready. Let’s go.”

“Ah, okay.”

I set my cup down and get up to leave, but Noah’s hand flies over and grips my elbow, stopping me. “Where are you going?”

I open my mouth to say something, but Wyn beats me to it. She reaches over and removes Noah’s hand from my arm. “We’re going to the bathroom,” she says, annoyance in her tone. “Damn, Noah. Controlling much?”

I could just tell him where I’m going, but chances are, he’d stop me from leaving—or worse, he’d insist on joining us. Neither option is worth having a conversation with him about it, honestly.

“Don’t wander off,” he says with a growl, and I see the warning snap in his eyes.

Fuck him.

I’m finding my friend, and I don’t give a fuck what Noah says about

it.

[nameuserlee]

Sylus — Night of Secrecy 💋❤️

❤️- Screenshots -❤️

❤️ - Kindled scene below the cut + my thoughts/rambling -❤️

.

.

.

Uhm. Wow. Just, wow. My sincere congratulations to Sylus and MC, the kiss card finally came and so did they, hallelujah.

I still can't believe this card is real, though. I'm genuinely dizzy, and I mean that in the best possible way. Because it’s sooo perfect. 10/10. No notes. Would swipe for again in a heartbeat.

I didn’t really know what I wanted their first kiss to look like. But I know that whatever I could’ve imagined wouldn’t have been nearly as good as this was. Now let me yap about this!

MC finally gets to bring Onychinus' leader to her place! After learning he needs a place to crash for 3 days before leaving for “business”, MC very generously offers her apartment as a safe house, both to keep him close and to figure out where he’ll be going since he won’t tell her (for her safety, of course).

And my god, these 3 days of them living together are the cutest, most domestic thing I’ve ever had the pleasure to read.

Shopping for groceries together, getting him his own pair of house slippers, him using (all of) her body wash. Sylus being in her space feels right, despite the smaller doorframes and treacherous bathroom cabinets.

(Grown ass man needs us to blow on his boo-boo. ADORABLE.)

But nevermind how cute this is, the situation is still unusual. Sylus and MC’s worlds kinda clash, despite how well they now get along and how much they care for each other. They are both aware of this, and no matter how fun this little play-pretend is, it’s going to have to end soon.

On their drive to the supermarket, Sylus prompts MC with a question: “When you’re in danger during a mission, do you think of anyone?” And the exchange that follows means a lot to me.

“But after my dirty work is done, I’ll wash my hands before going home.” I need this line tattooed across my forehead.

Sylus can’t leave his life back in the N109 zone, but he also doesn’t want to give up MC. And above all else, he wants to keep her safe. He tries to keep her away from his actual “business” as much as he can (which explains why he refuses to tell her where he’s going after their 3 days together).

If it weren’t for the N109 zone being risky for him to stay in right now and MC very conveniently proposing her place, he definitely would’ve found somewhere else to crash.

And so his best way to protect her while indulging their desire to see each other is to promise to “wash his hands before going home.” Whenever he gets to come back to her, he is not bringing his work to her. He will not allow himself to carelessly “taint” her life with his lifestyle. Very sweet, very thoughtful, very mindful (are we still saying mindful in 2025?) .

I’m gonna fast forward to their last night together/the kindled scene because I fear I could talk about every single line in this card.

Where to even begin.

BEST PROMPT IVE EVER SEEN ARE YOU KIDDING ME??

MC initating the kiss means everything to me. Thinking back to their first meeting, it’s him forcing her to resonate with her. Now, she’s pretty much the one who sets the pace in their relationship, which leads to this beautiful first kiss. It’s just too good.

“You really don’t want me to leave?” NO SIR SHE WANTS TO CLIMB YOU LIKE A TREE SHE WANTS YOU BAD and there’s no more denying it. She’s been worried sick throughout the whole card about him, trying to make the most out of their time together, and now that’s down to the last hours, she wants it all.

And when things start to get heated, our consent king doesn’t only ask her once, but TWICE if she wants to do it.

And it’s soooo HOT!

In the kindled, he hopes MC hasn’t changed her mind, since she kinda nudges him away right after saying yes. He wants this to happen just as badly, but no matter what he’s always, always going to put her first, and so he checks in again with her.

Is this the bare minimum? Well yes! But I still think it’s worth noting. Especially if, again, we compare to how cold he was with her at the beginning of the relationship and how he was forcing her to go along with what he wanted.

Consent is sexy, asking for confirmation is hot as hell. 12/10 would smash again.

[dardinan-ingellvar]

Can we get a version of them discovering their immortality with Lich Emmrich?

LOL, sure. I was already considering doing one, but why not now?

Emmrich approaches Rook one evening, just a couple years into their relationship, looking like he might cry. But the smile on his face says it's good news.

Dardin'an pales a little at the strange expression and their hand jumps to their belly. "Please tell me I'm not-..."

Emmrich looks at their hand and laughs "Goodness no. I couldn't do that since becoming a Lich. Not without explicit planning and some preparation at least."

"Okay...? Well, what else would that look be about? You look like you're about to break down and jump for joy at the same time..."

"Well, you know how we discovered you were a wisp? I have noticed something with your life force over the last couple years that I've been trying to piece together. It's different. Not by a great deal, but...Well, everyone's changes a certain amount as they age. It's simply a product of time. But yours, my dear...It doesn't change. And it has apparently been this way for a few years."

Dardin'an's eyes get large and they can't stop the smile growing on their face. "Wait...Are you saying that I'm-"

"Immortal! Yes! It seems the wisp taking over your body as an infant not only preserved it so it wouldn't decay, and could grow as any other...It gave you life eternal! However...I should be clear. You are no stronger or less prone to harm than anyone else. Illness may not take you as easily, but should you fall in battle..."

Dardin'an sighs, still grinning from the news, but a little annoyed. "I'm not invincible. I get it. But I'm not going to hide away in a bubble."

"No! I...I wouldn't ask that of you again...I will always fear for you, but...This means we may have eternity to live together now! It almost makes losing Manfred feel worth it..."

"I know...I miss him too, but...You're certain that's why? I mean, is there any other reason my life essence would be the same?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I asked the other Lich Lords in case I was jumping to conclusions...They confirmed my suspicions. You apparently stopped aging when you were twenty-six. There is truly no doubt. You are immortal, my dear."

Dardin'an jumps into his arms for a long kiss. "I can't believe it!"

"Now...I do need to ask about that reaction to the possibility of your being pregnant..." Emmrich eyes Dardin'an slyly

They chuckle and hold their belly a little uncomfortably "Maybe one day, but I'm nowhere near ready for that...And now that we're both immortal...Would it even be worth it? Raising them just to lose them one day?"

Emmrich kisses their forehead and sighs "I suppose not. But if you ever do change your mind, let me know. We can with the right spells. But for now...Let's celebrate this! Our eternal union"

Dardin'an smirks "That sounds like a great idea"

They let Emmrich lead them somewhere secluded to celebrate the news, and watch the cosmos above once they've worn themselves out.

[pandora15]

idk man i guess it's just that i'm struggling to find fic to read and barely having the time/energy to write at all

[fisheito]

hello... please consider... yakumo in:

the classic traditional style qipaos

the modernised and modified ones

bonus: modified hanfu

he would look wonderful wouldn't he? all the more delectable and sashimiable?

ahaha...ahah...AHAHHAH.AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

[itspileofgoodthings]

my seniors have been so quiet all year and it’s been fine cause we’ve had a lot of writing/research to do but I need them to talk to me now so i was hit by a bolt of inspiration two days ago and I made them all tell me their comfort level with sharing aloud, rating themselves on a scale of 1-10. I then averaged the class score and they’re a 4.5. I then told them yesterday we needed to raise the score the tiniest bit. And the 1’s and 2’s didn’t need to be 10’s just maybe 3’s and 4’s. And they tried! They talked more 😭

[seaofreverie]

GUUUYYUYSSSD !!!!!

‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

KIMONO MY HOUSE VINYL!!!!!!

Also funny story which is that when my brother took these to the cashier he said something like "oh... Sparks... they were here one year ago"

[lilworms]

so

[magicicephoenix]

i need to go pound joey drew into a pulp RIGHT NOW

[vampmilf]

can we catch a break. can we catch a fucking break.