#I need to replay Cry of Fear | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jacksabbotts · 14 days ago

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spencer reid x fem!bsf!reader tw .' language, gideon death mention, slight subjectiveness ( bc I can't help myself apparently, but overall wholesome ) an .' to the lovely anon who requested spencer sfw alphabet, thank you for requesting 🫶 you are my first request some of these take place pre relationship and post. i couldn't decide on a concrete timeline.

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for affection

spencer isn’t touchy with just anyone.

but you’re not just anyone.

he’s awkward about it at first—stiff hugs, nervous pats on the back, hands hovering midair like he’s unsure where to land them. but you never rush him. you never tease when he freezes, never flinch when he startles at your warmth. you just… let him figure it out.

and he does figure it out.

because you keep showing up.

every time you loop your arm through his, every time you knock your knee into his under the table, every time you cup his face between your palms and squish his cheeks while calling him my favorite boy, he softens a little more.

and now? affection from spencer reid is something sacred. something rare. something real.

he doesn’t always say what he feels—but he shows it. in little things.

like bringing you coffee just the way you like it. or resting his chin on your shoulder while you work late at your desk. or smoothing your hair back when you’re stressed and whispering, 'you’re doing so good,' because he knows it’s what you need to hear—even if your throat closes up and you pretend not to cry.

he doesn’t initiate pda in front of the team often, but he lets you do it. he lets you lean your head on his shoulder during briefings. lets you hold onto his arm when you’re cold. lets your hand find his under the table and stays like that—intertwined, steady, quiet.

the affection grows with every shared look, every inside joke, every soft laugh no one else understands. eventually, it becomes second nature. not a question of if he wants your touch, but when.

and when it’s just the two of you, when the lights are low and the case files are closed?

spencer becomes even softer.

his fingers trace slow circles on your arm. he lets you curl into his lap. he kisses your hair like he was born to, murmurs facts and comfort into your ear just to keep you close, just to feel you breathe.

he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

because deep down, spencer reid has always craved connection. and you made it safe to reach for it. you taught him affection isn’t weakness.

it’s the strongest thing he’s ever known.

b is for best friend

you’ve been his best friend longer than you’ve been anything else.

long before the tension, the teasing, the moments you both try not to replay at night—you were just his person. the one who knew how to ground him without using words. the one who never rolled your eyes when he launched into a ten-minute ramble about string theory or the mating rituals of sea slugs.

you always listened.

and spencer? spencer never forgot that.

you’re the person he texts first—about good days, bad days, weird dreams, book recommendations. you know the exact number of sugars he takes in his coffee and how he flinches when the microwave beeps too loudly. you keep extra hand sanitizer for him in your bag. you always carry his favorite pens.

and he… he always carries your lip balm. won’t even admit when he’s using it. just silently pops the cap, uses it, then tucks it back in his satchel like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

you bicker sometimes. he’s stubborn, and you’re worse. but even your arguments are intimate. soft. like a storm between two people who know they’ll always come back to each other. and you do—always.

he lets you see parts of him no one else sees.

the panic. the guilt. the grief. he tells you about the nightmares, the pressure, the fear of losing control. and you hold it all like it’s precious, not too heavy, not too much.

he tells you you’re his best friend. still. even when the looks linger too long, when your thigh brushes his beneath the table and neither of you move. even when he catches himself staring at your mouth during stakeouts. even when he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from calling you mine out loud. even when the two are way past friendship.

because you are his best friend.

the kind of best friend who stays.

c is for cuddles

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle.

not in the way people expect, at least.

he’s all long limbs and awkward hesitancy, all logic and overthinking. he overanalyzes body temperature and sleep cycles and whether he’s holding you too tightly or not enough. he’ll lie there for ten minutes just debating the appropriate number of fingers to rest on your waist.

but you cracked that code long ago. you never ask. you just curl into him without warning, usually during a movie or a stakeout or a particularly exhausting plane ride. and every time, he stiffens for a second—just a second—before he melts like a candle, quiet and slow, into you.

he’s a terrible big spoon. his knees hang off the edge of the bed and he apologizes at least three times before settling. but when you’re the one behind him—arms locked around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades—he sleeps deeper than he has in years.

in public, cuddling becomes something smaller, something quieter.

your thigh against his in the bullpen. your head on his shoulder in the jet. his pinky hooking yours during late-night coffee runs. no one notices. but he does. god, he does.

your favorite way to cuddle him, though? on the couch. his head in your lap. your fingers in his hair.

he never says it, but you know it’s his favorite too. you can feel it in the way he hums, soft and low, when you comb through his curls. you can see it in the way his eyes flutter closed like he’s safe for once—like he doesn’t have to run equations or calculate risk or be anyone other than yours.

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle, its a germ thing. except when it comes to you.

and he never wants to stop.

d is for domestic moments

if anyone ever asked spencer what he pictured when he thought of the word home, he’d say your name.

it’s not just the place, or the smell of your lemon-and-lavender dish soap, or the fact that your cabinets are alphabetized because he helped you do it one slow sunday afternoon. it’s the sound of your voice calling him from another room. the clink of your mug beside his in the dish rack. the faint scent of your shampoo on his hoodie that you stole and never gave back.

its the little things.

you brush your teeth together, shoulder to shoulder at your tiny bathroom sink. you argue about laundry temperatures and laugh when he folds your shirts like file folders, citing optimal drawer space. he teases you for how you butter toast. you tease him for how he eats cereal dry. you leave little post-it notes on his bookshelves: drink water, stretch your legs, i’m proud of you.

he saves every one.

domestic life with you doesn’t look like anyone else’s. it’s not perfect. sometimes dinner burns. sometimes the sink leaks. sometimes you fall asleep on the couch and drool on his lap. but it’s real. it’s warm. it’s quiet and silly and safe.

and to spencer, who grew up in sterile rooms and too many books and not enough love, that is revolutionary.

you are the routine he never knew he needed.

the grocery list on the fridge. the sound of your humming in the shower. the way you hand him your keys without asking when he stays over. the way he makes the bed in the morning before you even wake up.

you call it domestic.

he calls it heaven.

e is for excitement

spencer doesn’t get excited like most people do.

he doesn’t jump up and down or shout from the rooftops. his excitement is quieter, tucked into the soft edges of his smile and the breathless way he talks when something lights him up.

however you bring out a different kind of excitement in him.

you make him laugh mid-sentence. you make him look forward to things—something he never really did before. trivia nights at the bar ( and the two of you always obviously ). a new coffee shop opening. a spontaneous road trip just because you read about a haunted bookstore two towns over.

it’s not just adrenaline, either. it’s anticipation.

excitement, to spencer, is your knuckles brushing his on the walk to the farmer’s market. it’s you dragging him to the front row of a concert he didn’t even want to go to—until he saw your face in the glow of the stage lights.

it’s the way you squeal when he brings you your favorite candy. the way you clap when the takeout arrives. the way you beam when he finishes a ramble and you actually listened to all of it.

your excitement is contagious, and his is nothing but devoted. yours is loud. his is loyal. and when you're excited about something, he's excited about it—purely because you are.

so when you ask if he wants to come with you—to the movie, to the bookstore, to your cousin’s wedding out of town—he doesn’t hesitate.

'yes,' he says.

because with you, even something painfully ordinary feels like an adventure.

f is for flirting

you flirt with spencer like it’s a game—like it’s breathing.

light, teasing touches to his arm when you pass him coffee. a smirk when you catch him staring at your mouth instead of listening to your facts. a playful, 'careful, spence. say one more sweet thing and i might fall in love with you.'

oh, it wrecks him.

because he doesn’t know how to flirt back. not really. not in the traditional sense. and definitely not on the same level you do so effortlessly. he fumbles. he blushes. he babbles about pheromones or victorian courtship rituals. sometimes he stares at you like you’ve short-circuited his brain.

but oh, when he does flirt back?

it’s fucking lethal.

he leans in close, voice low, eyes dark. says things like, 'do you always get this close to your friends?'

it stuns you every time. throws you off your rhythm. and he knows it.

because spencer may not flirt like you do—but he studies you. he waits, he learns, finds your weak spots and then he strikes when you least expect it.

it’s a dangerous little dance—the teasing, the tension, the way neither of you quite crosses the line.

g is for gratitude

he shows his gratitude in quiet, precise ways. he’s not great with grand declarations, and he doesn’t always know what to say in the moment—so instead, he does things.

when you bring him coffee without asking? he refills your gas tank the next time you drive ( even though it one of the things he loathe the most, more than the task of driving itself ).

when you stay up late helping him organize his case files? he shows up at your door the next morning with your favorite pastry from that bakery two neighborhoods away just because he knows that it is your favorite.

when you talk him down from a panic spiral after a rough case? he leaves sticky notes all over your apartment—on your mirror, your fridge, your laptop—each one scribbled with a fact about how wonderful he thinks you are.

he doesn’t always say thank you, not in the conventional way. but you learn to read his version of it. the little offerings, the long looks, the way his hand always lingers just a little longer when he passes you something. the way his voice goes soft when he says your name.

and when you do call him out on it—when you tease, 'you never say thank you, you know that?'—he’ll look at you, a little sheepish, a little shy.

then while he knows your not serious, he'll get the uncontrollable urge to thank you in words he's yet to find. he’ll murmur, 'you’re right. i’m sorry. thank you… for everything.'

and he’ll say it like he means it. because he does. so much more than he can ever quite put into words.

h is for hugs

spencer isn’t much of a hugger ( just like the cuddling, its a germ thing )—at least not at first.

it’s not that he dislikes touch. he just… doesn’t always know what to do with it, especially when it's you. because he doesn't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable. he doesn't know where to put his arms, how long is too long, if he’s holding too tightly, if you can feel how fast his heart is racing.

you, on the other hand, hugged him like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he wasn’t awkward or fragile or some too-smart alien with a trauma record longer than his resume. you hugged him like you meant it. like he was human. like he was yours.

the first time it happened, he stood stiff and overwhelmed, arms hovering in the air like they were waiting for instruction. but you didn’t let go—not until he finally gave in and hugged you back.

now he craves it. practically needs it.

long, sleepy hugs in hotel hallways after a tough case. silent, tight ones when he doesn’t have the words. arms around your waist in your kitchen when you're making tea. a sleepy squeeze before falling asleep beside you—platonic, he says… but his hold always lingers.

he doesn’t say it, but you know: your hugs feel like home. and he’s never had one of those before.

I is for intimacy

intimacy with spencer reid isn’t loud. it’s not flashy or fast or careless. it’s quiet, careful, and most of all, earned.

it’s the way he refills your coffee the exact way you like it before you’ve even asked. the way he walks on the street side of the sidewalk without thinking. the way he lends you books and leaves little notes in the margins—not just quotes, but thoughts. Inside jokes. a silent kind of love letter.

it’s knowing which of his cardigans you like best and not caring when you end up borrowing it for weeks. it’s how he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore.

it’s letting you see him cry when gideon disappears and when the weight gets too heavy. it’s forehead presses in crowded places. fingers brushing yours under briefing tables. a single look across the plane aisle that says more than a conversation ever could.

with Spencer, intimacy is dangerous. because it’s addictive. and you both know, once that line is crossed, there’s no going back.

j is for jealousy

spencer is not a jealous man. ( at least, that’s what he tells himself. )

he’s logical, rational. he'd go as far as to claim his evolved.

except, he nearly chokes on his coffee when he sees you laughing at someone else's joke. except his jaw clenches when some local deputy leans just a little too close during a case consult. except, he absolutely does not hear a word morgan says when you giggle and touch the arm of that bartender.

you’re not his. you’re his best friend.

and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

because best friends don’t fantasize about pinning you against his bookcases. best friends don’t memorize the exact shade of your lip gloss or notice when someone else smudges it.

best friends don’t feel sick when you say you have a date and try to act like it doesn’t matter. he is not a jealous man.

but the second someone else makes you smile in that particular way? the second you lean in, all warm and pretty and completely unaware of the effect you have?

spencer Reid suddenly, acutely, violently wants to rewrite the definition of 'best friend.'

k is for kisses

you kiss him first.

it happens on his couch, buried in quiet. the soft flicker of a half-watched documentary plays on, ignored. the two of you are curled close, your body angled toward his, your legs slotted between his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you’re wearing his hoodie—sleeves bunched in your fists, hem brushing your bare thighs—and he smells like coffee and paperback pages.

you shift slightly, your temple resting against his shoulder. his fingers are tracing circles on your knee without realizing. and when you lift your head to look at him, something shifts in the air—subtle, but certain.

your gaze drops to his mouth.

and you kiss him. just like that.

gently. thoughtfully. like testing the water with your toes before diving in. his lips are soft—slightly parted from surprise, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the back of his throat. you feel it—the way he freezes for half a second, like he’s afraid to move and wake up from a dream. but his hand on your leg doesn’t tighten. doesn’t flinch. just rests there, warm and steady.

the kiss lingers. then fades.

and when you pull back, his eyes are still closed.

he stays like that for a moment—eyes shut, breath shallow—as if memorizing it, etching it into the quietest corners of his mind.

then, slowly, he opens them.

and looks at you like he’s been holding his breath for years.

no words are exchanged. they’re not needed.

your fingers find his, lacing together.

and the next time you kiss—this time slower, deeper, more certain—he kisses you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.

l is for love language

spencer shows love like he breathes—softly, instinctively, almost without realizing.

his love language isn’t grand gestures or flashy declarations. it’s quieter than that. it’s the second mug of tea he makes without asking, already prepared exactly how you like it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. it’s the stack of books on your nightstand, handpicked and annotated, because he thought you’d like the prose in chapter seven.

it’s the way he remembers.

he remembers everything. the exact ratio of syrup you like in your coffee. the way your shoulders curl when you’re cold, even if you insist you’re not. the fact that certain songs make you cry, and which ones to play when you’re sad but want to feel held.

he’s not particularly good at saying the words—at least not at first. But his actions are a language of their own.

and when he does say it? it’s in the softest voice you’ve ever heard.

he says i love you like it’s a secret.

one meant only for you.

m is for mornings

he doesn’t like mornings. not in the way most people do, with coffee and sunlight and birdsong. he doesn’t rise early because he wants to — he rises because he has to. his brain refuses to rest for long. he’s been waking up before dawn since he was twelve. sometimes from nightmares. sometimes from panic. sometimes from sheer inertia.

now, there’s you and mornings have become something else entirely. they start slow and somewhat soft.tTame in a way spencer never knew he craved.

he always wakes first. his body trained to open his eyes just as the faintest sliver of light slips past the curtain seam. but he doesn’t move at first.

he looks at you. every time, without fail.

sometimes your face is smooshed awkwardly into your pillow, mouth parted, a little crease between your brows like you’re solving a puzzle in your dreams.

sometimes your arm is draped haphazardly across his chest like a seatbelt.

sometimes your hand has wormed beneath the hem of his shirt in your sleep — splayed warm across the skin of his stomach in a way that would drive him insane if he weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with affection.

sometimes you tangle around him like a vine.

sometimes you’re all the way across the bed, curled up with your back to him, and he has to fight the urge to pull you back with an arm around your waist and an anchor in his heart.

but the best mornings — the ones he wants to trap in amber and tuck into the pages of a book — are the ones where you cling to him like you were born in his arms. your face nestled into the crook of his neck. one leg slung high over his hip. a sleepy sigh escaping your lips as you press closer, even in unconsciousness.

it makes him positively melt.

he lies there, stiff and reverent, heart threatening to beat through his ribcage. he inhales the scent of your shampoo and lets himself fall into the quiet warmth of you. he doesn’t dare move.

because for once, his brain isn’t racing.

it isn’t listing prime numbers or translating ancient greek or replaying the screams of the case before. it isn’t reminding him of every way he’s failed or every way he could.

it’s just… quiet.

it’s just you.

and he’s selfish about it. he hoards the moment. he wraps his arms around you and buries his nose into your hair and pretends like he has every right in the world to be here. pretends you’re his in the daylight too, not just in these quiet, borrowed mornings before the world wakes up.

he doesn’t rush to get up anymore, not when you’re wrapped around him like this. not when you sigh his name in your sleep, soft and sweet and barely audible — like it’s instinct.

not when the first thing he sees every morning is your face.

if he had his way, he thinks, he’d never wake up alone again.

n is of nicknames

you give him so many.

it starts small. mostly innocent. a playful spence here, a sarcastic dr. reid there, said with a grin as you steal his coffee or beat him at chess. you try pretty boy once, just to see what happens — morgan nearly chokes on his water, and spencer turns red all the way down his neck.

you keep it in your pocket for emergencies.

but as your friendship deepens — as something warmer and softer grows in the space between you — your nicknames shift.

sometimes it’s doc, said teasingly when he gets too in his head, or spencey, which he pretends to hate but never corrects, especially not when it's coming from your lips.

other times it’s gentler. intimate. you say hey, genius when you hand him his lunch, or my favorite nerd when he walks in late with six books under his arm. on your sleepiest mornings, it’s just a mumbled baby against his shoulder — and that is the one that wrecks him.

he doesn’t say much in return at first. he’s too careful, too quiet, too worried he’ll misstep and make you uncomfortable. but over time — little by little — he gathers his courage.

he calls you trouble when you tease him. sweetheart when he’s tired and lets his guard down. sunshine when you’re bundled in his bed on a gray morning and he can’t believe he gets to hold you like this.

but your favorite?

your favorite is when he says your name.

not a nickname. not shortened or altered. just your name — reverent, quiet, and full of every unspoken thing he’s too shy to say.

because somehow, when spencer says your name, it sounds like poetry. like worship. like the most important word he’s ever learned.

o is for on cloud nine

he doesn’t do giddy.

he’s too anxious, too self-contained, too prone to overthinking. joy for him is usually quiet—an upward curve of the lips, a soft exhale through the nose, the crease between his brows finally smoothing out for a moment.

but you change that.

you make him giddy.

the first time you kiss his cheek absentmindedly during a case debriefing? he smiles all day. the team notices. morgan jokes that someone must've gotten laid. spencer turns red and insists that’s not what happened ( even though the idea alone makes him dizzy ).

when you curl up next to him on the couch with a book, resting your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he physically melts. you don’t see it, but he closes his eyes and lets his cheek brush the crown of your head. he doesn’t even need to read. you are the moment.

he has entire thought spirals about how lucky he is to know you, let alone love you. and when you actually tell him you love him?

he has to sit down.

literally.

on the floor.

because his knees give out.

spencer reid doesn’t always know how to express the way you make him feel — but you can always tell.

it’s in the way he glances at you like he’s making sure you’re still real. in the little, breathless huffs of laughter when you say something ridiculous. in the way he looks at your hand before taking it, like he can’t believe it’s allowed.

you are his favorite surprise. his softest place to land. and when he’s with you, he’s never once wondered what it feels like to float.

p is for physical touch

spencer used to flinch at casual contact. he wasn’t a hugger. didn’t lean in close. didn’t drape his arm around the back of the couch or press his knee to yours under the table.

you snuck in under his defenses, slow and natural. the first time you looped your arm through his on a walk, he thought his nervous system was short-circuiting. but you didn’t even notice. you just pointed out some flowers blooming by the sidewalk like you hadn’t just turned his world inside out.

now, he craves your touch the same way he craves quiet or books or the smell of old paper.

your fingers brushing his sleeve. your knees tucked under his thighs when you share a too-small couch. the way you smooth his collar when he’s fidgeting before a presentation.

and when he’s overwhelmed—head spinning, chest tight, spiraling—he always finds his way back to you. you hold his hand like it’s an anchor. you rub small circles between his shoulder blades when he forgets how to breathe.

he never asks. you just know.

and if you do ask—'spence, do you need a hug?'—he’ll nod, and bury his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to hide inside you.

because in a way, he kind of is.

when you fall asleep on his shoulder during a movie, or grab his hand without looking during a busy crosswalk—he doesn’t flinch anymore.

he leans in.

q is for quirks

he notices every single one of yours.

the way you tap your fingers on your coffee cup when you're thinking. how your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh. the very specific way you fold your notes into little squares—color-coded corners, even if you swear you're not that organized.

spencer catalogues these details like they’re rare scientific data. not because he means to, but because he can’t help it. you fascinate him.

and when you make fun of his quirks—his never-ending facts, his tendency to gesture with a pen when he's lecturing, the way he counts things under his breath when he's stressed—it doesn't feel mean.

tt feels like home.

you’re the only person who can call him a walking encyclopedia and make it sound like a love poem.

sometimes you gently steal his mismatched socks, or purposefully mispronounce latin phrases just to see the way he corrects you without even looking up from his book.

you balance him. you unravel him a little.

if quirks are supposed to be strange or off-putting, then maybe you're both just a little strange. but that’s what makes it work. that’s what makes it wholly yours.

r is for rage

spencer doesn’t get angry easily. he gets frustrated, sure. he gets flustered. he gets overwhelmed and overstimulated and pushed to the brink. but rage? that’s rare. which is exactly why it’s so terrifying when it does show.

it takes a very specific kind of trigger: cruelty, injustice, manipulation. someone being deliberately unkind to someone more vulnerable than them—especially if that person is you.

you’ve only seen him truly, truly angry once.

you had brushed it off when someone said something awful to you in passing—some snide little comment about your intelligence, your worth, your relationship with spencer. but spencer had heard it. and something in him snapped.

he didn’t yell. he didn’t fight. he didn’t lose control. what he did was worse.

he went cold.

his voice dropped to this impossibly calm register. his posture stiffened. he didn’t blink, didn’t look away. he stared through the person like he was calculating every way to dismantle them—verbally, psychologically, existentially. like he could undo them with a few carefully chosen words.

you had to put your hand on his arm to bring him back. he’d blinked like he hadn’t realized how far he’d gone.

when spencer’s angry, he bottles it up. he intellectualizes it. he redirects it toward a puzzle, a lecture, a book with margins filled in red ink. but when that bottle shatters?

he doesn't raise his voice. he raises hell.

and if you’re the one being hurt?

he will never, ever let it go.

s is for secrets

spencer is a vault. a walking, talking, tragically earnest vault.

your secrets are kept in the deepest recesses of his mind—protected by eidetic memory and the kind of unshakable loyalty that borders on devotion. you could tell him something once, years ago, and he’d never bring it up again unless you did. but he’d remember. the exact words. the tone of your voice. the look in your eyes when you said it.

he holds those pieces of you like glass, carefully, reverently and never risking a crack.

but when it comes to his secrets?

that’s whole other story.

spencer is good at compartmentalizing. almost too good. he tells you the truth, sure—but never all of it. not because he wants to lie to you. he just… doesn’t want to burden you. or worse, scare you off.

he won’t tell you how long he stayed awake replaying your words from the jet. he won’t admit that he reread the same sentence in his book twelve times after you leaned over his desk in that stupid bralette. he won’t confess that every time you touch him—his hand, his arm, his shoulder—he feels it all night like a phantom burn under his skin.

the biggest secret he’s keeping?

he’s in love with you.

and he has been. quietly, painfully, and unquestionably.

he’s just scared that if he says it out loud, he won’t be able to unsay it. that if you don’t feel the same way, he’ll lose the one person who makes his world make sense.

so he keeps it buried.

under soft smiles.

under long glances.

under every whispered 'you’re my best friend.'

maybe someday, he’ll be brave enough to let it surface.

t is for texting

he is, predictably, a terrible texter—at least by modern standards.

not because he doesn’t want to talk to you. quite the opposite, actually. it’s just that spencer overthinks everything. a simple 'how are you?' turns into a five-paragraph essay he rewrites three times before giving up and sending, 'hey.'

you usually beat him to the punch anyway.

he replies quickly when it’s work-related. but if you text him something casual like 'miss you,' it’ll take him exactly twenty-three minutes to respond with something impossibly stiff like, 'that’s sweet. i’ve been thinking about you too.'

you once caught him googling 'casual responses to affectionate messages from best friend' and nearly cried laughing.

that being said—spencer does text you. constantly. he just does it in his way.

mid-case, you’ll get things like :

did you know oxytocin is released during prolonged eye contact?

you should drink more water today. you only had one bottle yesterday.

there’s a meteor shower tonight. want to sit on your roof again?

no emojis. no abbreviations. just pure spencer. thoughtful, intuitive, and quietly adoring.

you, of course, obliterate his inbox with chaos. photos, memes, out-of-pocket thirst traps, live updates of your day in ten-second intervals, you fucking name it.

he pretends to be exasperated. he’s not. he saves them all.

sometimes, when he misses you, he scrolls back months just to reread the random thoughts you’ve sent. just to feel close. just to remind himself what it’s like when you’re not there—talking to him like he’s the only one in the world worth texting.

u is for understanding

spencer doesn’t just understand you—he studies you like a science, memorizes you like scripture, holds your emotional tells with the same reverence he gives to the periodic table.

he knows when you're upset even before you do.

a certain hitch in your breath? he clocks it. the way your fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve? he’s already sitting up straighter beside you. if you’re quiet in a way that isn’t restful, he hears it in the silence.

you don’t have to speak.

you just have to exist, and he reads you like a well-worn paperback.

and more than that, spencer listens. not just with his ears—but with his whole body. his full attention. his kind eyes, his tilted head, the gentle way he says your name when you’re spiraling : 'hey… i’m here.'

he doesn’t jump to fix things unless you ask. doesn’t tell you what to feel. he just gives you a soft place to land.

because that’s what you are for him.

you understand him, too—in a way no one else really has. you don’t get overwhelmed when he info-dumps or loses track of the conversation mid-sentence. you don’t flinch when he stumbles over social cues or blurts something too honest too fast. you know that he’s trying.

you’ve never made him feel like too much.

that’s why it works—why this friendship-turned-something-more feels inevitable.

because spencer doesn’t just understand you.

he accepts you unconditionally.

v is for vacation

vacations with spencer are planned. down to the museum hours, the best walking routes, and which cafés serve the best local pastries ( he probably read twenty reviews, cross-referenced photos, and made a ranked list in his notebook ).

he’s a walking itinerary. but—he only pulls it out if you ask.

because even though he thrives on structure, for you, he’s learned to be flexible. to let things unfold. to enjoy the chaos of wrong turns and missed buses and rainstorms that send you running for cover under a shared awning.

he’ll pick a place based on your offhand comment months ago. 'i’ve always wanted to see the northern lights…' you’ll blink when he surprises you with flight confirmations.

spencer’s ideal trip is somewhere cool and quiet—a cozy cabin with a wood-burning fireplace, a tiny local bookstore, and no cell reception. he’ll sit beside you with a mug of tea and a blanket, reading aloud if you ask. or silently, your knees brushing.

but he’ll do beaches for you. he’ll wear embarrassingly high-spf sunscreen and a button-down in the sand, claiming he’s fine as he squints in the sun and holds your tote bag. he’ll stay until sunset just to see you happy.

and when the sun dips below the horizon and the sky turns gold, he’ll lean over and say quietly, 'you’re my favorite view.'

( which you’ll tease him for. endlessly. but still write down in your notes app to keep forever. )

w is for whining

he claims he doesn’t whine, but you know better.

it’s subtle—softer than a true whine, more like a string of muttered protests delivered in that breathy, under-his-breath tone he thinks you don’t hear.

he whines when he’s tired but refuses to go to bed. when you steal the last slice of pizza without offering to split it. when you take the blanket and wrap yourself in it like a burrito. when he’s the little spoon and you start inching away.

you’ll hear it, all curled up and sulky :

'you said we’d watch the documentary…' 'you didn’t even ask if i wanted the crust…' 'that’s not sharing, that’s theft…'

if you laugh, he only gets poutier.

and yes—he likes when you whine. obviously not in public, not at work, but in private, domestic spaces where you're soft with him.

whining that you’re cold, that your feet hurt, that he hasn’t cuddled you enough today.

he’ll roll his eyes, but he’s already tugging you closer. tucking the blanket around your shoulders. rubbing circles into your calves. sliding a hand over your waist with a quiet : 'better?'

he never admits it, but your whining makes him feel wanted. needed. necessary.

( which he is, but he still likes hearing it. )

x is for x factor

it’s not just his brain. it’s not just the way he knows things, stores them, retrieves them like magic—though yes, that part is hot.

it’s not even the softness he keeps tucked behind a dozen defense mechanisms, or the quiet way he listens when you ramble, or the fact that he always remembers your coffee order, even when you change it six times in a row.

it’s all of that. but more than anything, spencer’s x factor is that he cares.

deeply and unconditionally and when it comes to you, quietly.

he cares when you say you’re fine but clearly aren’t. he notices when you wear the sweatshirt he thought he lost. he pretends not to notice when you cry in the dark and think he’s asleep—just pulls you in closer instead.

he’s emotionally fluent in your every mood. your silence, your sarcasm, your signals. he anticipates your needs before you voice them. knows when to push, when to pull, and when to simply sit with you in the quiet.

and the kicker? he never expects credit.

it’s just… who he is. spencer is himself the x factor. a slow burn, a steady fire, a man who makes falling feel like flying—because you know he’ll catch you. every time.

y is for yearning

spencer doesn’t just miss you. he yearns for you.

there is a difference.

missing someone is a passing ache, an absence in a moment. yearning is persistent. chronic. a dull pulse of longing that lives beneath his skin and lingers in every breath.

when you’re gone—whether it’s a few hours or a few weeks—spencer doesn’t just notice. he feels it. physically.

his brain, so used to buzzing with fact and theory, gets fuzzy at the edges, like he’s operating at 80% capacity, like some vital piece of him clocked out with you and hasn’t returned. he’ll try to ignore it at first and bury himself in pages of a dusty tome or hyper-fixate on a new equation, but it always circles back to you.

to how you brush your fingers through his curls when you’re sitting too close. to the way your perfume clings to his cardigans when you borrow one and give it back days later. to the voice messages you leave—rambling, chaotic, full of laughter—and how he replays them at two am with the volume turned all the way up.

he watches the door of the bau bullpen like it might conjure you if he stares hard enough. he keeps your name open in his contacts, thumb hovering over the call button, before locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch like it offended him.

sometimes, when it’s bad—really bad—he’ll fall asleep with one of your sweatshirts tucked under his pillow. he’ll wake up with it clutched to his chest like a security blanket.

and if anyone asks?

he shrugs and says he’s fine. says he’s busy. says he’s tired.

but really, he’s just spencer: a genius with a tragic crush, loving you in silence like it’s the only language he knows.

the worst part is, he never lets himself believe you could feel the same. so he bottles it up. every flutter of affection. every quiet ache. every skipped heartbeat.

but it leaks out. in the way he always remembers how you take your coffee. in the way he memorizes your laugh like scripture. in the way he turns to you first—always first—like gravity doesn't apply to anyone else.

and when you finally walk into the room again—after a trip, or a weekend apart, or even just lunch out of the office—his chest tightens with relief.

not that he says that. he just gives you a soft smile. offers you the muffin he saved and pretends he didn’t spend the entire time you were gone retracing the shape of your name in his mind like it was a lifeline.

spencer reid doesn’t just miss you. he belongs to you. he just hasn’t told you yet.

z is for zzz

he insists he’s a light sleeper. but that’s only half true.

he wants to be a light sleeper—ready at any moment for the phone to ring, for the case to drop, for something to go wrong. but the moment you curl into his side and tuck yourself against him like you belong there? he’s out like a light.

he sleeps best with you beside him—like his mind finally gives him permission to rest. his muscles soften, his breathing slows. and while the world outside keeps spinning, spencer finally, finally feels still.

and yes—he talks in his sleep. not often, but sometimes you’ll catch whispers in the early hours : mumbled bits of fact, unfinished sentences, your name.

god, your name.

like a lullaby tangled in his dreams.

he’s not a natural cuddler—at least, he wasn’t until you. but now? the moment you’re in bed, he’s got a hand on you somewhere : fingers grazing your wrist, palm pressed to your waist, your ankle resting against his. he sleeps best when he knows you’re there, that he can feel you. and if you shift away in your sleep, give it ten minutes—he’ll find you again.

he doesn’t snore. but he does let out the softest little exhales when he’s fully relaxed, the kind of sound you’d never hear at work or on the jet or in the field. the kind of sound he only makes when he’s safe. home.

he has sleep shirts, sure. pajama sets even. but nine times out of ten, he ends up in one of your oversized tees instead. claims it’s because your detergent smells like lavender and is neurologically calming. you know better. he just wants to be surrounded by you—even in sleep.

and when you wake up before him (rare, but it happens ), you get to see it : the real spencer reid.

hair a mess. mouth slightly parted. arms tangled in the sheets. that furrow in his brow gone, like he’s never known pain or fear or expectation. just you. just rest. just peace.

and if you lean over and kiss his cheek?

he’ll stir, sigh, and mutter the softest 'morning, honey,' still half-asleep.

( and then promptly fall right back into dreaming about you. )

in conclusion, spencer reid is whole heartedly, one hundred percent gone for you in every way possible.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #fem!reader #fem!bsf!reader

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wbbpls · 3 months ago

Text

Platonic Plus One

Chapter 13

Word count: 4k Warnings: ~sexual content~ what you've all been waiting for ...and no I don't know when the next chapter will be lol

Paige barely made it into the private bathroom before she sank to the cold tile floor, locking the door behind her with trembling fingers. Her head drops into her hands. Breathe. Just breathe.

She tries to ground herself. In. Out. In. Out. But the moment keeps replaying—Azzi’s lips on her neck, that whisper in her ear, the hunger in her eyes. It was everything Paige had ever wanted. Everything she’d secretly ached for. And yet, all of it felt too big, too real, too fast.

She had a plan. She was supposed to talk to Azzi, open her heart, and say the words she’d been swallowing for weeks. But then Azzi touched her, looked at her like she knew—and the whole world cracked open. Now, all she could feel was the panic clawing at her ribs. The potential of what they could be hovered inches from her fingertips, but so did the fear of ruining everything.

And the moment Azzi looked at her like that—confused, maybe even hurt—it shattered her. Her brain short-circuited, her body fled, and now she’s curled on a bathroom floor, heart pounding like a drum.

Then comes the knock.

Paige groans. “Someone’s in here!”

Azzi’s voice—low, stern, serious—sends a new wave of anxiety surging through her.

“Paige, open the door.”

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Paige blurts, too quickly.

The knock comes again, harder this time.

“Paige, I’m serious. Open the fucking door.”

Shit. She’s mad. Really mad.

Paige sucks in a breath, forces herself to stand even as her knees threaten to buckle. With trembling fingers, she unlocks the door.

Azzi’s standing there, flushed, lips still swollen from their kiss, faint marks on her neck from Paige’s mouth. Paige’s breath catches. God, how is she supposed to think when Azzi looks like that?

“Paige, c’mon, let me in.”

Azzi slips inside and shuts the door quietly behind her.

“Paige,” she says firmly. “We need to talk.”

“I—I don’t know that I can right now, Az.”

“Too bad.”

“What?” Paige’s voice cracked.

“I said, too bad.” Azzi steps closer. “We’ve been avoiding this all week. No more running. We’re talking.”

Azzi is never that stern or forward, leaving Paige speechless and frozen. Azzi softens when she sees the fear flicker across Paige’s face. She reached up, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her forehead.

“Paigey,” she murmured, gentler now, “I’m not mad at you. I just... we can’t keep doing this. We need to figure it out. Please, can we talk?”

Finally, Paige released a deep breath she didn’t even know she was holding. Paige is usually good at putting on a front and hiding her insecurities. People, especially Azzi, being upset with her causes immense anxiety that practically leaves her paralyzed. She always needs to be conscious of saying the wrong thing.

“Okay...what do you want to talk about?” Paige’s voice was so small that it almost made Azzi stop pushing, but she knew if it didn’t happen now, it would never happen.

“Really, P? Then tell me why you left.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not, Paige?”

Azzi took another step forward towards Paige, causing Paige’s back to hit the countertop.

“I-I don’t know.”

“You do. Talk to me, P. It’s just us.”

“If I say it out loud…” Paige’s voice trembles. “Then everything is gonna change.”

“What if I want it to change?”

“You do?” Paige’s lips were quivering, trying to hold back tears.

Azzi doesn’t hesitate. She lifted her hand to Paige’s cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped free without permission.

“I do,” she says quietly, then her eyes flick down to Paige’s lips before meeting her gaze again. “Baby, it’s already changed. Why are we pretending it hasn’t?”

“W-what if you regret me?”

“Oh, Paigey,” Azzi pulls her in closer, “I meant what I said last night; you’re everything to me. The only thing about you I’ll ever regret is not telling you that I loved you sooner.”

Paige’s breath hitches.

“Y-you love me?”

Azzi starts crying from the relief of finally telling Paige her feelings.

“So fucking much, P. I’m so in love with you, and I don’t care if everything changes as long as I get to be with you while it happens.”

Paige looks down at Azzi like she is the most delicate thing in the world, trying to process her words. With silence surrounding them, Paige’s heart is pounding so hard she’s sure Azzi can hear it. She feels like if she speaks, Azzi’s words will disappear.

As always, Azzi is patient with Paige, letting her take in the words. Finally, Paige moved her hands to rest on Azzi’s hips. She laughs at how unreal this all feels.

“I love you too, Azzi,” she whispered. “God, I love you so much.”

Azzi’s smile is life-changing and brighter than the sun. She tightens her grip on Paige’s face and pulls her closer. “You’re all I want, Paige.”

Paige’s eyes lock on Azzi’s lips. “So have me.”

Azzi doesn’t need to be told twice.

Her mouth crashes into Paige’s as hard and deeply as possible, making her feel light-headed. The force of it pushes Paige back onto the counter, and Azzi fits between her legs like she’s always belonged there. Paige pulled Azzi in just as close, kissing her back with so much passion and love.

Paige started to move down Azzi’s neck, kissing and sucking at her pulse point. “I love you so fucking much.”

Azzi grabbed at the back of Paige’s neck, moaning at hearing Paige’s confession. She tilted her head back, exposing more of her neck, leading Paige to kiss and lick her way down to her cleavage. Paige moved her hands to fully grab at Azzi’s ass, causing their centers to meet. Azzi whimpers in response and grabs the hair at the base of Paige’s neck, pulling her lips up to hers.

Paige moved her hands to move under Azzi’s dress, and one of Azzi’s hands dropped to the top of Paige’s pants while the other held her face as she bit her bottom lip and tugged. She could feel Paige’s moan through her body and began unbuttoning Paige’s pants. Just as Azzi moved her hand under the fabric, Paige grabbed her hand, stopping her plan.

“Wait, wait, we can’t do this.”

Azzi’s world was flipped upside down. Why does this keep happening? Why can’t she finally have Paige? Azzi pulled her hand out as if it was on fire.

“Fuck Paige, I’m sorry I j-just thought yo—”

“Wait, Azzi, baby, I do want this. So fucking bad. I love you baby, I just don’t want to fuck you for the first time in some gross bathroom.”

“But you want to, right?” Still unsure from the rejection, now Azzi is the one who started to let her insecurities show.

Paige grabs both of Azzi’s cheeks and gently kisses her. “I want you so bad, baby girl. Wanna go back to the hotel?”

“Mhm.” Azzi didn’t trust herself to speak. The feeling of Paige’s lips and hands all over her gave her an out-of-body experience. She heard Paige’s chuckle and felt her long fingers lace between Azzi’s. Before she knew it, Azzi was pulled from the bathroom towards the front. She finally came to her senses when the brisk air flowed through her curls.

She blinked, bringing herself back into focus to see Paige ordering an Uber with her free hand.

“It’ll be here in just a few, baby.”

“Hm, okay.”

Azzi leaned into Paige, desperate for her touch. They held each other, letting their breathing sync.

“You’re so perfect, Az.”

Azzi moved her head back to look up at Paige. “You’re my everything, P.”

As she said that, a car pulled up to them and rolled down the window. “For Paige?”

“Yeah, that’s us.” Paige opened the door and moved to the side, allowing Azzi to go first. “Go ahead, baby.”

The drive was only five minutes, but it felt like hours. Paige focused on the sound of the music, trying desperately not to think about how close Azzi was to her. When Azzi got in the car, she stopped in the middle seat and wrapped her arm around Paige’s bicep, rubbing her fingers up and down Paige’s arm. The Uber ride became a blur of flushed cheeks and soft touches.

Paige kept her hands on her knees, tapping her fingers, letting Azzi touch her however she pleased. The issue wasn’t not wanting Azzi to touch her. The problem was the lack of self-control taking over her body. Azzi wasn’t making the ride easy. She moved her hand to the top of Paige’s thigh, rubbing soft circles towards the inside of Paige’s thigh.

“Az, you’re killin’ me, baby.”

“Mm. Good.” Fuck. Paige knew this girl was gonna be the death of her. Thankfully, they finally pulled in front of the property.

“Thank fucking god,” Paige mumbled as she opened the door and thanked their driver. When she got out, she offered her hand to help Azzi out of the car.

“Thanks, love.”

Fuck, Paige could get used to that. The two girls made their way inside and ran into Mrs. Miller.

“Hi, Ladies! What are you doing back so soon from the party?”

“O-oh uh, we—” Paige stuttered desperately trying to come up with any reason other than telling Mrs. Miller she just wanted to fuck her best friend.

“I was starting to get a bit of a headache, and the music was making it worse.” Thank goodness for Azzi.

“Oh no, sweetie, well feel better! I’m sure Paige will take good care of you.”

“Oh, she will!” Azzi said matter-of-factly as they walked away. Paige’s mouth dropped open at what Azzi was actually insinuating. Now Paige was the one to be pulled, and she took advantage of their positioning to check Azzi out. Her long legs took a full stride toward the elevators. God, she wants to kiss up her legs until she—

“Paige, c’mon.”

They entered the elevator, where Paige was ready to pounce on Azzi. Just as the door started to close, an older man stopped the elevator. Timing really isn’t their friend tonight. The older couple stepped into the elevator holding hands. The older man teased his wife for something she said earlier and told her how beautiful she was. That was the moment Paige saw a future with Azzi. She saw herself growing old with Azzi.

Paige gripped Azzi’s waist tightly as if she could float away at any moment. The elevator dinged, signaling the girls had made it to their floor. As they walked down the hallway to their room, the tension behind the silence kept getting thicker. Once they made it to the door, Paige pulled out the keycard and started to open the door.

“You sure about this, Az?”

“More than anything.”

Both girls knew that when they crossed the doorway into their rooms, their lives would change forever, and Azzi couldn't wait anymore. She lunged forward, grabbing Paige’s face and kissing her. Paige’s back hit the door, and they backed into their hotel room. As soon as they made it inside, Paige pushed Azzi against the door, hard. Azzi’s moan was unlike anything she had ever heard, and all Paige knew was that she wanted to hear that sound over and over again.

“Fuck you sound so pretty”

Azzi gasped at the words when Paige moved her legs between Azzi’s thighs. She immediately started grinding down into Paige’s thigh. Their foreheads touched while they breathed in each other's air, trying to catch their breaths.

“I want you so bad, P, please.”

Paige’s blue eyes became dark, like the depths of the ocean took over her eyes. Following that wave, Paige moved her hand to grasp Azzi’s jaw gently.

“Anything you want, Princess,” Paige says and drops on her knees.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.”

“Yeah?” Just like Paige said she would, she kisses up Azzi’s legs and nips at sensitive skin as Azzi grasps the back of Paige’s head. Azzi starts whimpering, and Paige’s long fingers make their way towards Azzi’s thong.

“Can I?”

Azzi nodded yes, faster than she’d ever moved in her life. Paige pulled her thong down and helped Azzi step out of them and undid her heels so she could step out of them. There was something so gentle and loving about the action that took over Azzi’s body. She bent down to meet Paige halfway, kissing her, slipping her tongue into Paige’s mouth. She needed Paige as close to her as possible. She pulled Paige back into a standing position, muttering how much she loved her between kisses.

Their kisses grew frantic and desperate. Azzi unbuttoned Paige’s pants, pulling them down hard. “Paige, please.”

She let out a yelp in surprise when, in one fluid motion, Paige lifted Azzi onto the entry way counter, shoving the coffee machine and mugs out of the way.

“I need you now,” Paige said with a deep rasp, pushing the machine further back. She tightly grabbed at Azzi’s thighs and tugged her into Paige’s center, encouraging Azzi to grind into her.

“Yeah, mama, just like that.”

Azzi tried to cover the sounds involuntarily leaving her mouth by shoving her head into Paige’s neck. But Paige grabbed at her hair and pulled back hard.

“Nah, baby. I gotta hear you. Lemme hear what I do to you.”

“Fuck, Paige, you feel so good.”

Paige pulled at the thin spaghetti straps of Azzi’s dress, reminding Paige that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She moved the offending fabric out of the way and slowly started licking towards her nipples.

“Baby, please stop teasing.”

Never one to deny Azzi of what she wants, immediately moved to suck at her nipple. Azzi’s grip tightened around Paige’s neck, letting Paige worship her.

Paige started to push her hand up Azzi's thigh, shoving her dress out of the way.

“I wanna make you feel good, pretty girl.” Paige’s hands made their way towards Azzi’s hot center, swiping her finger through Azzi’s wet folds. And when Paige finally enters her, slow and careful, Azzi’s eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. That all f’me, mama?”

“Mhm, yes, it’s all for you.”

Paige circled her clit, making Azzi’s legs jerk in response. “More, more, please.”

“You sound so fuckin’ pretty when you beg. Ask me for what you want, baby.”

“Please I want you to fuck me.” In response, Paige easily entered two fingers into Azzi. She stopped halfway, not wanting to hurt Azzi, but there was no resistance, so she pushed her fingers in deeper, leading to the release of a deep moan from Azzi.

“You takin’ me so good, Princess.” Paige grabbed Azzi’s lower back to hold her close as she entered a third finger into her entrance.

Paige had never seen such a beautiful sight in her life. Azzi’s moans and whimpers took over the room, taking Paige’s fingers. “You feel so good, baby.”

“Mm, you so tight, baby girl.”

Azzi’s hips jerked forward, desperately trying to meet Paige’s thrusts. Paige curls her fingers deep inside of Azzi.

“Fuck, Paige! Fuck don’t stop.”

Paige moved her lips back down to suck and nip at Azzi’s hard nipples. Azzi’s thighs closed tightly around her wrist, letting Paige know she’s close. She started to move even faster, pushing the palm of her hand against Azzi’s clit.

Azzi screams Paige’s name, grasping at her, leaving scratches down her back. Azzi starts trembling, and her eyebrows scrunch together.

“Look at me.”

Azzi opened her eyes to Paige’s staring right back at her. It was the first time she’d ever felt seen like this, like all of her belonged to Paige.

“I love you so much, Azzi.”

That’s all it took to send Azzi over the age. Paige kept pumping her fingers as Azzi moaned out Paige’s name, helping her ride out her orgasm until Azzi grabbed at her wrist, signaling for her to stop.

Paige slowly pulled out her fingers and then took her time sucking them while never losing eye contact with Azzi.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” Azzi says as she tries to catch her breath.

Paige smirks. “Just wait 'til you feel my tongue, baby girl.”

Azzi rolls her eyes when in reality, she really can’t wait either. For anyone else, Paige’s smug confidence would be a turn off, but somehow Paige makes yet another thing hot. Also, Paige never stops talking, so putting her mouth to better use isn’t the worst idea.

Paige yanks her by her waist and wraps Azzi’s legs around her torso. She picks the younger girl up and gently lays her on the bed before giving her soft kisses all over her face. Once Azzi recovers, she startles Paige by flipping her over and straddling her. Azzi finishes taking the rest of her dress off, leaving Paige stunned, holding onto her waist.

“Damn, baby.”

Azzi starts grinding into Paige, finding a consistent rhythm, causing their breaths to speed up again. Azzi pulls at Paige’s boxers, asking to take them off. Paige lifts her hips, and Azzi doesn’t waste a second taking them off and throwing them far away. She settled back down into Paige’s lap, and Paige sat up, meeting her for a kiss.

Azzi craves Paige’s touch, so she pulls back just enough to pull Paige’s shirt off as she chases her lips. Once their bodies touch, they both sigh deeply, feeling like finally, finally, they’re home. Azzi kissed her like she was claiming her, like she was anchoring them both to something real, something irreversible.

Paige wrapped her hands around Azzi’s neck, pulling her closer, every inch of their bodies touching, and Azzi and Paige started grinding into each other again. Azzi can feel the familiar pull in her stomach letting her know she’s getting close, but knowing she hasn’t made Paige feel good yet stops her. She pulls back and shoves at Paige’s shoulders, causing her head to fall back into the pillows with a slight bounce.

Azzi’s hands and lips start to explore Paige’s body, leaving marks as she kisses her way down to her center.

“Baby, I gotta feel you,” Paige says as she pulls Azzi back to her mouth. Their tongues start fighting for dominance and Azzi easily wins when she starts circling Paige’s clit with no warning.

“Oh fuck!”

“You’re gonna do what I say now, okay?”

Paige gulps. “Yep.”

Something about Paige's submission to her and doing whatever she wants might be Azzi’s new addiction. Azzi smirked down at Paige, knowing she had her right where she wanted her. Paige let out a choked laugh that turned into a gasp as Azzi pushed two fingers inside her in one smooth motion. Her back arched, head tossing back into the pillows as pleasure surged through her. “Oh god—Azzi.”

Azzi lets her fingers get fully coated by Paige’s wet folds. She then removes her them, causing Paige to whimper. “No, no, please don’t st—”

Azzi’s fingers entered Paige’s mouth, successfully shutting her up. Paige moans in response and sucks hard, while her eyes roll to the back of her head.

Thinking back to the question that got them here, Azzi decided she wanted a second chance.

“Tell me what you want, Paige.”

She is squirming under Azzi, attemping and failing to relieve the pressure between her legs. “I want you, baby, so bad.” Paige finally rasped, barely louder than a breath. “I want your mouth, your hands, your everything. I want to feel you inside me. I want—fuck, Azzi—I want all of you.”

“Good,” she murmured and leaned in closely. “You know what I want, Paigey?”

“Whatchu want, Princess?” She said with a shaky breath, her heart hammering in her chest like it was trying to claw its way free. Azzi’s presence was so commanding and consuming that all of Paige’s carefully built walls were falling as if the foundation was rebuilding them.

“I wanna taste you.”

“Fuck.” Paige’s eyes shut tight, and her back arches into Azzi. She tried to speak, but the only sound that left her was a soft moan, laced with frustration and longing. Azzi grabs her chin and starts to lick at Paige’s mouth and tongue, tasting Paige from just moments before. Their tongues swirl around eachother and Azzi sucks on Paige’s tongue, letting it go with a pop. “Hm, I think I need a little more of a taste.”

Azzi starts to work her way down Paige’s body again, with a very specific goal in mind. Paige is struggling to stay still. She pushes Paige’s legs open and shuffles down the bed to face Paige’s hot center. She couldn’t wait any longer to taste Paige, so she swiped her tongue between her folds.

Paige quickly grabs the back of Azzi’s head, pushing her in deeper as her back arches off the bed. “Just like that, baby, fuck.”

Azzi dipped her tongue deep into Paige, covering her face with all things Paige. She then flattens her tongue licking back up to her sensitive clit and gently nips before soothing her tongue back over it.

At this point, Paige was a babbling mess, holding onto Azzi’s hair like a lifeline. Azzi easily inserts two fingers, increasing the speed of her fingers and tongue simultaneously.

Paige’s moans grow louder by the second, and her legs begin to tighten around Azzi’s head. It’s pretty hard for her to breathe at this point, but she can’t find it in herself to care. If this is the last thing she ever does, she’ll die a happy girl.

Azzi has to use her free hand to control Paige’s hips jerking at the sensation of Azzi’s tongue.

“Please, Az, please,” She begs breathlessly. Azzi’s eyes dart up to see beautiful blue eyes already looking down at her. When their eyes meet, Azzi moans into Paige’s center, tasting every bit of her. The vibrations of her moan travel through Paige’s body, and it sends Paige off the edge. Azzi keeps licking and pumping her fingers until Paige can’t take it anymore.

“You feel so fucking good,” Azzi groaned and Paige cried out, hands fisting in the sheets, completely unraveled.

Azzi pulled back just enough to look at her. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

Paige nodded frantically, words failing her as she writhed beneath Azzi.

Paige shattered, her climax tearing through her like a tidal wave. Her legs locked around Azzi’s head, her whole body trembling as Azzi coaxed her through every second of it. She cried out Azzi’s name, over and over, clutching her like she might disappear if she let go.

“Okay, okay, fuck.” Once she came back down, Paige pushed at Azzi’s head and then pulled her up for a slow, languid kiss.

Azzi rubs at Paige’s cheeks, admiring her face and peppering soft kisses while Paige catches her breath.

“I’m so in love with you,” Azzi says softly.

Paige hums in response, smiling up at Azzi, moving a curl behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful, Az.”

Azzi leans in to kiss her again, and this time, something feels different. There’s no more barriers or fear. No more what-ifs or hesitation. Just them.

“Hey, Az?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel my legs again.”

Azzi laughs as she cuddles into Paige’s side.

“You laugh, but I am havin’ a serious dilemma.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“I wanna eat you out so fuckin’ bad right now, but I think I might be stuck here for 3-5 business days.”

“Oh my god, Paige!”

There’s something so relieving and light about Paige joking with her like there after something so intimate. At the end of the day, they’ve always been best friends, and this is proof that it’ll never change, just evolve.

“Nah, forreal, ride my face.”

Yeah, Azzi made fun of her for it, but it was easily one of the hottest things she’s ever done so she won’t be holding it against her any time soon.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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maysileeewrites · 2 months ago

Text

bittersweet symphony || chapter 1

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader || series masterlist

summary: Surviving the Hunger Games was only the beginning. As you try to navigate through this strange, terrifying new after-life, you find comfort in someone you'd least expected it from, but new threats are already rising ...

chapter warnings: angst!!, capitol-typical nastiness, President Snow being President Snow, Reader dealing with PTSD, a bit of fluff

word count: 4.7k

Stay alive, Princess.

Stay alive.

Haymitch’s words keep replaying in your mind in a constant, never-ending loop.

Stay alive. Stayalivestayalivestayalive.

On and on it goes, like a prayer, like a mantra - like the only thing keeping you sane.

Stay alive, Princess.

You stand on the platform, terrified, panic gripping at you, as you try to get a bearing on your surroundings, trying to locate Kai and your little allies.

Stay alive.

You watch, helpless, and frozen in fear, as little Lucas is speared by one of the Careers during the bloodbath.

Stay alive.

Finn, Sarah and Dalton - all three of them taken by the wave that floods the arena during the fifth day. Their screams are like a living, breathing pain, mixing with Haymitch’s words in your mind.

Stay alive.

You’re running through the forest, clutching Cassie’s hand, hoping against hope that you’ll be able to outrun the two Careers chasing you. Kai, with little Flora on his back, is already a few paces ahead of you, but when Cassie lets out a panicked scream, he stops, turning around, his terrified dark grey eyes finding yours. You shake your head, silently telling him to run, to save his own and Flora’s life. But, he doesn’t. Of course.

Stay alive.

Cassie’s terrified scream when, suddenly, a group of wolf mutts join the fight between you, Kai and the two remaining Careers.

Stay alive.

Kai’s dark grey eyes finding yours as the knife of the Career runs through his body. A chocked sob leaves your mouth and you want to run towards Kai, but he’s shaking his head, attempting to smile. His last, silent plea is clear: grab Flora and run. And so, you do.

Stay alive.

Flora, twisting her ankle and crying out in pain as she crashes to the ground. You bend down immediately, but it’s already too late - the mutt’s already got to her.

Stay alive.

Claudius Templesmith’s voice ringing out through the arena. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of the 61st annual Hunger Games? You look up, seeing a hovercraft descending towards the point where you’re lying on the ground, writhing in pain. The last thing you remember seeing - or maybe you’ve just been imaging things this whole time - is a short, fleeting flash of sunrise, the last wisps of fading clouds in the sky, as the sun rises in the distance.

Then, everything goes black.

You’re drifting in and out of consciousness.

Moments of awareness - the blinding, uncomfortably bright lights of the room you’re in, the terrifying feeling of being trapped - are followed by awful memories of the Games, like Kai’s eyes finding yours for the last time ever or sweet litte Flora getting torn apart by those horrible mutts.

But somehow, Haymitch’s voice always finds its way into your mind as well.

Stay alive, Princess.

Why?, you want to ask. What’s the point? Why should I deserve to live, if everyone I wanted to save died?

But Haymitch isn’t here to answer you and even if he were, he probably wouldn’t have an answer for you - at least not one you’d like to hear.

And so, you keep clinging to his words, like a mantra, like a prayer. Like a promise.

Stay alive.

Another moment of being uncomfortably close to consciousness or at least it feels like that.

„No, absolutely not. She’s just a girl-“

Haymitch, you think.

„But she needs to look-“

„I don’t care. You’re not going to do that to her.“

„But-“

The rest of the words are cut off, and then there’s Haymitch chuckling darkly.

You drift off again, comforted by the thought than when you finally return to the land of the living for good, at least Haymitch will still be there for you, looking out for you.

Stay alive.

Even before you open your eyes, you know that this time, you won’t be allowed to just drift of again.

You’re alive.

You survived.

Somehow, you survived the Hunger Games.

But you fear that surviving the Games was only the beginning. Because now, you have to live with yourself. You have to live with everything you’ve done; you have to live with the painful, ugly memories from your time in the arena.

You’re a Victor now.

Slowly, hesitantly you open your eyes, still clinging to some desperate thread of hope that maybe none of what you remember has actually happened, that when you open your eyes you’ll wake in the small bedroom you share with your brothers back in District Twelve and that Kai and everyone else you’ve come to love and care about during these last few days is still alive and well.

But when you open your eyes, you’re not greeted by the sight of the small, ramshackle house your family lives in.

Instead, your eyes land on a tapestry that feels somewhat familiar and then-

„Well, look at who’s finally had enough beauty sleep.“

You know that voice, know its’ deep timbre and that dry, mocking tone. And somehow, that makes you feel better, even if only slightly so. But still, even if it’s only Haymitch, your surly, drunken recluse of a mentor that you can’t quite figure out - and you’re not quite sure why you have that strong urge to figure him out, to understand him better, but that’s neither here nor there for the moment -, a friendly face is a friendly face.

And finding yourself thrust into this strange, terrifying new world in which your best friend is dead, having sacrificed his life for you, and you’re somehow the Victor of the 61st annual Hunger Games, you feel as if you’ll need all the friendly faces you can find.

You sit up, wincing when you notice how weak your arms suddenly feel. It’s as if all the fight you’d built up in yourself during your time in the arena disappeared the moment that hovercraft lifted you up into the air.

„Haymitch“, you whisper, your eyes finding his grey ones.

He’s standing at the side of your bed, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

He looks the same as you remember him, his grey eyes as piercing as you remember, and his dark curls falling into his face, yet something about him feels different. You can’t quite put your finger on what, exactly, that is. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, somehow warm and distant at the same time. Maybe it’s the dark circles under his eyes, though they were there before as well. Or maybe it’s the way he carries himself - all tensed-up, like he expects an attack at any moment.

But then his mouth quirks into that familiar, crooked grin, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the way his grey eyes are piercing yours and how somehow, inexplicably, your heart starts beating faster inside your chest.

„Great job staying alive, Princess“, he says, and his voice seems to lose some of its usual biting, sarcastic edge.

You nod, attempting a smile yourself, but somehow you can’t quite muster up the energy for it. Because while you may be glad to see Haymitch, the truth is still this: you survived. Which means that Kai and all your little allies didn’t.

You survived - yet you promised them the same thing: that they would survive. That you’d be there for them.

„I, yeah …“, is all you say, turning away from Haymitch and looking at the floral-patterned wallpaper instead, as you try to fight off memories from the Arena.

It’s no use. Even though you’re here, in this strange new afterlife, you’ve still got one foot in the Arena. Tears start to prick at your eyes and you squeeze them shut, biting down hard on your lip, not wanting to break down and cry ugly sobs in front of Haymitch.

The thought is strange - surely he’s seen you in far worse moments, assuming he watched your Games, which he must have, otherwise how he’d have known what sponsor gifts to send you at always the exact right time? But still, it’s there. You don’t want to cry in front of Haymitch, you don’t want to be that vulnerable.

He - and everyone else that’s watched the Games - has already seen so much of you, you can’t help but want to keep at least some pieces to yourself. Though you know, deep down, that that’s not how the Games and the Capitol work.

„Hey“, Haymitch says, breaking you out of your thoughts. You notice how his voice suddenly sounds unusually soft and calm, almost as if he were talking to a wounded animal. „Where’d you go to, Princess?“

At his words, you open your eyes again, not able to hold back the tears that immediately start streaming down your cheeks. You squeeze your hands into fists, hating how weak you must appear to him.

And so, even though you want nothing more than to just break down completely and sob for everything and everyone that you’ve lost until you have no more tears to cry, you do your best to compose yourself. Crying can come later, you tell yourself. Later, when you’re alone and no one’s there to witness and judge your breakdown.

„I - will it always feel like this, Haymitch?“, you ask, your voice sounding rough and strained.

You can see by the dark, pained expression in Haymitch’s eyes that he immediately understands what you’re trying to say, without you having to explain it further.

He clears his throat, his grey eyes finding yours again. „You want the truth, Princess?“ He doesn’t wait for you to say anything - you don’t need to. „It doesn’t, not really. But you’ve got to keep fighting, no matter how impossible it might feel. You can’t - you can’t give up, not like …“, he trails off, his eyes taking on a far-distant expression, and your heart breaks for him when you see the pain and grief written so clearly on his face.

„You can’t give up, you can’t - don’t let them have that as well.“

You nod, squeezing your hands even more, until your fingernails dig sharply into the soft skin of the inner sides of your palms.

„I - I just … I just - I feel so - exhausted, Haymitch“, you admit, your voice almost breaking on the last word.

There’s a dark look in his eyes, but he just nods.

„I know“, is all he says, „I know, Princess.“

Somehow, you make it through the next few days. Though survive might actually a better word to describe it all.

First, you’ve survived the Arena.

And now, you’re trying to survive this strange new after-life that you’d never thought you’d actually have to experience.

Yes, you’ve somehow survived the Games - somehow you’re a Victor now.

But even though your time in the Arena was nothing short of a living, breathing nightmare, the after-life in the Capitol is almost worse.

It seems that at every corner, there’s some new Capitol citizens that want to get to know you, Twelve’s shining new Victor. Every day, you’re pinched and prodded by your prep team, stuffed into dresses that somehow always seem to walk a very fine, strange line between girlish and seductive, and every day, you’re paraded around somewhere new. Every day, there’s new faces, new hands touching you.

First, it’s just your prep team and your stylist, then it’s some of your Sponsors. A courtesy of President Snow, Arienne, a member of your prep team tells you. Isn’t he just such a wonderful President, giving your Sponsors the chance to get to know their new litte Victor personally?

You try to nod and smile, but inside, you feel frozen.

Your eyes search for Haymitch, who’s just entered the room, a bottle of liquor - already half-empty, as you can see - clutched in his hand. He seems to sense your gaze on him, because after exchanging a few pleasentries with your prep team and stylists, he walks towards your side, coming to stand close right next to you.

He’s so close that your arms brush when you turn to look at him, but somehow, his closeness doesn’t bother you - it doesn’t unnerve you like all the touches of your prep team do. He’s not prodding, not looking to rub your skin raw and shiny, not viewing you as a once-shiny toy, now needing to be polished anew.

„Something’s bothering you“, he says, so quietly that at first, combined with the usual slight slur to his voice, it’s hard for you to make out his words. But once you realize that his words are much more a statement than a question, you understand why he’s being so quiet, so unlike his usual loud, boisterous self.

You nod, your eyes scanning the room quickly. Your prep team and stylist don’t seem to have noticed how you and Haymitch are standing just a few feet away from them, and none of your Sponsors are here just yet.

It’s the calm before the storm, you realize.

„Listen“, Haymitch whispers, his grey eyes searching yours, „you’re not going to like what’s coming next, but-“

„I feel like a priced cow, trussed up for auction!“, you whisper furiously, the words leaving your mouth before you’ve had a chance to think them through. You realize your mistake the moment the words are out of your mouth and you feel your insides freeze, but there’s no taking your words back now.

At least it’s only Haymitch, you try to reassure yourself.

It’s only Haymitch. You may not be able to figure him out entirely and you may not even like him all that much, what with all his arrogant, sarcastic behavior, but still, you feel safe around him. You can’t explain it, not really, but you do feel safe around him - or at least much safer than around anyone else you’ve encountered ever since this strange after-life of yours began.

To his credit, Haymitch’s eyes widen in shock for just a short, fleeting moment, before he clears his throat and his features morph into his usual mask of disdain and arrogance again.

„Listen, Princess“, he says, his voice serious, without even a hint of his usual dry humor, „I know how you feel, trust me, I do - but you’ve got to play nice, to play along, understand me?“

„I-“, you start, wanting to protest furiously, but when his grey eyes find yours again, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: Haymitch is right. This is your life now. And no matter how much you might not like any of this, you’ve got to play along.

You’ve got to.

You sigh, the sound a mixture of annoyance and defeat.

You want to ask Haymitch why and what’s the point, and haven’t the Capitol already taken all they can from you already, but then you remember where you are and that it’s not exactly safe to speak your mind so freely.

And besides, that’s just the point, isn’t it? It’s never going to be enough. If they can hold annual Hunger Games just for their own entertainment, it’s clear that for these people - at least for those pulling all the strings - limits simply don’t exist.

You’re a Victor now.

You’ve survived the Games, but at what cost?

Not for the first time in your new life you find yourself wondering if simply dying in the Arena wouldn’t have been the better, safer, less painful option.

You blink furiously, suddenly feeling pressure building behind your eyes.

Beside you, you hear Haymitch inhaling sharply, and the next thing you know, he’s reaching for you hand, squeezing it softly. The moment is over before it can really begin, though, by the time your eyes find Haymitch’s again, he’s already stepped away from you again, both his hands cradling the bottle of liquor, but your skin still burns where he’s touched you.

„Don’t let them see“, is all he says, his voice all sharp, cutting edges.

You nod, allowing yourself one small, fleeting moment of squeezing your eyes shut. You picture Kai, smiling at you, telling you that it’s all going to be alright, somehow.

Then, you open your eyes again, breathing in deeply and squaring your shoulders.

You nod at Haymitch, an unspoken understanding passing between you two.

His lips quirk into a sad, crooked grin. „There you go.“

And then, when you’ve already turned away, your eyes landing on a pair of outlandish-looking Capitol people, who must surely be some of your Sponsors, he whispers, so quietly that at first you’re not sure whether he’s meant for you to actually hear the words: „I’m here for you, Princess.“

You don’t turn back to look at him, tucking the words away into a corner of your mind instead, keeping them close to your heart, just like you did with the last piece of advice he gave you before the Games.

I’m here for you, Princess.

It doesn’t get any easier, trying to make it through these strange, uncomfortable moments in the Capitol, just slightly more bearable. And even that is an oversimplification of things, but during the following days, you try not to let your thoughts stray too much in that direction anymore.

Haymitch is right - everything will be much easier if you just simply play along with everything that’s thrown your way, no matter how much you may despise all of it on the inside.

And so you smile, laughing at your Sponsor’s vapid jokes, letting them touch and pet you like you’re an animal at the zoo instead of an actual human being. Though that’s just it, you suppose - to them, you’re not really human.

You can’t help yourself but bring this up to Haymitch after the second day of meeting your Sponsors.

„They don’t - they don’t really see us as actual humans, do they?“, you say, quietly, defeatedly, crossing your arms in front of your chest in order to ward off the slight chill in the night air. You’re up on the roof, as safe from watchful eyes and listening ears as you can get in the Capitol, at least according to Haymitch. After dinner, he’d suggested getting a breath of fresh air and the dark look in his eyes had told you that fresh air wasn’t all that his suggestion entailed.

At your words, he laughs darkly, taking another sip from his bottle. „Whatever makes you think that, Princess?“

You shoot him a dark look. „It’s just - all their going on about how I seem so smart and well-spoken for someone that’s District, so - well-behaved …“, you say, trailing off, trying not to cringe at memory of an older woman - though with all the cosmetic surgeries done to her face you’re left in the dark when it comes to guessing her real age - grabbing a strand of your hair, running it through her fingers with a greedy look in her unnatural lilac eyes.

„And the way they talked about some of the other tributes, it’s horrible …“, you whisper, your insides freezing when you recall how they’d talked about little Sarah and Finn - or, according to them, those wild savages. „Like we’re not even human, just … something - something less than …“

You shake your head, your gaze landing on Haymitch whose grip on the bottle in his hand has tightened so much so that the whites of his knuckles are showing. There’s a dark, pained look in his eyes, and by the way he’s staring off into the distance you can tell that he’s not really here in the moment with you right now.

Not for the first time since meeting him you find yourself wondering what on earth happened to him that could’ve turned him into the cynical, drunken recluse you’ve always known him to be.

As far as you can recall, there’s no one there for him in District Twelve - no friends, no family. Though surely he must have had friends and family before going into the Games. A mother, a father, maybe siblings. Maybe even a sweetheart.

And now, he’s got no one. No mother or father to take care of him, no loving sweetheart, no caring friends. Something must have happened to them, his loved ones. It must have had something to do with his Games, you’re sure of it.

If President Snow has no qualms about showing you off to your Sponsors like you’re nothing more than a glorious toy to be played with, then what limits are there for him when it comes to tributes causing trouble in the Games?

You don’t recall much about Haymitch’s Games, other than the fact that he must have somehow managed to outsmart the Gamemakers. That’s all that your father’s ever managed to cough up when you asked him about it and you’d never been able to get much more information from anyone else you’d asked. Back in Twelve, everything to do with Haymitch’s Games is all kept very hush-hush, which is rather strange, considering that he’s not only the only living Victor of Twelve, but also managed to win the Games during a Quarter Quell at that.

Come to think of it, you can’t really remember any clips from Haymitch’s Games. There’s that one clip of his pre-Games interview with Caesar Flickerman during which he confidently announced that he’s not nervous about going into the Games, because even though there might be twice the amount of tributes as usual, that doesn’t mean that they won’t be any less stupid than usual.

You also vaguely recall him allying with Maysilee Donner, a blond girl from the merchant sector of Twelve with an array of necklacesa around her neck. You’d think them pretty if the image of her neck, skin shredded to pieces after a pack of mutt birds attacked her, blood gushing and gushing and gushing, wasn’t burned so hard into your mind.

But that’s it.

The Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, and there’s hardly anything you know about his Games.

You start shivering then, though it’s nothing to do with the slight chill in the air. Icy panic is flowing through your veins, turning your insides to ice.

„- here, take that.“

Haymitch’s voice and his hands on your arms draw you out of your thoughts.

You’d been so absorbed in the terrifying thoughts rushing through your head, you haven’t even noticed Haymitch taking off the sweater he’s wearing and leaning in closer towards you, sweater bunched up in one hand. Without the soft, knitted sweater, he’s left wearing a dark, tight shirt, and for a second you’re mindlessly ogling the way the shirt clings to his chest. How did you never before notice just how strong and muscular he actually is?

But then you realize that you’re ogling him the exact same way you’d been ogled at by your Sponsors earlier that day and immediately force your eyes upwards.

There’s a dark, knowing look in Haymitch’s eyes, but it’s the smirk he gives you that really does you in, causing blood to rush to your cheeks.

This is Haymitch, you remind yourself. Haymitch. Your mentor. Haymitch, who - as you’re becoming more sure of with every passing second - must have done something during his Games that caused him to lose everything and everyone he cared about after winning.

The thought immediately sobers you up and you bite down hard on your lips.

Haymitch smirks. „Take that“, he repeats, thrusting the sweater into your hands.

„But - but you’ll be cold“, you say, flushing the moment the words leave your mouth.

Haymitch only rolls his eyes. „Just take the damn sweater, Princess. I could do without all the shivering and teeth chattering … besides, your coronation’s tomorrow, can’t have you falling ill before that, can we now?“

You nod, taking the sweater from him, though the mention of your Victor’s interview with Caesar Flickerman gives you pause.

You know that it’s inevitable, that there’s nothing you could do to prevent any of it, and yet the thought that you absolutely do not want to live through any moment from your Games ever again, is there all the same. Not that you can really escape your memories from your time in the Arena - they’re woven into all of your nightmares and most of your waking moments.

Still, it’s something else entirely, being forced to watch all these moments while surrounded by an audience of Capitol people, than to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and calling out for Kai, even though you know that you’re never going to feel the comforting weight of his arms around you ever again.

Just thinking about Kai causes your heart to ache.

Pressure builds behind your eyes, and for once, you don’t try to fight off the tears, letting them fall down freely instead.

But even as the tears are streaming down your face, your body shaking with silent sobs, you tell yourself that you’ll only get this one moment. This one stolen moment in the dark, with Haymitch by your side.

Just this one moment.

Because come tomorrow, you’ll have to go through everything all over again. You can’t let yourself fall apart, not yet, not while you’re still here in the Capitol.

And almost as if he’s read your thoughts, Haymitch reaches for your hand after you’ve pulled his sweater on, squeezing it lightly.

You squeeze his hand back, your eyes finding his.

There’s so much more you want to say, so much more you’re burning to know and understand about him, but in this particular moment, you don’t need any more words to understand each other.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, just sitting next to each other in complete silence, your hands still joined.

But when, after some time has passed, you both wordlessly get up, you feel considerably lighter, and the pain in your chest has lessened, if only by a small fraction.

Your interview with Caesar Flickerman the following evening is every bit as horrible as you’d imagined it to be.

You fight hard to keep your composure, to smile and nod when it’s expected of you, but you barely make it through the whole ordeal, especially once the viewing of the clipped-together version of the Games begin.

It’s surreal - surreal and absolutely horrible - seeing Kai and all your other allies there on the big screen.

Watching a whispered late-night conversation you’ve had with Kai during the end of your time in the Arena, you feel as if you’ve stepped out of your body, watching yourself interacting with Caesar and the audience as if from afar.

Your eyes find Haymitch then, who’s sitting in the first row, a half-empty bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. He holds your gaze, nodding as if to say: that’s it, keep holding on.

And so you do, suffering through the rest of the footage of the Games and more empty, meaningless chatter with Caesar.

Then, it’s time for President Snow to crown you Victor of the 61st annual Hunger Games. You stand, frozen and rooted to the spot in cold fear, as the President places the fragile looking gold crown on your head.

„Congratulations“, he says, and you have to fight to keep your composure as his stale breath hits your skin.

You force yourself to nod as the President turns to Haymitch, who has been called up on stage as well and is now standing right next to. „And I believe congratulations are in order for you as well, Mr. Abernathy“, Snow says, reaching for Haymitch’s hand.

As Snow shakes Haymitch’s hand, Haymitch’s dark grey eyes seem to blaze with barely concealed disdain, but other than that, his expression is entirely unreadable.

Still, Snow’s puckered lips quirk up into a terrifying smirk. „You’ve truly outdone yourself this year, Mr. Abernathy …“ His eyes flicker towards you, before turning back to Haymitch.

„I’m sure that I speak for everyone in the Capitol when I say that we’re all so very curious and eager to see where her journey will take our lovely new Victor next … Though it’s reassuring, of course, to know that you, Mr. Abernathy, will be there at her side - for all of it...“

Snow laughs, though his eyes remain cold and expressionless.

You can’t help but shiver, your heart pounding with fear. But when you turn to look at Haymitch, he won’t meet your gaze.

Your bite down hard on your lip, so hard that the metallic taste of blood floods your tongue, but you don’t feel the pain.

Something is wrong, you think, heart pounding in your chest.

Something is very, very wrong.

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read chapter 2 here!!

#haymitch x reader #haymitch x you #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch imagine #sunrise on the reaping #SotR #sotr spoilers #thg #the hunger games #sunrise on the reaping thg #thg x reader #thg x you #haymitch x y/n #haymitch hunger games #thg haymitch #maysileeewrites #bittersweet symphony 🎼

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loserlvrss · 4 months ago

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𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜───── they don’t understand, but 𝔦'll hold your hurt in the box here beside me.

anton.lee &fem!rea. ⟡ 838HUNdrabble hurt-comfort, fluff ｡｡ est. relationship WARN!language 📻. archive

ⓘ call me back ꒰ req:yes/no @yudaies

“I got it,” You’d always say, “I don’t need help. I can do it.”

You were never one to ask for things when you were struggling; not even from the people who were supposed to be there for you. You could do it. You could handle it. You’d climb through hoops, or on countertops to get what you needed. You remain silent, struggling in the depths of your mind—a smile on your face. But, sometimes, you just wanted to cry. Sometimes you just wanted someone to ease the pain a little. To take the weight from off your shoulders and come uncover your soul. You wanted someone to see you, not praise you for all that you’d done. You were more than just cracked-glass.

Maybe it was because you had to grow up too early. Maybe it was because you never had that support engraved into you. Maybe having to act like an adult while you still played with dolls took its toll on you. Maybe you weren’t able to ask such a simple question because it was never met with anything but criticism—why weren’t you able to accomplish such a simple task? Why couldn't you solve this equation? Why didn’t you know how to put gas in a car, or change the oil? Why couldn’t you preheat the oven? Eventually, you asked yourself the same questions.

Why did you have to be dependent on people who were supposed to help you?

So, you never bothered them anymore—the fear of rejection strong.

You reached your hand high above your head, silently cursing yourself for putting things on the top shelf anyways. You huffed, feeling the deep desire within you to get off the countertop and find something else to hold what you wanted. However, there was a screaming voice inside your head, mocking your lack of attempt. You could reach a little higher, your fingertips were brushing it anyways. What was a little fall if you got what you wanted?

Would you feel accomplished? Would it satisfy you to feel pain as you rubbed at your bruised knees? Would it make you smile?

“Here,” You felt a warmth, a presence you’d grown familiar with, his body pressed to your back momentarily. Your heart beat unsteadily—from adrenaline, or proximity? “Let me help you.”

“No,” You looked over your shoulder, “I got it.”

Your faces were close, so close you could feel his breath against your lips. You never knew someone could look like that up close.

“I know you do,” He ignored your pleading eyes, knowing somewhere within them was just a mirage of what you wanted people to see. What you wanted to see. “But, I want to help.”

And that’s how it started; your undoing. The crumbling of the walls you built so goddamn high, even you couldn’t get over them. But, he picked at them pebble by pebble until he roamed your mind freely.

It was the small things: holding your jacket out for you to put on, brushing your hair after a shower, grabbing you a glass of water or a snack without wanting something in return, letting you vent instead of biting your tongue. He’d put your legs over his lap, and turn on your favorite show. He’d remind you every second of every day that you were beautiful if he could. He’d do anything for you to see yourself the way he saw you; wingless angel.

He never made you feel like a burden, normalizing the things that should’ve just been.

His soft voice would replay in your mind, a lingering touch on your heart—pulling the strings until they unraveled.

Maybe there was such a thing as everlasting love. Maybe there was such a thing as unconditional. Maybe you’d never felt trust before—maybe you’ve never actually loved before. Because to be loved is to not feel uncomfortable. To be loved is to not walk on eggshells. To be in love is to not make selfish sacrifices. To be loved is to listen. To be in love is to be on the same page. To be in love is to not feel like you’re at war with yourself. To be in love is to hear angels singing every time you look at each other.

“Anton,” His hands found your waist, helping you turn around and face him, legs now on each side of his hips. You knew you were fucked up, messy and little off-putting because of it but, you’d trust him because you wanted to, “I love you.”

The plastic cup clattered to the floor, along with the rest of your reserve. You were scared of heights, scared of romantic words, scared of receiving help, but ready to leap with his hand within yours. He’d hold your heart like it was the most delicate and rare artifact on Earth. He’d hold you like you’d float away—far out in space somewhere. He’d love you like his first and his last.

Because now you know, to be loved is to be healed, not cut open.

© loserlvrss 2025. 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱. >.< tags: @kstrucknet @k-films @blossomnet @starlit-network @bbangbies @gluion @slytherinshua @saxytalks @mystarsohee @seomisaho @chwesun @atzlordz @cyjzzl @minkilicious @takoyari @chenlezip @nctrawberries reblogs ─────feedback v appreciated !

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kochslut · 9 months ago

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𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫╰┈➤ cooper koch

playing: treat you better by shawn mendes

synopsis: after a painful betrayal, you find comfort in your best friend, cooper, who tries to show you he can treat you better than your ex ever did. torn between the fear of ruining the friendship and the growing attraction you feel for him, you both face the tension between friendship and love, with an uncertain future but full of possibilities.

paring: cooper koch x reader

warnings: cheating, emotional abuse, detailed intimate interaction, oral sex, +18

It was late at night, and you were at home, your face wet with tears you couldn’t hold back. The image of Luke, your boyfriend, with another girl kept replaying in your mind, and the pain of betrayal felt unbearable. Your chest tightened, and the emptiness inside you grew with every passing second. You knew you couldn't be alone in this moment, not now. Without thinking too much, you grabbed your phone and called Cooper, your best friend. He picked up after a few rings, his voice rough from sleep but clearly filled with concern.

"Coops…" your voice came out weak, almost a whisper choked by tears. "I… I need you."

On the other line, Cooper sighed, and you knew he was already tired of all the mess Luke had been putting you through. He always said that guy wasn’t good enough for you, and now it seemed like all his worries were coming true. "Y/N, I'm on my way. Just hang tight," he said, not even giving you a chance to argue. Before you could respond, the call had ended, and you knew he’d be at your door in just a few minutes.

Sure enough, minutes later, the doorbell rang. You opened it to find Cooper standing there, concern etched across his face, holding a paper bag in one hand. He didn’t need to ask anything; one look at your face and he knew exactly what had happened. Without a word, he stepped inside and gently pulled you into a tight hug, letting you cry into his shoulder.

“I brought your favorites,” he said softly, lifting the bag with a few of your favorite sweets, but all you could do was sob against his chest.

He led you to the couch, never letting go of your hand, and sat down beside you, opening the little treats and offering one to you. "Try to eat a little, it'll help," he suggested, but you shook your head, unable to even think about food in that moment. Cooper sighed softly and rubbed his hand gently along your arm. “Y/N, I know it hurts right now, but you deserve so much better than this, you know that? He… he wasn’t the right guy for you.” His voice was calm, but there was a quiet intensity in his words, as if he’d said it a thousand times in his head already.

You lifted your tear-streaked face to look at him, wiping the wetness away with the back of your hand. He looked at you deeply, his eyes full of understanding, but there was something else there, something you couldn’t quite figure out. "I know it’s hard to accept now, but I know he's just not right for you, and you can tell me if I'm off. But I see it on your face. He hurts you, Y/N, and I can’t stand by watching you get torn apart by someone who doesn’t see your worth." Cooper’s words hit you hard, but they also felt like a balm to the pain. There was something about him that always soothed you, and even in the middle of the emotional chaos you were in, his presence made everything feel just a little more bearable.

Minutes turned into hours as you talked—or rather, as Cooper spoke and you just listened, enjoying the comfort of having someone by your side who truly cared. He shared funny stories, embarrassing childhood moments, and even some memories from school that made you smile through the tears. The soft light of the room seemed to dance, creating a cozy atmosphere, and slowly, the pain of betrayal began to fade just a little. As the night went on, you realized that even with a heavy heart, Cooper's presence beside you brought unexpected comfort. He had always been there for you.

When the conversation shifted towards your insecurities and the confused feelings that consumed you, Cooper leaned in closer, his gaze intense. "You have so much to offer, Y/N. Don’t let someone who can’t see that make you forget it. You deserve someone who recognizes how incredible you are," he said, his voice full of sincerity that made your stomach flutter.

A warmth started to spread through you. It was admirable how Cooper looked at you with respect, and a wave of gratitude washed over you. You smiled, trying to hide the mix of emotions stirring inside. "Thank you, Coops. That really means a lot," you replied, your voice trembling slightly. You noticed something different in the way Cooper spoke—maybe it was the vulnerability of the moment, but for a second, you wished he was the one for you.

He smiled back, and in that instant, something sparked. You realized that even in the midst of the pain and confusion you felt for your boyfriend, Cooper was there, ready to support you. The tension between you grew, and for a moment, silence filled the room. You thought about how his presence brightened the darkness surrounding you.

"You really are an amazing friend, you know?" you said, a slight smile on your lips. His friendship was something you treasured, and you couldn’t forgive yourself if you crossed that line with him.

"I just want the best for you, Y/N. Always," he replied, the sincerity in his voice resonating deeply in your heart.

It was like his words echoed a truth you didn’t want to ignore. As the night wore on, the idea that Cooper could be more than just a friend began to take shape in your mind, and you felt a mix of hope and nervousness for what might come next.

The clock on the wall showed it was much later than you thought. The house was quiet, and you could feel the fatigue setting in. The warmth and safety of Cooper’s company surrounded you, and the idea of being alone that night felt unsettling.

With hesitation, you looked into his eyes, searching for the courage you needed. "Cooper..." your voice came out soft, almost a whisper. "Would you… would you mind staying with me tonight? I don’t want to be alone."

He paused from fiddling with the sweets, his gaze soft and understanding. "Are you sure, Y/N?" he asked, concerned.

"Yeah, I really want you to stay," you insisted, vulnerability lacing your tone. "Your presence… it helps."

A smile spread across Cooper's face, and he nodded, "Of course, I’ll stay."

"I’m going to run a bath," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You didn’t want to show any signs of nervousness. "After, if you want to take one too, feel free."

Cooper nodded again, his eyes following your movements as if he wanted to make sure you were okay. He stayed in the living room while you headed upstairs to your room, the soft sound of your footsteps fading down the hallway. In the bathroom, the hot water felt soothing, easing some of the tension, but it didn’t calm the confusion swirling in your mind.

After getting dressed, you went back downstairs to find Cooper sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. When he saw you, he stood up, and the air between you felt thick with unspoken words. "If you want, the bathroom is free now," you said, trying to sound casual, but there was something in the air that made it hard to act natural.

He just nodded, silent as always, and went up to freshen up while you tried to gather your thoughts. Minutes later, he came down, the fresh scent of soap filling the space, bringing an unexpected sense of comfort. You both headed up to your room, where the soft light of the lamp was still on. The bed looked huge but somehow inviting. When you lay down, Cooper hesitated for a moment before joining you, lying beside you. The space between you felt too small, and even in silence, there was an invisible current connecting you two.

For a moment, you just stared at the ceiling, as if the words were stuck, waiting for the right moment to be said. He slowly turned to you, the mattress sinking slightly beside him. His hand slid to yours, fingers intertwining in a calm, almost hesitant way. He took a deep breath before speaking, as if choosing his words carefully.

"I never understood, you know? How you could settle for so little… when you’re so much." His voice was rough, full of honesty that made your chest tighten. "You don’t deserve someone who makes you doubt who you are. You never did." He squeezed your hand gently, and you finally looked at him. The look in Cooper's eyes was intense but not angry. It was filled with concern, with care. There was something there you had never noticed before, as if he was trying to show you something you had always refused to see.

"I know I can treat you better than he can, Y/N," he continued, his voice heavy. "And I know you’re still hurting now, but look at me…" He hesitated, searching for your gaze. "Any person like you deserves a gentleman. I always said that."

Those words made you lose yourself for a moment. Cooper had always been there, always taking care of you, but there was something in the way he said it now that felt deeper.

"I’m not here to say I’m perfect, or that I can fix all your problems." Cooper swallowed hard, the tension in the air growing as the truth came out. "But I know I can treat you better. Because seeing you like this, broken, hurts. And I’d do anything to keep you from suffering like that again."

Was that a confession? There was a raw sincerity in each word, no grand promises, no games— just the truth. He looked at you so intensely that you felt exposed, as if all the walls you had built were coming down.

"Cooper, I…" The words wouldn’t come. Your heart raced too fast, and you felt your face heat up. "I don’t know what to say."

He didn’t let go of your hand; he just held it tighter, his eyes burning with an intensity you’d never seen before. His touch, the way his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, stirred something within you. It felt familiar yet completely new.

"You don’t have to say anything right now," he whispered, his voice low but filled with meaning. "I just want you to know that I’m always here. I always have been."

The silence between you thickened, charged with emotions that felt electric in the air. Your heart raced, and suddenly, you realized that his body was closer than before. His warmth was almost tangible, and you could feel his breath—slow and steady—while yours was uneven.

You tried to look away, to fight against the thoughts flooding your mind, but it was useless. Cooper’s fingers intertwined with yours felt like an anchor, and every delicate gesture he made seemed to spark sensations you had never felt so vividly. Your best friend, always so steady, so constant. But now, in that room with the soft light illuminating your faces, everything felt different. And you didn’t know if you were ready to face what that meant.

"I just… don’t understand how things got so complicated," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

He let out a low, almost bitter yet soft laugh. "Love doesn’t have to be complicated, Y/N."

That phrase shattered something inside you, as if finally, something had been revealed. The weight of his closeness, his touch, his warmth… it all made you question what else you had overlooked. You could smell him, feel his strong presence, and the tension in the air was palpable for both of you. Before you could stop yourself, your eyes drifted to his lips, and you mentally reprimanded yourself for it. What was happening to you? It was as if an invisible force was pulling you closer, and every second beside him heightened that feeling.

Cooper noticed your gaze fixated on his lips, and a playful smile formed on his face. "I don’t bite, if you want to get closer… I wouldn’t mind," he said, laughter escaping his lips, light and teasing. Instantly, you felt embarrassed, your cheeks burning a deep red. That feeling of awkwardness only intensified the tension between you. The atmosphere grew charged, and his laughter echoed in the room as his eyes remained locked on yours. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the idea of moving closer made you both nervous and excited.

"Cooper, this isn’t…" you began, but the words faltered. You didn’t know how to explain what was happening, how he made you feel confused and exhilarated.

"It’s just a joke," he replied, but there was a spark in his eyes that made it clear he felt the same electricity. "If you want to, of course." The teasing in his tone made you bite your lower lip, trying to suppress a smile that threatened to appear. The tension grew, and you felt a wave of courage wash over you. It was as if the line between friendship and something more was blurring, and you wanted to explore this new territory.

Without a second thought, you moved a little closer, the distance between you shrinking. Cooper’s expression changed, and you saw surprise flicker in his eyes, as if he were questioning whether you would actually do this. But he didn’t pull back; instead, he leaned slightly in your direction, as if inviting you to take the lead. The pounding of both your hearts was almost deafening. Expectation hung in the air, and you found yourself holding your breath. Your gazes locked once more, and it felt like the world around you faded away. All that existed were the two of you, suspended in a bubble of possibilities.

"Are you sure about this?" Cooper asked, you could feel his breath growing closer to yours, his voice soft yet heavy with desire. The question felt more like an invitation than a doubt.

"I… I think so," you replied, feeling the vulnerability in your words, but there was something more there, a rising determination. Without another word, you decided to let yourself go. With an almost involuntary movement, your lips met his. The kiss started softly, hesitantly, as if you were both trying to understand what it meant. But soon the hesitation gave way to urgency, to the need to draw even closer.

Cooper pulled you nearer, his hands firm on your waist as you got lost in him. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating, and you didn’t want to pull away. Your bodies molded against each other, each touch sending shivers down your spine. The kiss deepened, the tension that had once been almost invisible now transforming into a fiery connection. It was as if all the confusion and pain you had felt before evaporated, leaving only pure, true desire.

When you finally broke apart, both of your breaths were ragged, your eyes meeting with a mix of surprise and joy. Cooper smiled, that smile that made your heart race. "I… wow," you murmured, still dazed.

"See? I didn’t bite," he joked, the lightness returning to his tone, but the intensity in his gaze remained. It wasn’t long before you found yourself enveloped in his kisses again, and he seemed surprised. So much time waiting for you, for your touch, and now it felt magical.

The intensity of the kiss wrapped around you like a warm cloak, and Cooper seemed to absorb every moment with careful calmness. He gently pulled you even closer, now there was no distance between you both. His fingers glided softly over your waist, while his other hand caressed your face, as if he were trying to imprint every detail into his memory. His touch was gentle, but there was a strong connection pulsing between you, a growing desire that was barely contained. As your lips moved together in a smooth, deep rhythm, you felt a shiver run down your spine. He pressed your body against his, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

He explored your neck with gentle kisses, his lips gliding over your exposed skin, and the sensation was exquisite. Every touch made your mind spin, a whirlwind of emotions and sensations you had never experienced before. He was being careful and attentive, always paying attention to your reactions, as if he was making sure you were comfortable even while the passion was already stronger than you could handle.

With a smooth movement, he pulled you on top of him, you had your crotch very close to his, and he had his hands sliding down your back as the intensity between you grew. The way he held you was protective, but at the same time full of desire. Your bodies moved in harmony, each movement resonating with an echo of a repressed passion that had finally found freedom. You could feel Cooper’s dick rubbing against your thigh. You still couldn't believe it was real.

The best friend? what a cliché.

The kisses became more urgent, deeper, as if you wanted to merge into one being. The man explored every curve, every contour, and you let yourself be carried away, surrendering to the moment. The mix of affection and passion was electrifying, and each touch seemed to ignite a flame inside you.

When he pulled away for a moment, his gaze was intense. Cooper leaned in, sealing your lips again in a kiss that said more than words could express. You knew that moment was just the beginning of something much bigger.

"Can I take off your clothes?" The request was barely a whisper, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made your heart race. You felt a shiver run through your skin, a mix of nervousness and anticipation. Unable to find words, you just nodded. It was as if, from that moment on, all his fears and insecurities disappeared.

Gently, Cooper raised his hands and began to pull at his clothes. He did it slowly, as if he wanted to appreciate every second, every little detail. The touch of his fingers on your skin was soft, and a wave of heat ran through your body as you felt the cold air touch your exposed skin. His gaze was fixed on you, full of admiration and desire, and in that moment, you felt more alive than ever. Cooper seemed to respect every part of your being, every nuance of your vulnerability. He moved even closer, his hands caressing your torso, exploring every curve with a delicacy that was both electrifying and calming.

As his hands slid across your skin, you gave yourself over completely, feeling the connection between you grow stronger. Cooper moved slowly, his actions full of intention, each touch an invitation to explore the depths of it. His breathing was labored as he watched you, as if he was trying to burn that moment into his memory. The chemistry between you two was undeniable, and the way he touched you awakened a desire in you that seemed to have been dormant for so long.

His gaze intensified, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both soft and fiery. There was a seething passion, but also a tenderness that made it even more special. You felt completely enveloped by him, and the anxiety that once dominated you now turned into something delicious. Cooper's hands were all over your body, he caressed you while lightly squeezing your skin.

In some moment of courage, you started to move your hips towards him and were satisfied when you heard him make light moans during the kiss. That man was driving you insane, you no longer had any doubts that you wanted more from him; of that moment. As if in fright, you moved a little, putting your hand inside his shorts and stroking his erect member through his underwear.

He looked at you with wide eyes and you gave him a friendly look, as if to say everything was okay. It seems that this was confirmation for what you would do from now on, because you got off of him and tried to remove his clothes, who soon helped you. There was a half-naked Cooper on top of your bed, his penis looks like it would tear his underwear at any moment and you were the only one who could help him at that moment. And without any shame, that's what you did.

"Stand up." his ordination sent a shiver down the back of Cooper's neck and he did so without dissent. With the man standing, you began a difficult kiss, perhaps due to the difference in height, but it didn't last long; You soon started distributing kisses even close to his genitals. His underwear was quickly removed and you couldn't help but swallow hard at the sight of his member without anything covering it.

Cooper gave a perverted smile "Don't choke, y/n", he said in a teasing tone. Well, you weren't a loser, you weren't going to leave your best friend there with that victorious smile on your face. You gave him a wink and squatted down, coming face to face with that man's genitals. You couldn't help but wonder if you could really handle it, was it too big or were you just unaccustomed to your ex-boyfriend's small dick?

So, amidst not at all favorable thoughts, you placed your mouth on his member, who quickly entered a greater state of excitement upon feeling you. He can't help but grab your hair, helping you move back and forth. While keeping your mouth around the entire head of his cock, you ran your tongue over his glans, which made Cooper let out a hoarse moan.

He rocked back and forth as his mouth did all the work down there. You ran your tongue up and down, now using your hand to help with masturbation, trying to feel every part of that man who was there just for you and for you.

His breathing oscillated with each contact your tongue had with his penis, you noticed this and felt increasingly confident in continuing with the sliding movements. You could already feel him inside your throat, pressing so hard that you would probably not speak for some time.

It was hard to tell if Cooper was aware of how big he was, because he was forcing your head forward, making you gag a few times. He was already throbbing in your mouth and you tried to keep control of the situation, taking his hand carefully and removing it from your head. You wrap his penis in your hand and slowly slip your lips around and over it. Your tongue moves slowly under the ridge and around the tip in a figure 8. With Cooper standing, you run the outside of your teeth up and down the underside of his penis, moaning with his penis in your throat, lightly caressing his thighs.

He tried to say something between moans and trembles. "Y/N…" his voice came out shaky and you felt a shiver when you heard him say your name at that moment. "I want to cum with you." He moved back, interrupting the continuation of the blowjob.

You stared at him with watery eyes after a few sessions of gagging. "You're the boss, today." And you smiled at him, and he couldn't help but laugh and think about those words, perhaps the best choice of words you can give a man at that moment.

He took your hands and pulled you back up, the difference in size between you was striking. He felt like your protector, you were so fragile today. All he wanted was to take care of you and… well, he was doing it masterfully. He bent down a little and placed a long kiss on your lips, placing his hands on your back and feeling the soft skin that covered you. He didn't want to be rough with you, not today. Not with such a delicate moment, today he wanted to be a gentleman, kind… He couldn't see himself treating you roughly - even though that man wanted to throw you on the bed with all his strength and fuck you until you begged him to stop.

Now, he lightly lowered his lips to your collarbone, leaving wet kisses there. Your neck had now become his domain, he kissed every part and in some he gave light bites. You were breathing roughly, you were embarrassed to moan at that moment. You didn't want to seem like a poor and desperate bitch, even though you knew that Cooper would never think that of his best friend. The connection between you was unbreakable, and, as those kisses on your neck intensified, you knew that desire and vulnerability were intertwined, and you were ready to explore all the nuances of that new reality.

He ran his warm tongue over your collarbone for the last time, causing a strong shiver to run through your body. Now, he had picked you up effortlessly and laid you down on the bed, the way he looked at you made you blush. It was all unbelievable. He was sitting on a corner of the bed, giving him complete freedom of your body. He started another kiss that ended near your underwear. He stared at you as if asking if he could.

"Today I'm yours." You said in a pleasant tone, making him even more excited than he already was. Today you were his.

He removed the piece of clothing that prevented you from being completely naked and threw it somewhere in the room. Nothing mattered at that moment. You wanted him inside you. You wanted to feel him, have him. And as if he were reading your mind, Cooper put his mouth on your genitals; his warm tongue ran all over your intimate area, making you arch your back more and more. His mouth was all over you, as if he was devouring you. He wanted to taste more and more of you. He felt like a hunter with prey in his hands. Today he had you and he wanted to make the most of it.

Cooper's hands were holding your thighs, as if he were stopping you from leaving. He was squeezing you, but not tightly, it was more like a way of showing that he still had a certain dominance while being so tied to you. His fingers dragged along your walls, eliciting increasingly loud moans from you.

"You're already dripping," he said, caressing the entire length of your arousal. Now, his fingers were helping him with the work while his tongue continued to play over your genitals. The touches were almost hesitant, as if they were both exploring the limits of their shared desire. Their ragged breathing filled the air. His fingers followed a slow path, gradually discovering the areas of greatest sensitivity and a shiver ran through your body, each movement increasing the heat that spread through both of you.

His hands carried a firmness that made each second seem eternal. There was a care in his gestures, but also an urgent need to surrender completely to that moment. Your parted lips let out a sigh, as your hips moved along with Cooper's fingers you could feel a different sensation. It was almost certain that you wouldn't last long there, not with that man touching you like that. And he knew it because he started to increase his speed, staring at you from below. And when you exploded in his mouth, he knew he had done a good job.

You were panting, he enjoyed having you completely surrendered, now he knew your weak and sensitive points even more. Now he knew you better than anyone, and he hoped that you could truly surrender yourself only to him. That was what he wanted most.

"Do you have lube and a condom?" he said when he realized that you had already relaxed. In fact, now he wanted more than anything to feel you inside. He didn't usually use lube, but since he had already decided that he would treat you docilely today, he preferred to ask before trying anything else.

"I think there must be some in the drawer, I'll get it" you got up from the bed and went towards your wardrobe. He watched you open some drawers until you found a purple tube and some small packages, which he soon identified as what he had asked for. You approached and handed everything to him, who graced you with a smile.

"Lie down." He asked and you obeyed, lying down on the bed and watching him put the condom on his penis without difficulty. He soon approached you and placed the contents of the bottle at your entrance. The liquid was cold, making you let out a soft sigh. He was careful as he penetrated you, entering you slowly and asking a few times if he was hurting you, which you denied. In a fright, you could already feel the sensation of being filled by Cooper, he moved back and forth while leaning on the bed.

His cock slid inside you with shocking ease, it was as if your bodies belonged to each other. With each thrust you moaned in unison, transforming the room into your private world. Your breathing quickened as he entered you more deeply. The movements were slow and rhythmic, but the pressure increased, the desire intensified. The caresses explored your skin and the most sensitive areas, provoking visceral reactions that echoed through your mind and body. The emotional connection was as strong as the physical one, creating a fusion of pleasure and surrender.

Muffled moans filled the room, desire taking over both of you. As the temperature increased, the rhythm also intensified, your bodies giving in completely to the mutual pleasure, feeling each wave of ecstasy grow and spread like an invisible current. He let out a few inaudible curses and you scratched his back, it was already impossible to measure the strength at that moment. All you were focused on was giving that man what he wanted.

Without warning, Cooper pulled out of you and managed to turn you around so that your back was facing him. Now you were face down and he started to penetrate you again. One hand was holding onto the bed and the other was running down your back, exploring with more confidence, sliding gently over your skin, knowing every inch with instinctive precision. Your body responded to his touch almost immediately. The pressure of his fingers intensified on the back of your neck, causing deep sighs and muffled moans that escaped without control.

The heat between you grew rapidly, and desire took over every movement, your body reacting in an impulse of pure need. Your skin seemed to pulse under his touch, and the rhythm that formed between you was as much a dance as a battle between self-control and surrender. Cooper moved with a mixture of firmness and gentleness, provoking sensations that ran like sparks through your body. Your bodies moved in perfect harmony, closer and closer, more and more connected.

Each movement was more intense than the last, and the touch on the most intimate parts made your body react with spasms of pure ecstasy. The caresses were deep, exploring every nuance, every inch of skin and every area of sensitivity. Your entire body was on alert, responding to each new touch, each new movement. The heat rose unbearably, and the proximity of your bodies made it clear that neither of you wanted to stop. The rhythm increased, the touches became more intense, bolder, as if they both knew exactly where and how to provoke the strongest reaction.

The intensity of the touch between the two of them kept growing, their bodies adjusting in search of greater proximity. With a firm movement, he guided you so that they changed positions. He sat on the bed and pulled you so that you sat on top of him, positioning yourself on his penis. Now, his hands explored your back, slowly moving down, making your breath hitch. He slid his hands around your waist, moving up your torso, while you tilted your head back, giving in to his touch.

He pulled you closer, the direct contact with his body increasing the tension. Your movements were now instinctive, natural. Cooper's hands continued to explore, his touches firmer and more precise, while you felt your desire grow with each second. Your mouths met again, with more urgency, the kiss deepening the heat that already dominated both of you. Your hands, which had been hesitant before, now moved confidently over his body, exploring every muscle, feeling his warm skin against your fingers. Your breaths mingled, the air between them filled with desire and expectation. Cooper held you firmly, controlling the rhythm, but still giving her space to lead what came next.

The change of position left them completely surrendered to the moment, each touch, each sigh making the desire rise even more. Her body moved deliberately, seeking pleasure with precision. The bed creaked under their weight. The sound of heavy breathing and moans of pleasure echoed as your bodies moved together, growing in intensity. Each touch, each movement, was a path of no return; both were in a state of ecstasy, that sensation was completely different from anything they had ever experienced.

The movements intensified, each brush of skin raised the desire to an almost unbearable level. Your body, still in his lap, moved with precision, and Cooper responded with firm hands on your waist, guiding you, the two of you completely in tune. The heat between you seemed to dominate everything around you, overshadowing any thought beyond that moment. You could feel Cooper's breath against your skin, panting, as he leaned in, gently biting your shoulder, each gesture increasing the electricity that ran between you. Your body reacted to each touch, and he could no longer control the moans that escaped, filling the silence of the room.

Cooper tilted his head back, his eyes closed for a brief moment, focused on the pleasure that was rapidly building. The tension between them was reaching its peak, and he could feel his body throbbing against his, both completely surrendered to the moment. The rhythm was accelerating, each movement bringing them closer to climax, the accumulated pleasure ready to explode. Your bodies moved in perfect harmony, accelerating until the final moment. When the climax came, it was like an uncontrollable wave that took over both of them. You contracted in a spasm of pleasure, followed by his, who held your waist tightly, the two of you completely losing yourself in each other.

For a moment, time seemed to stop, your bodies still shuddering with the last waves of pleasure. Silence returned to the room, broken only by the heavy breathing of both of them. Cooper held you firmly, but tenderly, as if he was still processing what had just happened. You lay down with your head on his shoulder, exhausted, but with your heart racing, your body still warm, feeling the last remnants of that moment. The two of you stayed there for a few moments, enjoying the newfound intimacy, the silence filled with everything you had experienced.

Memories of what had just happened swirled in your mind, and shame began to set in. Awkwardly, you rolled to the side, lying next to him on the bed, pulling the sheets up to cover part of your body. Cooper chuckled softly at your expression, clearly embarrassed, and turned to the side, resting his arm around your waist, pulling you slightly closer.

"You look adorable when you're blushing, you know?" he commented, his voice low and still a little hoarse, with a relaxed smile on his face.

You huffed, looking up at the ceiling. "Cooper, please, no… That was… I don't know…" Your voice was hesitant, as if you were trying to find the right words, but failing miserably.

He chuckled again, clearly more at ease with the situation. "I know that was… unexpected. But it was good. Really good." He made sure to emphasize the last part, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. "There's no need to be like this. We're fine."

Your heart was racing, but you didn't know if it was because of the intimacy you had just shared or the uncertainty of what was to come. You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to process everything. Cooper was so relaxed, almost happy, while you were still trying to sort out your own feelings.

"I just… need some time to think," you said finally, glancing at him sideways. "It… changed some things, you know?"

Cooper nodded, not pushing you, his smile softening. "I get it. And I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to decide anything right now." He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, making it clear he was there for you, no pressure.

You looked into his eyes, feeling torn between the comfort he brought and the fear of messing everything up with your feelings. "Thanks, Coops. For everything." Your voice came out almost like a whisper, sincere.

"You know I’d do anything for you." He replied, his voice low but full of certainty. You smiled, turning on your side to face him, your faces close together. Even though you had no idea what the future held for you two, you felt at peace. For now, that was enough. Cooper just smiled back, pulling you closer as you both settled under the blanket. He wrapped his arm around you, snuggling you against his chest, and without another word, you both found your comfort in each other’s warmth.

You closed your eyes, trying not to overthink things. There was still a lot to sort out, but for now, you were together, cozy, and that was all that mattered. With your heart calm and your body relaxed in Cooper's arms, you finally drifted off to sleep, wrapped up in the feeling of safety and the mix of emotions he brought.

hey loves, it's me again! this time i tried to write a more chill smut because i was listening to the old shawn mendes songs and this story popped into my head. hope you guys enjoy it, and thanks for all the love and support on my first smut. by the way, after some comments, i decided to make this one with an implied reader gender; hope i pulled it off. love you all! just a reminder: english isn't my first language, so please be kind.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ reblogs, likes, and kind comments are totally welcome! my inbox is open if anyone wants to request a specific fanfic. ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

#cooper koch #monstersnetflix #erik menendez #fanfic #fanfiction #cooper koch smut #smut #cooper koch fanfiction #cooper koch fanfic #cooper koch x reader #monsters netflix #cooper koch imagine #cooper koch x y/n

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kbwrites · 10 months ago

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The Lord's Favorite CH. 5

synopsis: Amaryllis (/ˌæməˈrɪlɪs/)[1] is the only genus in the subtribe Amaryllidinae (tribe Amaryllideae). A vibrant bloom that symbolizes new beginnings and fresh starts. They are often associated with winter and the holiday season.

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⚝content: trueform!Sukuna x f!reader, angst, slowburn

⚝wc: 3k

⚝a/n: I've been really slacking on updating this series, gonna try harder I swear.

Sorry.

Even the thought of the word sounded wrong to him. He was a king–ruthless and commanding. His subjects kissed the ground he walked on. There was never a choice he made, that was up for debate. Every criticizing eye was swiftly plucked out, questioning tongue severed.

But, you—seemed to be a point of contention. Ever since your arrival that was the trend you followed. It was vexing, sure and yet he wouldn’t dream of changing the dynamic.

Why did the sight of you crying so affect him? Why was it that you, a mere servant, could disturb his centuries of carefully maintained control? It wasn’t just your fear that unsettled him; it was the realization that you had managed to penetrate his defenses in a way no one else had.

With a frustrated growl, Sukuna stopped pacing and stared at the reflection in his ornate mirror. The king he saw there was every bit as formidable as he’d always been, but the reflection now held a hint of something else—something vulnerable that he could barely recognize.

His eyes drifted to the door, hoping for any sign of your arrival. He replayed the conversation from earlier, the way you had looked at him, shrunk under his yelling.

As night fell, the emptiness of his bed became a stark reminder of your absence. The usual solace of his grand chambers turned oppressive, and no matter how much he tossed and turned, sleep eluded him. The silence was deafening, only filled with thoughts of you.

He turned over for what felt like the hundredth time, his frustration mounting. For the first time in hundreds of years–the king of curses could not sleep.

Every creak of the palace, every distant sound seemed magnified in the quiet of his chambers. His usual patience frayed, replaced by an unsettling anxiety. He clenched his jaw and stared at the ceiling, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him.

The minutes turned to hours.

As the hours dragged on and the first light of dawn began to seep through the heavy curtains, Sukuna finally acknowledged the truth he had been fighting: your presence—or the lack of it—affected him more than he was willing to admit. He needed to find you.

Throwing off the covers, he rose from bed with a determined stride.

He navigated through the labyrinth of his palace. Looking through every room, his irritation growing each second he failed to locate you.

Finally, he encountered Uraume, who was in the midst of their morning duties. Sukuna’s usual composure was replaced by a rare edge of desperation. “Uraume.” he barked, his voice carrying a sharp edge. “Where is she?”

Uraume’s eyes widened in surprise. “My lord, I—”

“Do not play games with me,” Sukuna interrupted, his frustration palpable. “I demand to know where she is.”

Uraume, taken aback by the king’s sudden intensity, struggled to maintain their usual calm demeanor. “I do not know, my lord. I have not seen her this morning.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his gaze darkening. “Find her.” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Inform me immediately when you do.”

After what felt like hours of searching, Sukuna’s relentless pursuit led him to the library—a place he rarely visited.

As he pushed open the heavy wooden door, his gaze swept over the vast array of bookshelves and reading nooks. His sharp eyes scanned the room with a mixture of hope and irritation.

There, nestled in a quiet corner of the library, he finally found you. You were lying on a velvet sofa, the soft light filtering through the high windows casting a gentle glow over you. Your breathing was steady, but the sight of you so unexpectedly calm, yet so isolated, struck him with a fresh wave of frustration.

Sukuna stood still for a moment, the weight of his anger still mingling in his chest. He had expected to find you hiding, but the sight of you resting so peacefully, despite the turmoil from the previous day, left him momentarily speechless.

“Why are you here?” His voice was sharp. He tried to suppress the concern in his tone, but it seeped through nonetheless.

You stirred at the sound of his voice, slowly opening your eyes. Seeing him standing over you, the mixture of his commanding presence and the faint softness in his gaze was almost disorienting.

“I... slept here.” you murmured, as you sat up.

Sukuna’s expression softened slightly, though his frustration remained evident. “Do not think that you can simply evade me. I was looking for you.”

You looked up at him, trying to find the right words to explain. “I..needed a moment away.”

Sukuna’s brow furrowed, a flicker of hurt flashing across his face. Away? Away… from him?

His anger seemed ready to boil over. He clenched his fists at his sides, visibly struggling to keep his composure.

He started to say something more, but the words choked in his throat. He paused, his face contorting as he wrestled with his emotions. “Come with me.” he said abruptly, his voice strained.

Without waiting for a response, Sukuna turned on his heel, and you watched as his broad shoulders shifted, tension coiling beneath his skin. The silence that followed felt like an unspoken command, so you rose quietly, trailing behind him as he led the way out of the library and through the grand halls of the palace.

Each turn felt more hidden, the winding path narrowing until the towering palace walls faded behind you. Sukuna moved with purpose, leading you through a barely visible trail as if he had walked it countless times before. The air grew cooler, more secluded, and with every step, the tension between you deepened, thickening the silence.

When the path opened into the garden, your breath caught in your throat. You had never seen this place before—none of the servants had even whispered of its existence. A private sanctuary, tucked away from the rest of the palace. The delicate rustling of leaves, the vibrant flowers, and the gentle trickle of a fountain made it feel like stepping into a dream, so unlike the cold, imposing grandeur of the palace.

You glanced around in awe, but Sukuna remained still, his back to you, as if the beauty of the garden was inconsequential to him. He stopped near the center, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath, barely holding back the storm of emotions that brewed within. You hesitated, waiting for him to break the silence.

"This place..." He paused, as if the words were unfamiliar to him, his jaw tightening with the effort to continue. "No one but Uraume knows of it." His crimson gaze finally meets yours, studying your reaction. You look up at him, caution etched on your face.

“My Lord… why did you bring me here?” You finally find your voice.

His jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides as if he were holding back words he didn’t know how to express. For a moment, he said nothing, his piercing stare taking in every detail of your face.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, the usual edge softened just slightly. “Because...”

He hesitated, his expression hardening once more, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. “Because you needed to see this. Needed to understand that..." He stopped himself again, frustration flaring briefly in his gaze.

He tore his eyes away from yours, staring instead at the quiet garden around you, the flowers swaying gently in the breeze as if mocking his struggle. "I could not sleep."

“You… couldn’t sleep.” you repeat.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed as if he regretted saying it aloud. "No," he growled, his tone sharper than intended. He shifted his weight, clearly battling with himself. "I couldn’t sleep because you weren’t where you should be." His fists tightened briefly at his sides, and for a moment, you thought his temper might snap again, but he held back. He took a deep breath, looking back at the garden.

“Where I should be…” you echoed, the weight of the words sinking in. Bitterness filled your mouth at the thought.

You had never had a place to belong, passing from one household to the next—no family truly wanting you. Being taught to serve, be invisible, to follow orders without question. “Belonging” was a luxury that other people had, you had only known obligations, expectations, and silence.

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. "My Lord… I’ve never had a place where I was meant to be." Your voice quiet. You kept your eyes low, avoiding his gaze, afraid of what you might see in it. Afraid of what he might see in it. "I’ve only ever been where I was told… where I was needed. There’s never been a place that was… mine."

“I see,” Sukuna said softly, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between you.

“Your absence… is felt.” His voice was a low murmur, almost introspective.

The admission hung in the air, delicate and uncharacteristic of him. Sukuna’s usual command was replaced with a rare, raw honesty, his battle with his own emotions evident in the tightness of his jaw and the uncertainty in his eyes.

For a moment, you looked up, meeting his gaze. The depth of his words, the way he had fought to express them, was both startling and unsettling. You had never imagined that your presence—or absence—could affect him so deeply.

“I’m… sorry,” you said finally, the words escaping before you could second-guess them. “I didn’t mean to cause such distress.”

“No.” he said eventually, his tone laced with frustration and reluctance. “It’s not just… about distress.” He took a deep breath, the words seemingly stuck in his throat. “Yesterday, I... I lost my temper.”

The awkwardness of his apology was palpable as if each word was a battle against his own nature. The struggle was evident in the way his shoulders tensed and his fingers clenched into fists before relaxing. He was trying to bridge a gap that his usual demeanor couldn’t easily cross.

You looked at him, your mouth agape in shock, maybe the night of no sleep had cause hallucinations. Had you heard him? Were you mistaken?

The usual commanding presence that inspired fear and respect was now tempered by an uncharacteristic hesitation and softness. It was as though you were seeing him for the first time, not just as a king, but as a man grappling with his own emotions.

You quickly caught yourself, regaining composure as you took in the full scope of his vulnerability. The stark contrast between the imposing figure of Sukuna and the genuine, albeit awkward, sincerity he had just displayed was striking. His powerful frame, usually so unyielding, seemed momentarily diminished in the garden’s serene atmosphere.

He turned away briefly, running a hand through his pink hair in a rare show of agitation. He turned his back to you again, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes. “It is… difficult for me, to express… what I mean.”

He cast a quick, almost helpless glance over his shoulder. “You’re... you’re allowed in this garden. Whenever you want. It’s not meant to be hidden from you.”

Slowly, you took a step forward, the shock giving way to a tentative understanding. "Thank you, my Lord," you said quietly,. "For… sharing this with me. And for allowing me a place here."

“You… are welcome.”

Your gaze shifted to a nearby flower, its vibrant petals standing out against the verdant backdrop. Curious, you asked, “What’s this one?”

Sukuna’s eyes followed your gaze, and for a moment, he seemed to find solace in the change of focus. “That’s an amaryllis” he said, his voice regaining a touch of its usual authority.

“Amaryllis..” you practice, tasting the name on your tongue.

“Yes,” he continues, “It symbolizes strength and new beginnings. It thrives even in harsh conditions.” He shifted his gaze back to you, eyes tracing the lines of your face with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

You reached out for him, your hand trembling slightly. Sukuna’s eyes widened slightly, and he hesitated for a moment before he slowly took your hand in his. He guided it firmly to his chest, where his robe parted to reveal the warmth of his skin,a stark contrast to the cool garden air. You could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your palm—a heartbeat that seemed to resonate with the depth of his emotions.

He stared intently into your eyes, his own filled with a mixture of sincerity and trepidation. “You have…” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “You have… affected me. More than you know.”

The air between you grew heavier, your breath catching in your throat as his hand trailed over your face, gentle and calculated. Tracing the soft skin of your cheek, to your jaw—brushing against your bottom lip. As his fingers lingered on your lips, the world outside the garden seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in this suspended moment.

“My lord—” you began, your voice wavering with a question that never fully formed.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved. Your hand still resting on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The garden around you seemed to quiet, the faint rustling of leaves and the distant chirp of crickets fading into the background as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Then, with a slow exhale, Sukuna guided you to a softer patch of grass further within the garden, a place hidden beneath a canopy of trees, where the light filtered through the leaves in soft, fragmented patterns.

"I meditate here," he said quietly, sharing a secret. He lowered himself gracefully onto the grass, his movements deliberate, leaving just enough space beside him for you to join.

"You… meditate?" you asked, almost without thinking, your tone laced with disbelief.

He turned to look at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. "Did you think me incapable of silence and thought?" His voice was tinged with sarcasm, though it didn’t sting. "That I am so detached, so unfeeling?"

The embarrassment crept up your neck, your eyes darting away as you bit your lip. "I didn’t mean—" you began, but the words felt clumsy, an apology for something you hadn't meant to assume.

Sukuna’s gaze softened, and he let out a quiet breath, his amusement fading into something more genuine. "It is…easy to believe," he murmured, "given how I appear." His hand reached out, beckoning you closer. "Come.”

Slowly, you settled beside him, the grass cool beneath your skin as the quiet of the garden enveloped you both. Sukuna reclined, two arms propped behind his head, allowing the stillness of the space to calm his unease. You glanced at him, the formidable king of curses suddenly appearing more human in the soft light of the garden.

An awkward silence stretched between you. Sukuna, clearly uncomfortable with the quiet, cleared his throat and tried to make conversation. "What of your family?" he asked.

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated, the pain of your past surfacing briefly. "My family… they died when I was young," you said quietly, your voice betraying a hint of the sorrow you felt. "I was left alone after that."

Sukuna’s eyes widened slightly, and he shifted uncomfortably, his usual confidence momentarily faltering. "I see," he said awkwardly, trying to find the right words. "I didn’t mean to… to bring up something so... personal."

You looked at him, noticing his genuine discomfort and the uncharacteristic hesitation in his gaze. "It’s alright," you reassured him. "It’s been a long time."

Sukuna let out a frustrated breath, closing his eyes briefly. "This…isn't exactly my strength." he admitted, almost begrudgingly.

"And here I thought you were all-powerful in every aspect." a small smirk tugs your lips as you chuckle. Sukuna’s cheeks flushed slightly, avoiding your gaze.

Before you could react, Sukuna moved with surprising swiftness, crawling on top of you and trapping you gently between the grass and his strong arms. His gaze was intense, crimson eyes piercing, boreing holes into your own.

"Do you find this amusing?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver through you.

The sudden shift in position left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as you looked up at him. The distance between you was minimal, the warmth of his body so close that you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I’m not accustomed to this. It is… difficult. You make it difficult.”

He hovered just above you, his breath mingling with yours, “You have a way of unraveling me. It’s... unsettling.”

The warmth between you grew. Every subtle movement of his body against yours sent a shiver through you, making your skin tingle.

Sukuna’s gaze fell to your lips, the tension between you crackling with an electric anticipation. He hesitated, his expression a mix of determination and longing. “What is it you do to me?” he asked, his voice a whisper that seemed to echo in the stillness.

The man who had always been a figure of strength and control was now entirely absorbed by you, and the realization made your heart race even faster.

His nearness was intoxicating, every touch and glance fueling the fire that had been kindling between you. With a sudden, almost desperate movement, his lips descended on yours, capturing them in a kiss that was both rough and dizzying.

His grip on you tightened, his hands framing your face with a desperate intensity. The moment felt like it stretched endlessly, the world outside forgotten as his tongue entered your mouth with an urgency that bordered on frantic. He explored every inch of you, his taste mingling with yours. The kiss was a maelstrom of sensation, his passion overwhelming in its depth.

Your hands roamed the expanse of his chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the silk of his robe on your fingertips. Sukuna’s groan vibrated through you, He pressed more of his weight into you, his two lower arms gripping your waist with a possessive force, his nails digging into your flesh as if to anchor himself to you.

As he finally pulled away from your lips, you were met with the sight of him—his pupils dilated, breathing ragged, and his heartbeat quicker now. Sukuna’s chest heaved with every breath, his expression pure hunger.

He wanted to consume you. And you were more than ready to let him.

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#kbwrites #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna angst #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk sukuna

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bambieyedoll · 2 months ago

Text

WHEN THE WOLF BOWS .・。.・゜✫・゜・

summary: she’s spent her whole life afraid of wolves. he’s spent his whole life waiting for her. when fate ties them together, love must fight to be louder than fear.

pairing: sam uley x fem!reader

word count: 2,8k

warnings/notes: short writing, angst and fluff, reader is afraid of wolves, mentions of trauma, desperate and begging sam, mix of headcanons and a detailed scene.

masterlist | check out my other work !

sam knew immediately the imprint was different the second he saw you —the pull was there, magnetic and undeniable— but when you flinched away from a dog walking past you on the beach, he understood something was deeply wrong.

his heart cracked a little, seeing the fear flash across your face.

he learned about your childhood trauma from embry, who overheard you mentioning it once in passing: a terrifying encounter with an aggressive wolf while you were camping as a kid. it left deep scars you never fully healed from.

“she’s scared of wolves, man. like, seriously scared.”

sam felt trapped for the first time since phasing —desperate to protect you, desperate to be close, but terrified of what you’d think if you knew the truth.

he swore he’d move slowly, no matter how much the imprint ached inside him.

at first, sam approached you like he was trying not to spook a deer. gentle smiles. careful distance. his voice always low, soothing.

“i’m not here to hurt you,” he’d murmur whenever you seemed overwhelmed, “i promise, sweetheart.”

the more you opened up to him, the more sam fell. you were kind, clever, so soft-hearted despite your fears —and every day, it killed him a little more that he couldn’t be honest about what he was.

sam refusing to phase anywhere near you. even if he needed to. even if it hurt.

he would not risk you seeing the wolf and losing the safe place he was trying so hard to build between you.

“i’ll tell her when she’s ready,” he promised himself, clenching his fists until his knuckles went white.

when you eventually admitted your fear to him —cheeks burning, voice trembling— sam just listened. no judgement. no pity. just silent, steady acceptance.

“i don’t think i could ever be near a wolf again,” you whispered, shame creeping up your spine.

sam touched your hand so gently you barely felt it. “then you won’t have to,” he promised.

the night he realized he had to tell you the truth nearly broke him. he sat awake for hours, fists tangled in his hair, replaying every way you might scream, cry, run.

but the imprint pulsed inside him—trust her. she’s stronger than her fear.

nothing could prepare him for the moment you finally found out. it didn’t happen the way he planned.

the storm hit earlier than anyone expected. one minute you were sitting on sam’s porch, laughing at the sound of thunder rumbling far away, and the next, the sky cracked open, heavy rain hammering down.

“stay here,” sam said, already standing, voice steady. “i’ll grab something to cover us.”

you nodded, hugging your arms to your chest against the sudden chill. you loved storms —normally— but something about the sudden drop in pressure made you uneasy, your skin prickling with a warning you couldn’t name.

you didn’t mean to follow him.

you just didn’t like being left alone in the sudden dark.

padding inside the house, calling softly for him, you heard something —a low, almost animalistic growl— from deeper in the hallway.

“sam?”

no answer.

the next few seconds were a blur.

you turned the corner toward the back door and froze—

sam was there, or —no— not sam —something huge, something black and hulking, crouched just beneath the porch light, the shape of it flickering like a nightmare against the rain.

a wolf.

a massive wolf.

your mind short-circuited, instincts screaming before your brain even caught up.

you didn’t see the way the wolf’s black eyes widened —how it stumbled back, trying to make itself smaller— because your body was already moving, heart slamming against your ribs, feet pounding the slick floor as you ran.

you didn’t hear the desperate, broken whine the wolf let out as you bolted into the woods.

you just ran.

branches slapped at your arms, the rain blinding you, but none of it mattered. you had to get away —from the house, from that thing— you had to move before it came after you, before it—

“Y/N!”

you choked on a breath as you heard sam’s voice behind you —not the growl, not the snarl you expected— but his voice. rough. frantic. human.

“please—wait—!”

you stumbled to a halt without meaning to, panting, turning back just enough to see him—

sam.

soaked to the bone, barefoot, standing in the mud, his hands raised like he was approaching something wild and wounded.

“it’s me,” he panted, voice cracking. “it’s still me, baby—”

he took a single step closer and you flinched so hard it was like you’d been struck.

the pain on sam’s face was worse than anything you’d ever seen.

he dropped to his knees in the mud without hesitation, as if lowering himself would make him less terrifying —as if it could undo the sheer panic clawing up your spine.

“i didn’t mean—” his voice broke, “—god, i would never hurt you. please, you have to believe me. you have to—”

you shook your head, backing another step away, still trembling, too many emotions strangling your throat.

sam’s face crumpled like he’d been punched.

the imprint —that golden, glowing thing tying him to you— howled inside his chest, raw and desperate, feeling you pulling away, feeling your fear—of him.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, rain dripping from his hair into his eyes. “i should’ve told you. i should’ve told you, sweetheart. i swear to you, i’m still me. the wolf—it’s part of me, but it would never hurt you. i would never hurt you.”

the woods were so quiet around you both that you could hear his breathing —shaky, uneven, pleading.

you wanted to believe him. you did.

but the memory of the black wolf standing where sam had been —the fear still flooding your system— kept your feet rooted in place.

sam didn’t move. he stayed kneeling there, hands open, throat working around a thousand apologies he couldn’t force past the lump in his throat.

if you asked him to walk away—

if you asked him to leave you—

he would. even if it killed him.

because seeing you terrified of him —his imprint— was worse than any death he could imagine.

the rain kept falling. hard and cold, soaking through your clothes, chilling you to the bone. but you barely noticed.

all you could feel was the pounding of your heart —the twisting, wrenching confusion inside your chest— and sam’s voice, still raw and broken, repeating again and again:

“please, sweetheart. please.”

“i would never hurt you.”

“i’m so sorry.”

you stared at him. at the man you trusted with every piece of you. at the man you loved without even realizing when it had happened. and yet…

there had been a wolf standing there. massive. terrifying. how could both things be true?

your legs shook. your body screamed at you to keep running. but your heart —the part of you that had always felt safe with sam— hesitated.

he wasn’t chasing you.

he wasn’t angry.

he wasn’t trying to force you closer.

he was kneeling in the mud. shivering. silent now. waiting like a man on the edge of a cliff, begging silently for a chance not to fall.

something inside you cracked.

“sam,” you whispered, barely audible over the rain.

his head snapped up instantly, eyes wide, desperate —but he still didn’t move, didn’t dare.

you swallowed hard, your throat burning. every part of you was screaming in confusion, in fear.

“i don’t understand,” you choked out, taking a stumbling half-step backward. “how— what—”

the words collapsed in your mouth, too huge to untangle.

sam stayed perfectly still, his bare hands open, palms facing you like he was trying to show he was harmless. his voice broke when he spoke:

“i never wanted you to find out this way,” he rasped. “i wanted to tell you. i swear to you, y/n. i was trying to find the right time. the right way.”

you flinched back a step without thinking, and sam’s face crumpled —but he still didn’t rise. still didn’t chase.

“i’m not…” he swallowed hard. “i’m not human. not fully. i’m—” his voice cracked. “i’m a shapeshifter. a wolf. part of an old tribe meant to protect this land. protect everyone.”

you shook your head, dizzy. “that thing—”

“me,” he said quickly, urgently. “that was me. i would never hurt you. i could never. even like that, y/n. especially like that.”

the ache in his voice —the desperation— made your chest tighten painfully.

you looked at him, this man who had only ever been gentle with you, whose touch had always steadied you, whose voice could chase nightmares away.

you thought of the way the wolf had folded into the ground, trying to look smaller, less frightening, even as it towered above you.

it didn’t make sense.

and yet… it did.

some part of you —the deepest, most instinctive part— had always known there was something bigger about sam. something ancient. something untouchable.

now you understood.

your hands trembled at your sides, heart hammering so hard it made you lightheaded.

sam lifted his gaze —slowly, pleadingly— but stayed kneeling, rainwater dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his body like a second skin.

“i understand if you can’t—” his voice broke, and he squeezed his eyes shut like he couldn’t bear to see the answer on your face. “if you can’t love me like this.”

“i’ll give you anything you need—space, time, anything— but please,” his voice broke, raw and pleading, “i’ll be yours however you need me.”

your heart twisted violently.

because sam uley —strong, steady sam— looked like he was the one about to fall apart now.

you stood there for a long moment, rain running down your face like tears, fists clenching and unclenching at your sides. fear and instinct gnawed at your ribs, but something softer pressed against it. something louder, deeper —the way your heart had always known sam even before your mind caught up.

the bond between you —the pull that had always felt like home— was still there.

strong. unbreakable. true.

tears blurred your vision as you stumbled a half-step closer, your hands shaking so badly you almost missed when you reached for him.

sam froze —a tiny, wounded sound escaping him, like he couldn’t believe you were touching him— but he didn’t dare move, didn’t even breathe.

“i’m scared,” you said honestly, voice trembling. “i’m still scared.”

you watched the light flicker in his eyes —the way his whole body seemed to wilt— but you didn’t stop.

“but i’m trying,” you whispered. “because it’s you.”

sam made a broken, desperate sound —half-sob, half-laugh— and dropped his forehead against your hands where they cupped his cheeks, like he couldn’t believe you were still there.

you threaded your fingers into his rain-wet hair, grounding yourself in the familiar feel of him, and choked on a sob of your own.

“i love you,” you managed, tears slipping down your face.

sam let out a low, shuddering breath —like he’d been drowning and you were the air he’d been clawing for— and without thinking, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him with a gentleness that broke your heart all over again.

you buried your face in his shoulder, clutching him like a lifeline, feeling his heartbeat hammering wildly against your palms.

sam buried his face in your hair, his whole body shaking with the force of his emotions.

you felt his lips brush your temple —featherlight— and heard him murmur, over and over, like a prayer:

“i’m yours. i’m yours. i’m yours.”

and as the rain washed over you, cold and clean and endless, you held onto each other like you could outrun the whole world —like nothing else mattered but this.

because despite the fear, despite the shock still burning in your veins— you knew one thing with absolute certainty.

you would never leave him.

and sam —fierce, desperate, heart-on-his-sleeve sam— would never stop fighting for you.

sam doesn’t let go of you for a long time.

even when the rain soaks you both to the bone, even when you’re shivering, he just holds you tighter, one big hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little.

he speaks so softly to you afterward.

his voice is usually deep and commanding when he talks to the pack, but with you now? it’s a low, almost reverent murmur against your skin. “you’re safe. i’ve got you. i swear, sweetheart, i’ve got you.”

he wraps you in his jacket before taking you anywhere. the moment he realizes you’re cold, he immediately shrugs off his own jacket —not caring that he’s soaked— and gently wraps it around you, tucking it close like he’s shielding you from the entire world.

sam moves slower around you for days afterward. no sudden movements, no raised voice, no flashing irritation —he’s so aware of your lingering fear.

every time he steps close, he hesitates first, giving you the choice to meet him halfway.

he asks permission for everything.

before touching your hand. before sitting too close. before leaning in.

you can see the question in his eyes every time: is this okay? are you sure?

and the tiny, grateful smile that blooms when you say yes.

the pack teases him about being so soft around you, but no one says anything twice —the look sam gives them could kill.

cuddles are a big thing. sam always keeps you on the side of him that’s human and warm, holding you like you’re something fragile and precious.

“you’re safe with me,” he murmurs against your hair. “always.”

sam gets incredibly tense anytime someone in the pack even jokes about phasing near you.

like —deadly serious.

“not around her,” he growls lowly, “or you’ll answer to me.”

it’s not even a threat. it’s a promise.

when you start spending nights at his house, sam makes sure everything feels safe.

no wolf-related books. no forest-y paintings. no sudden noises.

it’s warm, quiet, gentle —like he built a world where nothing could touch you.

sam tries so hard not to fall apart when you tell him you trust him.

he’s very slow with physical affection at first —not because he doesn’t want to touch you (he aches to), but because he’s terrified of making you feel trapped or cornered.

every hug, every brush of his fingers, every kiss is offered like a gift you’re free to accept or turn away.

if you ever have nightmares, sam is up in seconds.

no hesitation. no grogginess. just pure instinct to protect.

“it’s okay,” he murmurs, pulling you into his lap. “you’re safe. nothing’s gonna get past me, alright?”

and he rocks you gently until you fall asleep again, refusing to let you go.

but you slowly start to notice how gentle sam is —even in his strength.

the way he’s careful not to slam doors. the way he makes himself smaller when you’re upset.

the way he’d rather break himself apart than ever scare you.

you are sam’s entire world.

he can’t stop looking at you.

there’s a new kind of softness in the way he watches you —like every time you glance at him, you catch him memorizing you.

she stayed. she stayed. it hums under his skin like a prayer.

sam smells different to you after that night.

there’s something about the bond between you that deepens after you faced your fear —now you can almost feel him in your chest. his scent is grounding: pine needles, rain, the worn cotton of his jacket. home.

little, wordless moments mean the most to him. you touching his hand first. you leaning into him without hesitation.

you falling asleep against him and sighing like you’re at peace.

those tiny moments? they destroy him in the best way.

if you tug on the hem of his shirt, or hide your face in his chest, or climb into his lap without a word —sam just melts. his whole body relaxes like this is it. this is all i need.

sam never pressures you to see his wolf form again.

if you ever want to —if you ever ask— he’ll do it. but until then, he makes it crystal clear: you are enough, just as you are, without bravery or proving anything.

the first time you ask him to shift again (weeks later), he almost cries.

not because you aren’t scared anymore —but because you trust him enough to try.

and when he shifts in front of you again, carefully, slowly—

this time, you don’t flinch.

you step right into him.

bury your hands in his fur.

feel the rumble of his heart under your palms.

and sam —the wolf, the man, your sam— whines low in his throat and nuzzles into your touch like you’re the only thing that matters in the whole world.

one day, you half-joke that he’s like your “guard dog,” and sam gives you this little crooked smile you’ve never seen before.

“guard wolf,” he corrects gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “but only for you.”

he swears —deep down— that he will never, ever let the world hurt you again.

no matter what it takes.

279 notes · View notes

reidmarieprentiss · 10 months ago

Text

Ghost of You

Summary: Instead of Maeve, you, Spencer's girlfriend, are shot while Spencer is watching. Except, like Emily, no one confirmed your death.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

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

Warnings/Includes: death, guns, shooting, light smut (18+), grieving and mourning, lying and deceiving, loss, funeral, mistrust, illusions to vomiting, spencer getting drunk, happy ending

Word count: 14.3k

a/n: again ,, i'm sorry i don't know what's wrong with me ,, i live and breathe angst like i need it to survive

main masterlist

The room was oppressively silent, filled with the tense breaths of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit team members who were either physically present or listening intently over the comms. The stark white walls of the abandoned warehouse where you were held captive only amplified the gravity of the situation.

Spencer Reid stood, his body rigid, his eyes locked on you—his partner, his love, tied down to a chair in the center of the room. His jaw was clenched, every muscle taut with barely contained fury and fear. Diane Turner, the woman responsible, paced before him with a demeanor that was chilling in its calmness.

“All you have to do is kiss me, Spencer. Just one kiss to prove you don’t love her, and she walks free,” Diane's voice was soft, almost coaxing, as she gestured nonchalantly with the handgun she held.

Spencer’s response was a strangled mix of defiance and desperation. “I can’t do that. I won’t.” His voice was firm, unwavering despite the tremor of fear that threatened to undermine his resolve.

Diane’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk as she turned her attention back to you. “Well, then I suppose we have a problem,” she said as she stepped closer, the gun now pointed directly at you.

The team listened and watched, helpless. Hotch’s hand hovered over his weapon, his mind racing through any possible solutions. JJ’s face was pale, her fingers gripping the edge of the tactical table. Rossi murmured a prayer under his breath, while Garcia, back at Quantico, had her hands clasped tightly, her eyes closed as she hoped for a miracle.

The moment stretched, a torturous eternity compressed into seconds. Then, Diane’s finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, a brutal punctuation that shattered the tense silence.

Your body slumped as the impact threw you backward, the chair skidding across the concrete floor. Spencer’s cry was guttural, filled with a raw pain that echoed through the room and the comms, reaching every member of the team.

As chaos erupted, with team members rushing into the warehouse, Hotch was the first to reach you. His experienced eyes quickly assessed the scene. Feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers, he locked eyes with you as you barely managed to open yours.

“Let them think,” you whispered hoarsely, the effort to speak clearly costing you.

Understanding immediately, Hotch nodded subtly. As he called the medics over, he helped to obscure their view, ensuring that your whispered directive remained between the two of you. The medics, following his lead without question, prepared the stretcher and body bag with efficient, silent agreement to the unspoken plan.

As you were zipped up, hidden from view, the last thing you saw was Spencer, his face a mask of agony, being held back by Rossi, who whispered words meant to comfort but which couldn't touch the depth of Spencer's despair.

—

As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the stark reality of what had transpired settled heavily upon the entire BAU team. Inside the cramped FBI surveillance van parked discreetly a block away, the air was thick with grief and stifling silence. Each member of the team was caught in the throes of their own personal hell.

Emily Prentiss felt a crack in her usually impenetrable armor. Her hands, hidden from view, trembled slightly as she replayed the scene over in her mind, wishing there had been something more they could have done to prevent this tragic outcome. Rossi, who had seen too much loss in his years, wore a somber expression, his eyes dark with the weight of unspoken thoughts, perhaps reminiscing about losses past and the cruel repetitiveness of their job.

JJ, standing beside a silently crumbling Spencer, placed a gentle hand on his back, her touch light but filled with a world of empathy. Her eyes, usually so bright and confident, mirrored the horror and sadness that had momentarily overtaken her usual resilience. She knew all too well the pain of loss, yet knowing did nothing to soften the blow.

Penelope Garcia was a statue of despair; her colorful attire and vibrant demeanor dimmed by the shadow of your apparent demise. The screens before her that usually flickered with data and leads now only reminded her of the loss, the dreadful permanence of the moment your chair had fallen back, the moment that had seemingly snuffed out a light amongst them.

Derek Morgan, whose strength often served as a pillar for the team, stood rigid, his body tensed as if ready to spring into action, to undo what had been done. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and profound sorrow. He felt a protective rage for the family he’d built here within the BAU, a family that had now been irrevocably scarred.

As the team returned to Quantico, each member was engulfed in their own silent reflection. The bullpen, usually abuzz with activity and light-hearted banter, was subdued, a somber shadow of its former self. Spencer's desk, a mess of papers and books, remained untouched, a stark reminder of the vibrancy of your relationship with him, now painfully absent.

In the days that followed, the team tried to navigate their grief while maintaining the facade of normalcy. Meetings were quieter, coffee breaks more solitary, and the weight of your absence was a constant, unspoken presence. Even as they delved into new cases, your memory lingered, a ghost in the machine, driving them forward but also holding them back, a reminder of the stakes at play in their line of work.

—

In the silence of the apartment he once shared with you, Spencer found himself enveloped in the echoes of a life that now felt like a distant memory. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the loneliness settled around him like a dense fog, suffocating and cold. The apartment, once filled with the warmth of your presence, now served as a mausoleum of all the dreams and plans that would never come to fruition.

Spencer would wander through the rooms, his fingers trailing along the surfaces, half expecting to feel the electric touch of your hand in his. Your clothes still hung in the closet, and on particularly difficult nights, he found solace in the faint scent that lingered on your shirts. Pulling one out, he’d clutch it to his chest, sinking onto the bed as sobs wracked his body, the fabric dampening with his tears.

Books you had left on the nightstand, bookmarks still nestled between the pages where you had last stopped, became his new companions. He read every word you had read, traced the lines you might have touched, hoping to glean some part of your thoughts, your essence, from the text. It was a ritual that brought him a painful comfort, a way to feel close to you, to imagine that you were still there discussing the plot twists and character arcs with him.

Even your coffee habits became a part of his mourning. Spencer, who had always preferred tea, found himself brewing coffee each morning. He winced at the bitter taste, nothing like the soothing herbal blends he favored, but it was your taste, and that was what mattered. Each sip was a reminder of the mornings spent in shared silence, a newspaper between you and a mug in your hands, and he cherished these imagined moments as he sat alone at the kitchen table.

At work, Spencer's grief manifested in a quiet protectiveness over anything that had been yours. Your desk, an unassuming space cluttered with case files and trinkets, became sacred ground. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching your things, rearranging the chaos that was so distinctly you. When others offered to clean it or pack it up, he refused, his voice low but firm. It was a line he could not allow anyone to cross, not yet.

Despite the pull to isolate himself in the apartment surrounded by your belongings, Spencer knew he needed to be around people, around the living reminders of normalcy and duty. The BAU was a place of shared purpose, and being there, immersed in the work, allowed him moments of respite from his grief. Yet, even surrounded by his colleagues, the solitude he felt was profound, as if a vital part of him had been hollowed out, leaving him forever incomplete.

—

The arrangements for the funeral were meticulously crafted, cloaked in secrecy and necessity, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on Hotch as he orchestrated the somber affair. It was kept small, intimate, with only the BAU team in attendance. Hotch explained that your family was holding a separate, private celebration of life, a half-truth designed to protect the delicate fabric of the operation and to keep your true fate concealed.

Your family, forewarned by you of the possible outcomes of your dangerous gambit against a formidable foe, had been bracing for this day. You had instructed them with clear, calm precision: should news of your death reach them, they were to detach, to grieve privately and avoid any direct contact with your professional life. If Spencer—or any other team member—reached out, they were to embody the role of the bereaved, too shattered by grief to speak of you. This directive was to hold for three years, after which, if silence remained unbroken, they could assume you were truly gone.

At the funeral, the air was thick with a palpable sorrow, the team huddled together under the gray expanse of the sky, their expressions somber, eyes glistening. Spencer summoned a strength he didn't know he still possessed to deliver a eulogy that touched the very core of all who listened.

Standing before the small gathering, beside the casket that symbolically held you, Spencer's voice was steady, imbued with a deep melancholy. He spoke of your zest for life, your laughter that could light up a room, and your profound impact on his own life. He wove in lines from your favorite poets and authors, their words a tender tribute to your love for life, literature, and him.

"I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," he concluded, his voice breaking slightly, the finality of the statement hanging heavy in the air.

—

In the small, cramped space of the Kansas precinct, the air hung heavy with the kind of solemnity that often accompanies a tragedy. Spencer was set up at a makeshift workstation, papers and photographs from the case splayed across the table in a meticulous arrangement, his focus as sharp as ever. But even the most disciplined mind couldn't fully shield itself from the emotional tremors of personal loss.

JJ noticed the victim's boyfriend first, his face etched with grief and confusion, a mirror to the very emotions Spencer had been wrestling with since your apparent death. Her instinct was protective, maternal almost; she stepped forward, intending to steer the man away, to spare Spencer the inevitable surge of his own raw, unresolved grief. But Spencer saw the boyfriend and saw a reflection of his own torment.

He stood up, his movements a bit too stiff, the mask of the professional profiler firmly in place but his eyes betraying a deep, abiding sorrow. "I can talk to him," Spencer offered quietly, his voice firm despite the tremble he couldn't quite suppress. JJ exchanged a worried glance with Hotch, who observed silently from the corner. They were hesitant, aware of Spencer's vulnerabilities but also of his uncanny ability to compartmentalize his pain.

Sitting across from the boyfriend, Spencer's empathy was palpable. His voice was gentle yet carried the weight of his own grief. "I—I lost my girlfriend too, she was... taken, in front of me. I'm so sorry for your loss," he shared, the words costing him more than he expected.

The man's response was choked, the kind of raw emotion that comes from this kind of grief. "I can’t even imagine—I feel like I can’t breathe every time I think about it."

Spencer nodded, his professional demeanor flickering. "I understand. But it's not your fault, you couldn't stop this man."

"What if I could though? I could have been there, I could have done something," the man insisted, his voice tinged with desperation and guilt.

That sentiment struck a chord too close to Spencer's own heartaches. He was there, he watched, unable to save you, powerless and shattered. His response was visceral, a burst of emotion too powerful to contain. "It’s not always that easy, okay? It’s not my fault!" His voice rose sharply, his hands slamming down on the table with a force that startled both himself and the man sitting opposite him.

Hotch, who had been watching the interaction with growing concern, recognized the signs of Spencer's unraveling. Without hesitation, he stepped in, his presence commanding and reassuring. He gently but firmly guided Spencer away, leading him out of the precinct as Spencer’s façade crumbled, revealing the raw, unfiltered pain beneath.

Outside, under the less scrutinous eyes of the public, Spencer sobbed, his body racked with the kind of sobs that shake the very foundation of a person. Hotch, strong and steady, offered his shoulder, a silent pillar of support in the storm of Spencer's grief.

As he held Spencer, Aaron felt a profound sense of guilt and responsibility. He knew the reasons behind your decision, understood them intellectually, but the emotional fallout, the raw pain Spencer displayed, was a stark reminder of the human costs of such decisions. In that moment, Hotch vowed silently to do whatever it took to support Spencer, to help him find a path through the thicket of his grief.

—

Spencer took it upon himself to dig deeper into the remnants of your digital life. The walls of your shared apartment closed in around him, every corner filled with memories, every drawer a repository of a life paused mid-breath. He should have been resting, healing, using the time Hotch had given him to mourn and gather strength. Instead, he was driven by a relentless need to understand, to unearth the reasons behind the tragedy that had unraveled both his world and yours.

Sitting at the dining table cluttered with your personal effects—emails printed out, texts transcribed, voicemails played back into the empty room—Spencer's initial hesitation about invading your privacy had dissolved into a desperate need for answers. With each new piece of information, the narrative of your last days became clearer, and with it, his anger and guilt intensified.

Why didn't she tell me about the threats? Spencer's mind raced as he sifted through the digital breadcrumbs you'd left behind, each one a stark reminder of the danger you had faced alone. He felt betrayed, not by your love, but by your silence. The team was a family; they protected their own. The idea that you had borne this burden alone, without leaning on him, on them, gnawed at him relentlessly.

Then, among the tangle of threatening messages and cryptic warnings, one email stood out starkly. It was meticulously detailed, outlining a chilling ultimatum: your life for the safety of everyone else you cared about. His hands trembled as he read it, the implications of those words slicing through the fog of his grief. Had you planned to sacrifice yourself from the start? Was this why you had kept silent?

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His blood ran cold as the pieces fell into place. You hadn't just been taken from him; you had walked into the maw of danger with eyes wide open, hoping to shield him, to shield all of them from further harm.

But who were they? This shadowy group that had orchestrated such terror, that had driven you to such an unthinkable decision? The question echoed in the increasingly claustrophobic apartment, bouncing off the walls lined with books you’d both loved, past the pictures of happier times.

Spencer knew he couldn't do this alone, not anymore. Despite your choice to keep the threats from him, he realized that to honor your sacrifice, he needed the team. They were stronger together, and this was bigger than any one of them—bigger than his grief, his anger, his betrayal. It was about justice, not just for you, but for the sanctity of the life you had all built together.

Determined, Spencer gathered all the evidence, his resolve hardening. He would bring this to the team, to Hotch. They would find them. They would end this, once and for all. And perhaps, in doing so, he would find a way to forgive you, to forgive himself, and maybe find a path back from the precipice of his own consuming grief.

—

As the investigation intensified, the entire BAU team, honed by years of profiling complex criminal minds, began to uncover a series of subtle discrepancies and cryptic messages scattered across the case files and your personal communications. These inconsistencies didn't fit the expected pattern, weaving a complex web of suspicion that permeated the office atmosphere.

"Have you noticed these anomalies in the communication logs?" Spencer asked during one of their briefings, his eyes dark with both determination and unspoken grief.

"Yes, and these tips coming in—they don't add up," Emily replied, looking over the scattered papers and digital messages displayed on the screen.

Hotch watched the exchange closely, his mind racing with the implications of their findings. He was caught in a precarious balancing act—eager to dismantle the network behind the threats while protecting his team from the explosive truth about your staged death.

"We need to tread carefully," Hotch interjected, his voice steady but laced with caution. "This isn't just about following leads. We need to consider the broader implications."

Spencer, fueled by a relentless drive to seek justice for your loss, responded with a hint of frustration, "I know, but we can't just slow down. They're still out there, and who knows what they're planning next?"

Hotch paused, the weight of his secret knowledge pressing down on him. "Spencer, I understand your urgency, but we must ensure we're not walking into a trap. It's not just about finding them; it's about making sure we're ready for what comes next."

The team nodded, though Spencer's expression showed his internal struggle to balance his raw desire for justice with the strategic caution Hotch advised.

As they delved deeper, connecting the dots between the obscure threats, the mysterious inconsistencies in your case, and the shadowy group behind it all, Hotch's role became increasingly complex. He had to guide and sometimes redirect their efforts, always careful not to reveal too much too soon, especially to Spencer, whose emotional state remained fragile.

"We'll get them," Hotch assured the team, his voice firm yet heavy with the gravity of their task. "And we'll do it the right way, as a team, ready for all consequences."

The challenge loomed large, demanding everything they had to stay united and prepared for the potential revelations ahead. Hotch's leadership was crucial, walking the tightrope between maintaining secrecy and steering towards disclosure and resolution, all while safeguarding the team's integrity and emotional well-being.

—

As the seasons shifted to Fall, the relentless march of time brought both frustration and a forced return to routine for the BAU team. Despite the lack of significant breakthroughs in unraveling the conspiracy that had seemingly claimed your life, Spencer and the team remained vigilant, their resolve undiminished but tempered by the demands of their ongoing cases. The initial fervor had quieted into a persistent, underlying current of determination.

Unknown to the rest of the team, including Hotch, you were far from idle. In a twist laden with risk and secrecy, you had enlisted Emily Prentiss in a clandestine investigation. Emily, with her own history of deception for survival, was a perfect confidante and co-conspirator. Together, you delved into the shadows, tracking the elusive threads that connected your apparent demise to a larger, more sinister plot.

"We need to be careful," Emily cautioned during one of your late-night meetings in a nondescript safe house. "If the rest of the team finds out, especially Spencer, it could jeopardize everything."

"I know," you replied, your voice full of determination and regret. "But we can't let them continue to threaten the team. Spencer... he wouldn't understand, not yet."

Your efforts were meticulous and calculated, driven by the dual goals of protecting the team and dismantling the network that had forced you into hiding. The data you collected was encrypted and stored securely, only accessible to you and Emily. You traced financial transactions, monitored communications, and connected dots that were invisible to those not initiated into your secretive endeavor.

As the leaves began to fall and the chill of autumn set in, you and Emily had started to piece together a comprehensive picture of the criminal syndicate. It was broader and more complex than anyone had suspected, with tendrils reaching into unexpected places. The stakes were high, and the danger to the team was real and imminent.

"Once we have enough evidence, we'll bring it to Hotch," you decided, knowing that the moment of revelation was fast approaching. "We have to be thorough. This has to end, Emily."

Emily nodded, her expression grim but resolute. "We'll get them, and then you can finally go back home. To Spencer."

The thought of reuniting with Spencer and the team brought a bittersweet pang to your heart. You longed for the day you could return to the life you had been forced to leave behind, to reveal the truth and hopefully mend the fractures your disappearance had caused. But until that day, secrecy was your shield and patience your weapon.

—

On a brisk October morning, the Manhattan streets were bustling with the usual blend of haste and routine. Hidden beneath a wig, colored contacts, and a prosthetic nose, you moved with calculated caution, tailing a key member of the criminal network that had turned your life upside down. Despite the disguise, certain features—a constellation of moles, the unique curve of your jaw—remained tellingly distinctive to anyone who knew you well. You were acutely aware of the risks, especially since Hotch had mentioned that the BAU team was in the city for a case. Yet, the opportunity to close in on one of the circle's members was too critical to pass up.

Meanwhile, Spencer, his morning routine altered by a mundane decision to grab coffee, found himself halted mid-step. Across the crowded street, a familiar pattern of moles on the skin of a seemingly random passerby caught his eye. His heart raced, his mind refusing to accept the ghostly possibility. Shaken to his core, he didn't head to the precinct as planned but instead found himself running back to the hotel, driven by a surge of hope and confusion.

Bursting through the hotel corridor, Spencer reached Emily's door, pounding on it with a desperation that bordered on panic. Emily, alarmed by the urgency, quickly opened the door.

"Spencer? Are you okay?" she asked, her concern deepening as she took in his pale, distraught appearance.

"I saw Y/N," Spencer managed to get out, his voice trembling.

Emily's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain the facade. "No, you didn't, Spencer. That's impossible," she insisted, her voice steady but her insides churning.

"No!" Spencer's voice rose, too loud for the early hour, his agitation palpable. "It was her, I saw her moles."

"Spencer... we buried her. You were there," Emily tried to anchor him back to reality, her words heavy with shared grief.

At her words, Spencer's composure shattered completely. Tears streamed down his face as the weight of his grief, mingled with the surreal hope of what he thought he'd seen, overwhelmed him. Emily, her heart breaking for him, pulled him into her room and embraced him tightly, trying to offer comfort.

Inside, Emily felt like she was teetering on a precipice, the deceit weighing heavily on her conscience. Holding Spencer as he sobbed, she felt the acute sting of guilt—like the worst person, dead or alive, for keeping such a monumental secret from someone who was more like a brother to her.

—

In the dimly lit motel room, the tension was palpable as you recounted the latest development in your covert mission to Emily. The stark, functional space was a far cry from the comforts of home, echoing the stark reality of the path you had chosen.

"I got him, that's four down," you stated, your voice devoid of emotion, focusing solely on the task at hand. "Em, he's gone," you announced, your tone cold, almost detached, as if to shield yourself from the gravity of your actions.

"Gone? Like, gone gone?" Emily's voice was tinged with caution, her words measured, probing the depths of what 'gone' really meant in this clandestine war you were waging.

"Gone," you reaffirmed, the finality in your voice leaving no room for ambiguity.

"Phew, okay. Don't ever tell Hotch that," Emily sighed, a mix of relief and concern flickering across her face as she paced the cramped confines of the room. Her hands settled on her hips, a gesture that spoke of her inner turmoil. "How many does that leave?"

"Three. I’m so close I can taste it," you replied, a fierce determination lighting your eyes. The end was in sight, but with each step forward, the lines of morality blurred further.

"Y/N... I want them put away, gone, whatever, as much as you, but I need you to think about what you’re doing. Please, let us arrest them," Emily implored, her voice heavy with the responsibility of her role both as your confidante and as an FBI agent.

"I didn’t kill anyone, Emily," you snapped back, frustration and fatigue bleeding into your words. "He’s gone, he can’t hurt us anymore. He's not dead."

"I don’t even want to know," she murmured, her voice low, resigned to the complexities of the situation. Emily knew better than to press further; the less she knew about the specifics, the better she could maintain her role within the BAU and support you from a distance. "Okay, who’s next? What’s the next move?"

The conversation shifted back to strategy, both of you aware that each decision, each action taken, drew you deeper into a web from which there might be no untangling. The mission to dismantle the network that had terrorized your life and threatened your loved ones was nearing its critical phase, and with Emily's reluctant support, you prepared to face what came next, each step forward shadowed by the potential costs of the choices you were making.

—

In the bustling heart of the BAU, the sudden exclamation from Penelope Garcia broke through the usual hum of focused activity, drawing everyone's attention toward her tech-laden sanctuary. Her screens flickered with streams of data, her fingers danced across the keyboard, and her eyes were locked onto a particular piece of information that had just surfaced.

"Hotch! I got something," Penelope called out, her voice a mixture of excitement and urgency, beckoning the team leader to her side.

Hotch, his expression instantly shifting to one of focused concern, made his way quickly to Garcia's station, the rest of the team's eyes following him. They gathered around, curious and anxious about the potential breakthrough.

Penelope pointed to a specific line highlighted on her screen. "This right here, this was one of Diane's contacts," she explained, her voice steady despite the rapid pace of her discovery. "He was seen here in DC."

The revelation sent a ripple of alertness through the room. This contact could be a significant link in unraveling the network behind the threats and possibly lead them closer to understanding the full scope of the conspiracy that had ensnared you.

"Good work, Garcia," Hotch commended, his eyes scanning the information displayed. "Do we have any current visuals or known associates in the area?"

Penelope quickly typed away, pulling up additional data. "Working on it now, sir," she replied, her concentration absolute as she sifted through security feeds and intelligence reports.

As Garcia continued her search, Hotch turned to the rest of the team. "This could be a major lead. I want everyone on this—start pulling together all we know about Diane’s operations and any other contacts that might connect back to this one. Spencer, I need you to help Garcia with the profiling aspects. We need to anticipate their next moves."

—

The operation at the abandoned military building, initiated by Garcia's crucial lead, was intense and fraught with danger. The structure, looming and dilapidated, its windows boarded and the facade scarred by the elements, was a fitting hideout for the remnants of the criminal network that had caused so much turmoil.

Derek Morgan, with his characteristic blend of bravado and precision, took point as the team approached the shadowed entrance. With a powerful kick, he sent the door crashing open, splinters flying, as he bellowed, "FBI! Hands where we can see them!"

The interior was chaos incarnate. The suspects, caught by surprise but desperate, reacted violently. Gunfire erupted almost immediately, echoing off the hollow walls, as the team took cover. Commands were shouted, and the sound of scrambling feet mixed with the sharp reports of gunfire. Despite the chaos, the BAU team's training and resolve shone through. They moved with practiced efficiency, their actions coordinated under Hotch's calm directives.

It wasn’t long before the situation was under control, with each member of the crime circle detained, their plans for escape foiled by the team's decisive intervention. However, amidst the takedown, Spencer Reid's actions stood out. His usual composure was replaced by a raw, almost visceral intensity. Observing from a distance, Hotch saw Spencer deliver a fierce blow to one of the suspects who had tried to fight back. It was uncharacteristic, a clear sign of the deep-seated anger and pain that Spencer had been harboring.

Hotch understood the cathartic nature of Spencer's reaction; he knew the young agent needed to vent the pent-up emotions that had been simmering ever since your supposed death. It was a moment of human frailty, one that Hotch knew he would address later in a private conversation to ensure it didn’t spiral into something more destructive.

As the dust settled and the suspects were secured, Hotch’s mind turned to the daunting task ahead. The team was unaware of the full scope of what you and he had orchestrated. The truth about your survival, hidden under layers of deceit and protective maneuvers, was going to surface, and Hotch was acutely aware that the revelation would not be received lightly. The trust they had in him, and potentially in you, would be tested.

He contemplated the right moment and the right words to use, knowing that the bond of the team, the very cohesion that made them effective, could be jeopardized by the forthcoming disclosure. Forgiveness, he knew, was not guaranteed, but necessary for healing.

—

As Hotch and Emily prepared to meet with Spencer, the weight of what they were about to disclose hung heavily in the air. Choosing a neutral location, they rented a separate room in the motel you’d been staying in to ensure privacy for the sensitive conversation.

Upon Spencer's arrival, his knock was met with a quick response. "Spencer, come in," Hotch greeted, his voice betraying none of the apprehension he felt.

As Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately found Emily seated casually on the bed. His mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, his initial confusion giving way to a fleeting, inappropriate guess at their intentions. However, as Emily gestured for him to take a seat, it became clear that the gravity of the situation was far from what his fleeting thoughts had entertained.

"Spencer, this is hard, but we have something we need to tell you," Emily began, her tone serious, cutting through any lingering misconceptions.

Hotch took over, his expression somber. "I need you to know, Spencer, that everything we did was for the protection of the team and all of our loved ones. And at the request of Y/N."

The mention of your name caused a visible reaction in Spencer. He stiffened, his face paling slightly as the name he'd mourned in silence was spoken aloud. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tight with a mix of hope and rising anger.

"Y/N...she’s—she’s alive," Emily stated bluntly, her words deliberate.

"That's not funny," Spencer snapped, standing up quickly, his chair clattering to the floor. The suggestion seemed cruel, a twisted joke at his expense.

"Reid, it's not a joke," Hotch intervened firmly, stepping forward to emphasize the truth of their words. "She never died that day in the warehouse. She went into hiding."

Spencer's reaction was immediate and fierce. "You're telling me this now? After how long—how long have you both known about this?" His voice rose, a sharp edge of betrayal slicing through the thickening tension in the room.

"Spencer, please understand, we—" Emily tried to interject, her face a mask of sympathy and regret.

"No, don't 'Spencer, please' me, Emily!" Spencer cut her off, his voice laced with sarcasm and hurt. "You both lied to me. To all of us. How could you possibly justify that?"

Hotch met Spencer's gaze steadily, recognizing the pain and anger boiling over in the younger man. "It was Y/N's decision, to protect everyone. We were respecting her wishes, Spencer."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to accept that? That you all decided my mental and emotional torture was worth the cause?" Spencer's voice was cold, his usually warm eyes now sharp and accusing.

"We thought we were doing the right thing, Reid," Hotch replied, his voice even but firm. "I know it's hard, but she did it thinking of you, of all of us."

Spencer shook his head, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, relief, and unresolved grief. "Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it, Hotch. Not even close."

The room fell silent, the heavy truth settling around them like a shroud. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed visibly as he stood towering over the small coffee table separating him from Emily and Hotch. His voice was sharp, laced with a bitter edge that neither of them had often heard before.

"This is some kind of sick test, right?" Spencer snapped, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You pull me in here, say something like that—"

"Spencer, please," Emily interjected, her voice steady but her eyes revealing the strain of the moment. "It's the truth. Y/N is alive. She's been in hiding. We couldn't tell you—"

"Couldn't tell me?" Spencer's laugh was hollow, humorless. "Or you chose not to tell me? Which one, Emily? Because last I checked, we're supposed to trust each other."

Hotch stood up, his presence a calming force in the room, though it did little to soothe Spencer's frayed nerves. "We did it to protect her and everyone else involved. It was Y/N's decision, and she specifically asked us to keep it from the team until it was absolutely safe. You of all people know the dangers that come with our line of work."

"That doesn't give you the right to lie to me, to us!" Spencer’s voice rose, a rare flash of anger crossing his normally composed demeanor. "To fake her death? Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?"

"We understand it was hard, Spencer," Hotch said, his tone softening. "But we had no other choice. The threat was too great, and it still is. That's why we're telling you now—because we need you to understand and to help us finish this, the right way."

Spencer shook his head, his anger mingling with a resurgence of pain, the old wound torn open anew. "And you think just telling me this now makes it all okay? That it justifies everything?"

"It's not about justification," Emily added gently. "It's about trust, and yes, we're asking a lot of you. We're asking you to trust us now, after we've kept this from you. But we need you, Spencer. Y/N needs you."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Spencer's shoulders slumped slightly, the initial surge of anger giving way to a complex storm of relief, betrayal, and confusion. He sat back down slowly, his mind racing as he processed the enormity of what he'd just been told.

"I need to see her," Spencer said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I need to hear this from her."

"And you will," Hotch assured him. “But right now, we just need to ensure it's completely safe—"

Hotch's assurance was cut short by Spencer's sharp retort, the anger and betrayal he felt boiling over. "No fucking buts," he seethed, each word dripping with venom.

"Spencer," Emily chided, taken aback not just by his tone but by the raw edge of his language.

"Emily," Spencer shot back mockingly, his patience frayed to its very ends. "Where is she? Take me now or accept my resignation from the BAU."

The room fell into a charged silence, Hotch and Emily exchanging a look that conveyed the gravity of Spencer's ultimatum. Hotch knew this was no idle threat; Spencer's entire demeanor screamed of a man pushed to his limits.

Understanding the stakes, Hotch pulled out his phone without breaking eye contact with Spencer. He quickly sent you a text, concise and to the point, indicating he was bringing Spencer to your location. Once the message was sent, he pocketed his phone and stood, gesturing toward the door with a nod.

"Come on then," Hotch said, his voice firm, as he led the way out of the room and down the breezeway.

The walk was tense, each step echoing hollowly in the corridor as Spencer followed, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions—anger, anticipation, confusion. What would he say? What would he do? The scenarios played out in his head in a relentless loop.

Finally, they arrived at your door. Hotch knocked, a formal, almost perfunctory sound against the heavy wood. Spencer held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of dread and desperate hope coursing through him.

The door swung open slowly, revealing you standing there, alive, a sight that was both immensely relieving and incredibly infuriating to Spencer. For a moment, he could only stare, taking in the reality of you—so familiar yet so distant after everything that had transpired.

The moment was fraught with tension, a silent standoff as emotions swirled palpably in the air. Spencer's relief at seeing you alive was overshadowed by a barrage of questions and accusations, his previous affections now tangled with a sense of betrayal.

“Hi, Spence.”

The moment you spoke, a simple greeting barely above a whisper, the atmosphere thickened palpably. Spencer's gaze was intense as he took in your appearance, noting every change that the months of separation and stress had etched into your features. The person before him was both deeply familiar and unsettlingly altered. You looked worn, shadows beneath your eyes, and a tension in your posture that spoke volumes about the ordeal you had endured.

The sight of you, so changed yet still unmistakably you, ignited a complex torrent of emotions in Spencer. The pain of your loss, the relief of your presence, and the sharp sting of betrayal all collided in a devastating rush.

"Fuck you," he spat, the words harsh, laced with hurt and anger. Without another word, he turned sharply, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he stormed off, leaving the tension of the room to coil tighter in his wake.

Hotch, standing a few steps behind, remained silent, his expression grim. He understood the depth of Spencer's reaction, the relief and betrayal too potent to process in the heat of such a sudden reunion.

Emily, who had lingered by the doorway, gave you an apologetic look, her eyes conveying sympathy and concern. She knew the road to reconciliation, if it was even possible, would be long and fraught with emotional landmines.

As Spencer's retreating figure disappeared around the corner, the reality of the situation settled in. The revelation of your survival, meant to be a moment of shocking relief, had instead reopened wounds that had never fully healed.

—

Spencer's return to work was a study in silent turmoil. He moved through his days mechanically, engaging only when absolutely necessary and avoiding any unnecessary interaction, particularly with Hotch and Emily. The news of your survival and return had been a bombshell he was still struggling to process, and his feelings were a tangled mess of betrayal, anger, and an unwillingness to face the new reality that you were back, alive and in the same space as him.

When you officially returned to the BAU, the team's reactions were mixed. While betrayal hung heavy in the air, time and distance from the initial shock allowed some semblance of forgiveness to seep through the cracks of strained relationships. As you walked in, the emotions were palpable: hugs were exchanged, tears were shed, and in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Penelope, the heart of the team, slapped you, only to burst into tears and apologize profusely soon after. Despite the rocky reception, it was clear there was relief mingled with the hurt, a complex welcome back.

Observing your old desk, untouched and exactly as you left it, you couldn't help but express your surprise. "Wow, my desk hasn't been touched?" you remarked, a mix of nostalgia and sadness in your tone.

Derek chuckled sadly before responding, "Reid wouldn't let us move your things."

At Derek's words, Spencer, who had been passing by, couldn’t hold back his biting retort. "She was fucking dead, you can trash it all now for all I care," he spat venomously, his words laced with unresolved anger.

The harshness of his comment drew a heavy sigh from Hotch, who had been monitoring the team's dynamics closely. Knowing he needed to address Spencer's ongoing struggle, he called him into his office for a private conversation.

"Look, you don’t have to be okay with what happened, or forgive any of us," Hotch began, his voice steady yet empathetic, understanding the depth of Spencer's pain. "But you do have to be professional. We're a team, and we need to function as one, regardless of personal feelings."

Spencer, standing rigidly across from Hotch, his jaw set and his eyes cold, listened without responding. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the deceit, sorrow for the past, and a grudging acknowledgement of Hotch’s words.

—

Your first week back at the BAU was a tightrope walk of navigating old connections and mending frayed bonds. By the end of it, you realized a conversation with Spencer was inevitable and necessary. The tension had been palpable, and his avoidance was a clear sign of unresolved issues between you two. With a tentative breath, you approached him, your voice carrying a mix of hesitation and resolve.

"Spencer… hi, I just have a quick question," you started, trying to keep your tone neutral.

"What?" His response was curt, clipped with an edge that made you flinch slightly, though you weren't entirely surprised.

"Um, well all of my things are still at the apartment. I guess I was wondering if I could come get them? Or I could have movers do it, I—I found an apartment," you explained, the words tumbling out more quickly than you intended.

Spencer's reaction was immediate, his stomach twisting painfully at the implication of your words. "You’re—you’re not going to live with me anymore?"

"I didn’t—I didn’t think you would want me to," you replied softly, the hesistence evident in your voice.

"Of course I want you to, I mean, Jesus Christ, I don't know. Maybe you're right, maybe I don’t," Spencer confessed, his emotions raw and conflicted.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for the conversation that needed to happen. "I think we need to talk about more than living arrangements…"

"No shit, Y/N." Spencer's reply was deadpan, his frustration boiling over. "You can come home tonight, for a bit."

"Okay, okay. Of course. I'll see you at, let's say 7?" you proposed, hoping to set a definite time for what would undoubtedly be a difficult discussion.

"Yeah," he agreed, albeit tersely.

As Spencer turned to walk away, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary, Emily, who had overheard the exchange, called out to him. "Reid!" She jogged to catch up to him at the elevators, but he ignored her initial call.

"Spencer," she tried again, her tone pleading, "please."

"What, Prentiss?" he snapped, his use of her last name marking a clear sign of his irritation and distancing.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and—and I hope tonight goes well," Emily offered, her apology sincere, though it did little to soften Spencer's demeanor.

"Hey, maybe don’t fucking eavesdrop and focus on not being a shitty friend instead?" Spencer retorted sharply, his words cutting through the air like a knife. He didn't wait for her response, stepping into the elevator and disappearing from view, leaving Emily standing in the hallway, her expression one of regret and concern.

The elevator doors closed on Spencer, encapsulating him in his turmoil, a storm of anger, betrayal, and lingering affection swirling chaotically within him. Tonight’s conversation would be a turning point, one way or another.

—

At precisely seven in the evening, you stood outside the apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary, a place filled with love and shared secrets. Now, it held a different energy, charged with tension and unresolved conflicts. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door, bracing yourself for the conversation ahead.

Spencer opened the door swiftly, his expression unreadable. He stepped aside to let you in, his movements precise, controlled. "Before you say it again, no, nothing has been touched," he stated right away, his tone a mixture of resignation and bitterness.

You nodded, taking in the familiar surroundings that now seemed somewhat foreign. "It looks nice, I missed being here," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

"Yeah, well I missed you being alive, and now I miss when you didn't lie to me and fake your death!" Spencer retorted with mock enthusiasm, his words sharp, each one landing like a blow.

You couldn’t help but wince slightly at his tone, the raw edge in his voice a clear reflection of the pain he felt. "You got me there," you admitted with a sad chuckle, acknowledging his anger and the legitimacy of his feelings. "Can I explain why I did it?"

"You better," he responded tersely, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, his posture defensive yet expectant.

With a heavy sigh, you began to unravel the story, the words heavy with the weight of the decisions you had made. "When the threats started coming in, they weren't just directed at me—they were aimed at everyone I care about, including you. The people we were up against... they made it clear they wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. I couldn't risk your safety, or the team's."

You paused, the heaviness of the moment settling around you as you searched Spencer's face for any sign of softening, any hint that he might understand the depth of the desperation that had driven your actions.

"They, um, they got to Sam,” you managed to say, your voice breaking into a sniffle. Sam had been your closest confidant, a spy much like Emily once was—a detail Spencer was unaware of, which fueled a fresh wave of anger within him.

The revelation that there were still secrets kept from him, critical pieces of your life and decisions made without his knowledge, stirred a renewed turmoil in Spencer. His brow furrowed deeper, confusion and betrayal etching his features as he processed the new information.

You drew a deep breath, steadying yourself as you pieced together the narrative that had dictated your life for the past tumultuous months. "Sam was highly trained, I think they went for them first to show how serious they were. I knew if they started there, it wouldn’t be long before they got to my family, or you. And the thought of losing you was more than I could bear."

The words hung heavily in the air, laden with the gravity of the choices you had faced, each decision infused with a desperate instinct to protect.

"I thought by faking my death, by disappearing, it would draw their focus away from you, from everyone. It was supposed to be temporary, just until we could neutralize the threat," you explained further, your voice thick with emotion and regret. Each word was a plea for understanding, a bridge you hoped would span the chasm of hurt and betrayal that had opened between you and Spencer.

The room felt smaller, the air between you charged with tension and unspoken questions as you awaited his response, hoping for understanding, yet bracing for further backlash.

"It was the hardest decision I've ever made," you continued, your voice faltering slightly. "Leaving you, lying to you... it went against everything I believed in. But I did it because I believed it was the only way to keep you safe. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now how much hurt it caused."

The room was thick with emotion, the air charged with the weight of revelations. Spencer pushed off from the wall, his movements slow as he approached you. The distance between you felt immense, filled with months of pain and separation.

Spencer's anger, simmering just beneath the surface, erupted as he struggled to reconcile your reasons with his own harrowing experience.

"Let me get this straight…” he seethed, his words laced with a palpable bitterness. “You faked your death, let me believe I lost you because you couldn't stand the thought of losing me? That sounds a bit fucking selfish, now doesn't it?"

You tried to interject, to explain further, but Spencer was relentless, his pain turning his usual precise speech into a torrent of raw emotion. "Spen—"

“Why was watching you die supposed to be better for me?” he cut in sharply, not allowing you to get a word in edgewise.

“I—I,” you stuttered, floundering under the intensity of his gaze and the force of his anger.

“I—I, nothing. Because it wasn’t. I mourned, grieved, suffered. I watched. You. Die.” His words were punctuated, each sentence a hammer strike, his voice rising with each syllable, expressing the depth of his anguish.

Seeing Spencer in such raw, unguarded turmoil was a stark deviation from the composed, analytical person you knew. The pain etched across his features, the fury in his voice—it was all too much, a vivid portrayal of the deep scars your actions had left on him.

"I'm so sorry, bug," you murmured instinctively, using the affectionate nickname that had always been reserved for softer, happier times.

"Don't!" he exploded, his voice filling the space between you with a harsh, jarring intensity. His next word was softer, but no less intense, "don't," he repeated, the anger subsiding into a plea.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it slipped out," you quickly apologized, realizing too late the mistake of using such a personal term in such a fraught moment.

Spencer stepped back, putting physical distance between you as if the space could help shield him from the emotional barrage. His next question was quieter, vulnerable, "Did you think about me? At all?"

The simplicity of the question, asked with such genuine uncertainty, twisted at your heart. "Spencer... every single day," you responded, your voice thick with emotion. "The thought of getting back to you was the only thing keeping me going."

"Don't you dare say that to me," he snapped, turning his back to you abruptly, a clear signal of his overwhelming feelings of hurt and betrayal. His body language closed off any further attempts at consolation or explanation.

You stood there, helpless, watching his shoulders tense as he wrestled with the revelations and his own feelings. The divide between what you had intended with your actions and how they had devastated him was now painfully clear. This conversation, necessary as it was, had unearthed a torrent of pain and resentment that wouldn't easily be soothed.

"Where do we go from here?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper, almost drowned out by the gravity of the moment.

Spencer paused in his pacing, a physical manifestation of his inner unrest, and faced you. "I don't know, I'm really, really fucking mad at you," he admitted bluntly, his voice a raw edge of honesty that cut through the tense air.

You nodded, accepting his anger as just and warranted. "I know," you replied softly.

"I’m mad at Hotch and Emily too, and it’s your fault," Spencer continued, his frustration spreading outward, casting a wider net of blame.

"Don't be mad at them, please. They were just helping me," you tried to explain, hoping to shield your friends from his anger.

"And lying to me! God, Y/N, I buried you, I gave a eulogy!" His voice rose, the pain evident in his exclamation, each word underscored by a memory of grief.

Your heart ached anew, the sorrow palpable. "Oh, Spencer, that must have been so hard," you murmured, your voice tinged with genuine remorse.

"Were you there?" he suddenly asked, a sharp turn in the conversation that caught you off guard.

"What?" you were taken aback, not fully grasping his meaning at first.

He fixed his gaze on you again, intensifying. "Were you at the funeral? Hiding somewhere? Did you have to listen?" he demanded, his inquiry sharp, seeking uncomfortable truths.

"No... I wasn’t there," you responded quietly, the truth laying bare another layer of separation between what he had experienced and what you had chosen.

Without another word, Spencer turned abruptly and stormed off towards his office, leaving you frozen in place, rooted by fear and regret. Moments later, he returned, holding a piece of paper — his eulogy, written for a ghost. "Allow me to share," he spoke cruelly, the words dripping with bitterness.

He thrust the paper into your hands, his eyes not leaving yours, challenging, daring you to read the words he had prepared to say over what he believed was your final resting place. The paper trembled in your grip, each word a testament to his grief and the depth of his betrayal.

“I mourned someone who was alive, who had decided that faking her death was better than trusting the people who loved her,” Spencer simmered, his voice sharp as a blade.

You looked down at the eulogy, the words blurring as tears welled up in your eyes. “Spencer, I...”

“No,” he cut you off sharply, stepping back. “You chose this path. You chose silence and deception. How am I supposed to move past that? How are any of us? You can at the very least read what I felt, I hope it hurts.”

The room felt suffocatingly small as the reality of what had been broken between you settled in. Spencer’s words were a clear signal of the chasm that had formed, a divide possibly too wide to bridge. He had shared his pain in the most tangible way, leaving you to grapple with the enormity of the hurt you had caused.

As he turned back to his office, leaving you standing there with the eulogy in hand, the silence that followed was a painful reminder of all that had been lost and the long, uncertain road ahead if there was ever to be reconciliation.

—

When Great Trees Fall

Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

—

Reading Spencer's eulogy, filled with such heartfelt pain and profound love, shattered the last defenses around your heart. It was as though all the sorrow you'd held at bay came crashing down, overwhelming you with a grief so intense it felt physical. His words, "I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," echoed in your mind, each syllable a poignant reminder of what had been lost between you two. The emotional weight was nearly unbearable, leaving you feeling as if death, the one you had faked to protect him, was now clutching at your soul for real.

Once you managed to gather yourself, a semblance of composure clinging by a thread, you dragged your feet to Spencer's office. The door was open, and you paused at the frame, leaning heavily against it. When Spencer looked up and saw the raw anguish on your face, his heart constricted with conflicting emotions. On one hand, seeing you so broken stirred a vindictive satisfaction within him; on the other, it tore at him, hating to see the woman he loved in such profound despair.

"Did you read it all?" Spencer's voice was soft, cautious as he watched you struggle with your emotions.

You nodded, barely managing to keep the sobs at bay. Speaking was beyond your capability at that moment; even breathing felt like a chore.

Spencer observed you with a complexity of feelings churning inside him. "You loved Maya Angelou," he started, his voice trailing off a bit, "but you didn’t like that poem, it made you sad."

You sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself, a meager attempt to find some solace in the hold of your own embrace.

"Y/N…this isn’t forgiveness, but—" Spencer hesitated, his offer hanging in the air, "—do you need a hug?"

Your response was immediate and desperate, "Oh god, please," you sobbed out, rushing into his lap. The physical proximity to Spencer, once so normal and now so charged, brought a rush of comfort and more tears.

You curled into him, your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck, and your body fitting into his lap as if molded to be there. Spencer, after a brief moment of hesitation, wrapped his arms around you as well. One hand gently stroked your hair while the other soothingly scratched your back. He couldn’t help but inhale deeply; you smelled different, tainted by the generic scents of motel life, yet underneath it all was your natural scent—a reminder of countless shared moments, grounding him even in the midst of turmoil.

In that embrace, a silent acknowledgment passed between you both. This wasn’t reconciliation, nor was it forgiveness, not yet. It was a moment of mutual need, a complex dance of grief, love, and countless unspoken words, each seeking solace in the simple presence of the other amidst the chaos of emotions unleashed by your return and the revelations that followed.

—

After the intensity of the emotions shared in that long, clinging hug, a tangible shift occurred between you and Spencer. As the wave of your sobs finally subsided, Spencer, with a gentle firmness, eased you from his lap. It was clear he needed some space, a moment to gather his own scattered emotions, and you understood immediately. The depth of what had transpired, the shared physical comfort, had been a momentary reprieve in the storm, not a resolution. With a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, you whispered a tearful goodbye, preparing to leave, feeling the ache of separation anew.

As you reached the door, Spencer's voice stopped you. It was hesitant, filled with a vulnerability you hadn't heard in a long time. "Don’t move into an apartment, I want to try," he said, his words tentative yet filled with a profound significance.

You turned around, gasping slightly at the implication of his words. There was hope there, a delicate thread of possibility that perhaps not all was lost between you two. His statement, simple yet heavy with meaning, suggested a willingness to mend the fractures, to rebuild from the debris of heartache and deception. You nodded, unable to form words, your heart swelling with a mix of relief and cautious optimism.

Feeling a sense of hope for the first time in over a year, you left Spencer’s apartment with a sense of hope. Spencer’s words echoed in your mind, a promise of potential reconciliation and healing. The journey ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, but the mere possibility of trying, of working through the layers of hurt and betrayal together, was a balm to your bruised heart.

—

The situation was precarious. The joy of knowing you were alive was shadowed by a chaos of emotions Spencer couldn't neatly categorize or understand, and in a moment of weakness, he turned to the one thing he had avoided for years—alcohol. The few bottles you had left behind became his solace for the evening, a poor substitute for dealing with the whirlwind inside him.

When his call came through in the middle of the night, your heart skipped a beat at the sound of the special ringtone you had set for him—a signal of the deep bond you still shared despite everything.

“Hello? Spencer? What's going on?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and concern.

“Y/N!! What's up?” Spencer's voice was unusually buoyant, slurred with the unmistakable tinge of inebriation.

“I'm sleeping, bug. Are you drunk?” your words were tinged with worry, not just for his state of intoxication but for the underlying turmoil that must have driven him to it.

“Bug,” he giggled, a sound so out of character that it tugged at your heartstrings. “Why do you call me that? Do I look like a bug? You look like an angel, you almost were an angel.”

The mix of humor and pain in his voice was disconcerting. “Spencer…” you began, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

“Did you know I almost called my old dealer? I wanted to forget so bad, your death made me want to do drugs. Isn’t that crazy?” His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words struck a deep, alarming chord.

Hearing him so vulnerable and on the edge, you knew you had to act. “Spencer, bug, I'm going to come over, okay? Are you home?” you asked, already pulling on your clothes, preparing to head out.

Spencer laughed, a sound that was more unnerving than reassuring. “Duh, love!”

“I’ll be there in 15,” you assured him, your voice firm, trying to convey both your love and your resolve.

“Make sure you aren't wearing anything!” he called out just as you were about to hang up, his judgment clearly impaired.

Ignoring his inappropriate comment, you quickly gathered your things. The drive over was tense, your mind racing with worry about what state you'd find him in and how you could help steer him back from the brink. This was a Spencer you hadn't seen before—raw, unraveling, and dangerously close to old demons.

—

As you stood outside Spencer's apartment, your concern heightened by the minute, you called out softly yet urgently, "Spencer! Open up, please!" It was late, and your voice was hushed to avoid waking the neighbors, but the silence from inside the apartment only fueled your worry.

When there was no response, you swiftly used your old key, the one you'd luckily thought to bring, anticipating a situation like this might arise. Pushing the door open, you stepped quickly inside, scanning the apartment for any sign of Spencer.

You found him in the bathroom, a heart-wrenching sight: curled over the toilet, visibly shaken and unwell. "Oh, baby," you murmured as you knelt beside him, "I'm here, do you need anything?"

"I need you," he sobbed through gags, his voice desperate and raw.

"I'm here, Spence. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," you reassured him, rubbing his back gently as he heaved, trying to soothe him with your presence and touch.

Once the worst of his nausea had passed, you helped Spencer to his feet and supported him as you both made your way to the bedroom—what had once been your shared space. You carefully propped him up with pillows and fetched him a glass of water.

"Drink," you instructed gently, raising the glass to his lips. He complied, taking large gulps of water, his actions still a bit clumsy from intoxication. "How much did you drink?"

"Your wine," he mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head against your chest, seeking comfort in your closeness.

"How many bottles?" you pressed, trying to assess just how much alcohol he had consumed.

"Two," he admitted, his voice muffled against you.

"Oh, Spencer…why?" you asked softly, concern and sadness threading through your words.

"I miss you...but you're right here." His words were a poignant reflection of his struggle to reconcile the you he had lost with the you who was now before him. "It’s like...I can't put together the you that's sitting here," he continued, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "and the you I watched die. How did you not die?"

You began to scratch his hair gently, a familiar gesture that always soothed him. "Let's not talk about that right now," you suggested with a soft smile, wanting to keep the mood light and focused on his immediate comfort.

He huffed a bit childishly, the alcohol still loosening his inhibitions. "Okay. Can you get naked then?" he asked, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed, both amused and a bit shocked by his bluntness.

"What? It’s been a long time, a guy's got needs," he retorted, his tone playful yet earnest, clearly still under the influence. Your laughter filled the room, a light moment amidst the heavy emotional backdrop.

Spencer's playful inquiries, despite his inebriated state, lightened the mood, and you couldn't help but respond with warmth and amusement. His words, though tinted with alcohol's bluntness, reminded you of the intimacy that had once defined your relationship.

"Okay big boy, how’s this, I’ll spend the night, and you can ask me in the morning?" you suggested softly, your smile attempting to bridge the gap between comfort and the promise of discussing things more seriously once he was sober.

"Mmm, I like it when you call me big boy... Are you going to sleep in our bed?" Spencer's voice held a hint of hope, his earlier flirtatiousness blending with a genuine desire for closeness.

"Yeah, Spence, I can," you affirmed, committing to staying close, to help anchor him through the night's emotional turbulence.

"Naked?" he ventured again, half-teasing, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed even harder, shaking your head at his persistence.

Your laughter, mixed with gentle chiding, reminded both of you of the deeper connection that still lingered, resilient despite the trials. As the night settled around you, the decision to stay seemed to offer a tentative step towards reconciliation, a quiet acknowledgment of the unresolved feelings and the potential for healing that lay ahead.

—

Spencer lay awake for a few moments before you stirred, soaking in the reality of having you beside him once again. The complexity of the past year's events seemed to blur at the edges as he focused on the simple, profound comfort of your presence. As he gently brushed your hair away from your face, he was struck by a wave of affection and longing that had been suppressed under layers of grief and anger.

When you murmured his name, his heart swelled. "Good morning, my love," he whispered back, his voice low and filled with emotion.

Snuggling closer to him, you found solace in the warmth of his chest, a familiar haven that felt both nostalgic and right. "Morning, you feel so good," you mumbled, the words muffled against his skin, conveying more than just physical comfort—they hinted at the deep emotional connection that neither time nor circumstances had been able to erase.

"Yeah?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, a soft rumble of contentment that you felt more than heard.

You nodded, pressing a little more firmly into him, affirming your shared comfort. "Best pillow in the world," you declared, your voice a sleepy murmur of contentment as you pressed a kiss above his heart.

Your playful banter brought a lightheartedness that the room hadn't felt in a long time, lightening the weight of the past's shadows that had settled between you. Spencer’s heart lifted with every laugh and every teasing remark, feeling more like himself than he had in months.

“Thank you for coming over last night,” he said, his voice soft with genuine gratitude, feeling the echo of your kiss still warming his chest.

“Of course, bug. How are you feeling now?” you asked, your concern for his well-being shining through despite the jokes.

“Not great, definitely need some water, and a warm bath,” he admitted, rubbing his temples lightly.

“This isn’t another ploy to get me naked, is it?” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Spencer tensed for a moment, a flush of embarrassment coloring his face. “Oh god, I did that, didn’t I?”

“You did, but it’s okay. I’d say we’re even, but I’ll let you tease me for two years,” you replied, your smile broadening as you looked up at him, inviting a lightness back into the moment.

He sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement. “Three years and you’re taking the trash out for the next month,” he countered, trying to maintain a semblance of negotiation despite the smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” you sat up abruptly, feigning shock but quickly breaking into laughter.

Spencer laughed too, a sound so warm and genuine it filled the room with an ease that had been missing. “I told you I want to try, I meant it.”

“So, I can live here again?” you asked, the question loaded with more than just the inquiry about moving back in; it was about rebuilding, about truly coming home.

“Do you want to?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with a nervous hope, his eyes searching yours for an affirmation.

You leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, meaningful gesture that spoke volumes. Your hands caressed his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. His hands responded instinctively, pulling you closer, securing you atop him in a gesture that reaffirmed his need for your presence.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and inviting.

“Yes, now can we make up for lost time? I heard a man has needs,” you whispered back, your voice playful yet thick with emotion.

Spencer’s response was a low chuckle, his arms tightening around you as he rolled, reversing your positions with a gentle but firm maneuver that spoke of his longing and the desire to reclaim the time and intimacy lost. The morning light, the soft sheets, and the rediscovery of each other's touch warming the pit of your stomach.

“Is that a gun in your pajamas or are you just happy to see me?” you smirked, teasing him playfully.

“It’s the morning, but I’m happy to see you, all of me is,” Spencer replied with a low, seductive tone, leaning down to gently bite your lip in a playful yet intimate gesture.

You gasped, delighted by the escalation, and put your hands on Spencer’s ass, pulling him closer into you. Spencer's lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, his kisses light yet purposeful, tracing a path that sent shivers down your spine.

"You know," he murmured against your skin, his hands deftly and gently lifting the bottom of your top to remove it fully, "I've thought about this, about you, about us, every day."

Your response was a breathless laugh, tinged with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you'd both been through. "And here I was thinking you might have forgotten me," you teased, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Spencer chuckled, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Forget you? Impossible. And God, you’re just as beautiful as I remember." His hands continued their gentle exploration, reaffirming his familiarity with you as he groped your breasts, twisting your nipples between his fingers. Each touch was reverent, as if he was memorizing you all over again.

The air between you grew warmer as you twisted and groaned, the morning light casting dancing shadows across the room as you moved together. Spencer leaned down then taking your nipple between his teeth and tugging, just how you liked. Your back arched, pulling on his hair harder and making him groan.

"Is this how you always greet people in the morning?" you whined, choking out the words as Spencer’s hands found the hem of your pants, pausing as if asking for permission without words.

"Only the ones I love," he replied seriously, looking into your eyes with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. With a slow nod from you, the fabric slipped away, forgotten on the floor.

As Spencer’s exploration continued, his fingers danced across the fabric of your underwear, tracing the edges with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in his eyes.

"You make it hard to stay mad at you," Spencer whispered, his voice low and husky with emotion. His fingertips brushed lightly over the delicate fabric, sending a shiver through your body. His touch was gentle as he familiarized himself with your core, as if rediscovering something precious that he thought he'd lost forever.

You responded with a soft moan, encouraging him with a slight arch of your back, pressing closer into his touch. "Maybe we should focus on making up for lost time instead of remembering," you suggested, your breath catching as his fingers pressed on your clit through the fabric with more confidence, his touch growing bolder.

Spencer smiled against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. "I like the way you think," he murmured, his hands gliding around to the small of your back, his fingers deftly and carefully making their way under the elastic. The slight tension of anticipation was palpable, your breaths mingling, quick and shallow.

As the last barriers of fabric were gently removed, you felt so vulnerable “Spence, bug, baby…can you please–,” you cut off with a moan as Spencer rubbed direct circles on your clit now. “Take off your pants, please. Want to see you.”

Spencer responded immediately to the soft urgency in your voice, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you both. There was a pause in his movements, a brief moment where his eyes locked onto yours the intensity of his gaze was a silent promise, reassuring and raw.

"Of course," he whispered back, his voice slightly rough with emotion. With a nod, he pulled back just enough to comply with your request. The sound of fabric sliding over skin mixed with the quiet breaths that filled the room. Soon, Spencer laid back on top of you, the last remnants of clothing discarded, his vulnerability matching yours.

The sight of him, bare and unguarded, reignited a familiar warmth that spread through your chest, an ache of longing and love that had been tempered by time and trials. As he returned to you, the space between you charged with anticipation, your hands reached out, tracing the lines and contours of his body that you had memorized long ago but felt like you were discovering all over again.

Spencer's hand resumed its place at your core, slipping a finger inside of you, his touch sending shivers across your skin. His movements were perfectly calculated, exactly what you needed, he knew how to play your body like an instrument. As he curled his long finger inside you, it brushed that sweet spot deep inside your walls, causing a deep whine to spill from your parted lips.

"Spencer!" His name was a plea, an acknowledgment, your voice carried through the quiet room, a mix of delight and affection.

Moved by the desire to reciprocate the overwhelming sensations, you reached down, intent on giving Spencer the same pleasure he was giving you. But Spencer, aware of his own limits after such a long separation, gently caught your hand as you grabbed his cock under the sheets.

"Oh, my love, darling, no. It will be over too soon if you do that, it’s been too long," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with need and restraint. The sincerity in his plea, the raw admission of his vulnerability, made you pause, a giggle escaping you despite the intensity of the moment.

"That’s kind of sweet—OH," your words cut off abruptly as Spencer added another finger, allowing his palm to catch on your clit as he increased the pace, pounding into you. “Fuck! Fuck, oh my God, Spencer!” You cried, arching further than you thought possible.

Spencer's movements became faster if possible, trying to bring you to orgasm, not knowing if he’d last long enough once he was inside you.

"That's the spot, darling?" His voice was a low hum, filled with both satisfaction and anticipation as he sensed your approaching climax.

Unable to form coherent words, you simply nodded, the overwhelming sensations rendering you speechless. His chuckle was low and resonant, adding another layer of intimacy to the moment. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, a thrilling contrast to the warmth of your shared skin.

"Are you going to finish for me, love?" His words were both a question and a gentle command, spoken softly yet with an undeniable intensity that urged you closer to the edge.

His presence, so close and so attuned to your needs, enveloped you in a sense of complete trust and surrender. As you approached the brink, the world narrowed down to the here and now—the feel of Spencer, the sound of his voice, and the gushing of your core around his fingers.

“Fuck! I love you!” you screamed

Spencer slowed his motions, letting you calm down from your high. The intensity in his eyes softened as he processed your heartfelt declaration. The room was thick with emotion, tangible and raw.

"You love me?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability lacing his tone. It was clear he needed to hear your words again, to believe them fully in the context of everything that had happened.

"What?" You were still coming down from the intense high, your mind a bit hazy, but his question drew you back sharply to the moment.

"You said you love me, is that true? You mean it? Still?" His questions tumbled out, each one underscored by a yearning for reassurance.

"Spencer Walter Reid," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze more directly. The use of his full name was both a playful and earnest touch. "I love you right now more than I loved you yesterday, and I'll love you more tomorrow than I do today."

His expression flickered with relief and lingering doubt. "What about a year ago?"

"I love you a year's worth more," you responded firmly, your voice steady and sure.

The simplicity and depth of your words seemed to reach him, a visible relaxation in his posture as if a weight he'd been carrying was lessening. There was a long pause, a silent communication as you both lay there, the emotional distance narrowing as understanding and love filled the gaps.

Spencer's response was a tender whisper, "I love you too," filled with relief and affection. He leaned up to kiss you deeply, a kiss that spoke of reunions, healing, and promises. It was a moment of pure connection, a reaffirmation of everything you meant to each other.

Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, the playful sparkle returning to your own. "Spence?"

"Yes, love?" His reply was soft, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, a sweet note in the quiet of the room.

"Can we have sex now?" You mumbled out shyly, with a silly smile.

"Yes, love," he laughed, the sound rich and joyful, dispelling any remaining tension.

As Spencer leaned in to kiss you once again, the connection deepened with a palpable intimacy that seemed to resonate through the room. Each kiss was a deliberate exploration, his hands moved with a familiar reverence, tracing the contours of your body with a gentleness that spoke of profound love and respect.

The softness of your skin under his fingertips felt like the finest silk, each touch igniting sparks that seemed to travel through every nerve, awakening a hunger that had been suppressed by the pain and separation of the past months. Your responses to his touches, the soft moans and gentle sighs, encouraged him further, each sound a melody that he had longed to hear.

Your hands were not passive; they roamed across his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch, a silent dialogue of push and pull that drew you ever closer. The warmth of his body against yours felt like a balm, soothing away the remnants of any lingering pain, the physical closeness helping to heal the emotional scars.

As the pace of your heartbeats quickened, so did the rhythm of your movements together. Each motion was synchronized, a dance refined by years of intimacy and renewed in this moment of reunion. The emotional intensity of the connection made every touch, every kiss, feel more profound, filling the room with an energy that was as nourishing as it was exhilarating.

Lying there with Spencer, wrapped in his arms as the early morning light began to fill the room, you felt a peace that had been elusive for too long. It was as if each ray of sunlight was blessing your reunion, affirming the rightness of your being together. In these quiet moments, tangled in sheets and each other's arms, the world outside didn't matter. What mattered was the love that had survived the greatest test, emerging not just intact but stronger, a testament to both your resilience and the depth of your bond.

—

“What happened to all of my coffee?” You teased, turning around with the mostly empty canister in hand.

Spencer's response to your playful accusation about the coffee was met with an equally light-hearted rebuttal. "Okay first, it's stale," he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes in mock indignation, holding up the nearly empty canister. "Then why didn't you throw it out?" you challenged, enjoying the back-and-forth that felt so natural, so reminiscent of easier times.

"I could never throw anything of yours away," Spencer replied, his tone shifting to something more sincere, the levity fading into a genuine expression of his feelings.

"Spence, that is so sweet, baby," you said, walking over to him and cupping his cheek in your hand, touched by his sentimentality. "But I hope you threw away my lettuce, I know it wilted and I know you hate it."

He scoffed, a playful look returning to his eyes. "I do not hate lettuce, it just has no flavor!"

"You put it in salads and put dressings on it!" you countered, emphasizing the normal use of lettuce in a way that made him chuckle.

"Well, if you make it, I’ll eat it," he conceded, his tone softening as he looked at you, appreciating the lightness of your banter.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a more seductive whisper, trailing a nail down his chest suggestively. "As long as I can eat you," you teased, watching his reaction closely.

Spencer groaned and laughed simultaneously, a sound that was music to your ears. "I forgot how insatiable you are," he admitted, his eyes alight with amusement and something more—anticipation.

"Oh baby, you have no idea what's coming your way," you continued, your tone playful yet promising as you caught his nipple with your nail, eliciting a sharp gasp from him. "You didn't think you could get that haircut, put on this muscle, and I wouldn’t want to jump your bones?"

—

Walking into work hand in hand with Spencer, you both presented a united front that hadn’t been seen in a long time. The sight was indeed refreshing and brought a hopeful buzz to the team, who had been through so much uncertainty regarding the two of you.

Derek leaned back in his chair as you passed by. “Pretty boy, you forgive little miss?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, a hint of his usual teasing tone laced with genuine curiosity about the status of your relationship.

Spencer, without missing a beat and squeezing your hand slightly, replied with false seriousness, “No, just leading her on,” his eyes twinkling with mischief as he played along with Derek’s banter.

“Oh perfect,” Emily laughed from her desk nearby, relief evident in her voice. She caught your eye, giving you a small, hopeful smile, her own guilt and desire for forgiveness palpable. Her comment, though light-hearted, carried an undercurrent of hope that Spencer’s playful demeanor might be a good sign for their own reconciliation.

Spencer's smirk grew wider at Emily's response, and he gave a playful nod, “Yeah, she doesnt know though, can you keep a secret?”

"I think you know I can," Emily had said, her laugh echoing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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fear-is-truth · 10 months ago

Text

yearn ── tate langdon x f!reader.

NSFW MINORS DNI 18+ TAGS: sexual content ・ fem!reader ・subby!tate ・ unprotected p in v・ english is not my first language so bear with me・not proofread

It had been two agonising weeks since you left the Murder House. Fourteen fucking days of suffocating silence that your absence carved into every corner. Tate had spent decades watching new residents come and go, meeting their untimely ends within these walls, never giving a rat’s ass about them. But you—you had become the one thing that made his endless days of death and monotony feel bearable. You made him feel alive in a place full of ghosts.

But this time, something felt wrong. It wasn’t like you had just gone to school or the store, slipping away for a few hours with the promise of coming back. No, this time, you’d left for summer camp — two whole weeks of being out there in the world, away from him. You said it would fly by, that it was nothing, but to Tate, it felt like an eternity. And deep down, a gnawing fear clawed at his gut: what if you didn’t want to come back? What if you met someone?

The first few days, he convinced himself you’d be back in no time. He tried to stay calm, tried to hold it together. But the more time passed, the more restless he became. You were out there, in the world, alive, and he was trapped here — unable to leave, unable to follow you.

Every night, he replayed your last conversation in his mind. You had kissed him goodbye, a quick peck on the lips, so casual. “I’ll be back soon,” you had promised. But Tate remembered the way your lips lingered a little longer than usual, the way your fingers trembled just slightly when you pulled away.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. He spent most of them in your room, staring vacantly at the ceiling, trying not to do something more “stimulating” than jerking off and crying — for instance killing the electrician your parents had hired. The bedsheets still smelled like you — faint, but enough to drive him insane. He buried his face in your pillow more times than he’d care to admit.

Now, you were finally coming back.

When the front door creaked open that evening, Tate was waiting at the bottom of the staircase. The second you stepped in, a little tired but smiling, duffel bag slung over your shoulder. The sight of you — finally back in the house, finally back with him — made something snap inside him.

“Hey, I’m—”

You barely had time to finish your sentence before Tate closed the distance between you in seconds, crashing his lips against yours. His hands were on you instantly, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His lips were rough, almost bruising, as if he was trying to make up for every second you were gone. You moaned into his mouth, surprised by the desperation but didn’t pull away.

You missed him too.

“Don’t… don’t ever leave me again,”

Tate mumbled between frantic kisses, his breath was hot against your skin. “I can’t… I need you here. I can’t do this without you.”

“I’m here now, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your hand tangling in his messy blonde curls. You stumbled backward as he guided you up the stairs, not bothering to slow down. His hands were all over you, tracing your sides, your hips, anywhere he could reach. It wasn’t just physical — it was emotional. The pent-up frustration of your absence, the loneliness, the abandonment — it was all boiling to the surface.

When you reached your room, Tate practically kicked the door shut behind him, fingers tugging at your backpack before tossing it to the floor.

“Tate…” you breathed out, but he was already kissing down your neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks. You moaned softly, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer. The way his erection pressed against your hip stirred something inside you. You pushed him onto the bed before straddling him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him as he leaned back.

“I missed you,” you reaching down to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch, blinking at you before you pressed your lips against his again. Now that you were in control, the kiss was slower, languid.

“You have no idea…” he groaned thickly between kisses, “How long I’ve been waiting for this. I can’t… fuck, I missed you so much.”

“I’m not leaving again,” you pulled your t-shirt over your head, before reaching back to unclasp your bra. Eagerly, Tate latched his mouth on your nipple and sucked, enough to make you gasp, but you didn’t stop him. The pain mixed with the pleasure in a way that made you feel dizzy and lightheaded.

Bunching up your skirt and wiggling your hips enticingly, you reached down to wrap your fingers around his member, giving him a few firm pumps before before slowly sinking down onto him, until he was fully sheathed inside you.

“F-fuck…” he croaked, eyes fluttering shut.

Placing a hand on either side of his face, you kissed him hard. Licking at the seam of his lips, tongue probing his mouth. Your hips began to gyrate, finding a pace that had you both grunting in pleasure. Tate’s hands rested on your waist and began meeting you thrust for thrust from below.

You threw your head back, pornographic moans escaping your lips each time he hit that sweet spot. The room filled with the sounds of the slap of skin on skin, the sharp intakes of breath, and the wet suction of his cock sliding in and out of your cunt, occasionally punctuated by your combined grunts.

Finally, blissfully, the hot coil snapped. Your orgasm tore through you, inner walls convulsing around his cock. Tate followed moments later, his load spurting into you, triggering aftershocks that left you breathless and trembling atop him. You collapsed against his chest, panting, as his cock twitched deep inside you. Your hands slipped into his blonde locks and wrenched his head up so he was looking directly into your eyes.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah..”

#𝐅.𝐈.𝐓 #tate langdon smut #american horror story #ahs #tate langdon #tate langdon x y/n #tate langdon x reader

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jensthwa · 10 months ago

Text

mountebank chem pt. one (JYH x reader).

part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.

SUMMARY:

* 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤: 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐲. The first time you met Yunho, you knew he was going to be part of the biggest tragedy of your life: the loss of your freedom, of your free will. You didn't know why back then but what you did figure out is that you and Jeong Yunho were going to, eventually and very publicly, date each other at some point. Is that reason enough to hate his guts? Well, of course! Now, when the time comes to fulfill the prophecy, how the hell are you going to pull it off? And, most importantly, what do you need to do to not fall in love with him in the process?

PAIRING: rich!yunho x rich!reader.

GENRE: enemies to friends to lovers.

WORD COUNT: 9,7k.

WARNINGS: eventual SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI) attempt !!! at comedy, crying, mentions of drinking and drug usage, mature language, petty behavior, insults, yunho and reader really hate each other i fear, pet names (princess), negative mentions of body image, panic attacks/panic disorder, negative??? (or so they think) tension. no smut on this part, it's an introduction to these two characters, their families and the chaos they bring to poor yunho's and readers life.

NOTES: hi everyone! i know i posted the hwa fic ten days ago or so, but i wanted to get started with this mini series that is PART OF THE LOVE'S AN UNCHARTED PATH / SHOW & TELL UNIVERSE. there's mentions of the last installment plot so, if you're new around here, you can always find the rest of the stories on my masterist! this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send to my askbox/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3

POSTED: september 14th 2024.

permanent taglist: @hotteokkay, @potatomountain, @fairylover68, @e3ellie, @alsomimi

masterlist. - part two - part three.

A trembling finger is all you can see in the still dim light of the room.

It's quiet, very quiet. You haven't heard anything but your thoughts all night. It grosses you out, so you wait for the clock to turn to six and press the button you've been hovering on for, at least, half an hour.

Park Seonghwa is your only hope right now.

The conversation doesn't go as planned.

“No, I will not go to the party with you and no, I will not pretend to be your boyfriend.”

Not even your great pitch could've turned him around to help you. Sighing, you replay the conversation in your pounding head.

“This is very inconvenient for me but I hope you and the cool girl I saw yesterday are happy together… Even if it ruins my happiness forever!”

Your happiness was probably ruined the day you were born. Sighing again, you turn to the window.

It’s raining.

You didn’t notice until you ended the call that was, if you’re being honest with yourself, your last resource.

Brain rotting away the entire night, wine drunk and edible high, you didn’t even notice the rain accompanied you through your misery.

The sound of the droplets hitting your studio window and the sun trying to break through the gloomy clouds adds insult to injury: You’re running out of time.

Any time now, your mother is going to call you up to let you know you’re possibly getting promised tonight. Not engaged, but promised and presented.

Like you’re some sort of property your parents can give away.

Nails connecting with your glass desk, the noise syncs up with the rain pattering on your window sill and, to your tired mind, it also mimics the tic-tacking an old clock would make.

You figured, if you show up with someone on your arm tonight, they might finally leave you alone.

And not marry you off to Jeong Yunho.

There’s not enough hours in the day to plan a perfect escape, there’s not enough will left inside you to reach out to someone else and make everything seem genuine, organic, like you’ve known each other for years and kept it a secret all this time.

There's not enough time to save yourself.

Because there's this… unspoken agreement you’ve known about since you were eight.

Your parents and Yunho’s parents are friends. Your mom went to school with his mom and your dad met his dad when they were teenagers and they all got married off respectively because it was what worked for their families at the time so, after hearing the superficial love story at the age of seven, you knew you were going to meet the same fate eventually.

And the next year, you met Yunho.

He was an hyperactive little kid with a lot of energy and facts about the earth you didn’t care to listen to because the second you started playing with him in his huge backyard and turned to check if your mother was watching you, you realized that was not a casual playdate.

Smiling ear to ear, both your mother and his, it signaled to you that it has started.

Your planned love story with Jeong Yunho had sailed smoothly in their eyes and there was nothing you could do about it.

Naturally, you have hated him since then. But you were taught etiquette and were media trained since you turned three and could form complete sentences, so your hatred only really showed when you two were alone.

Turns out, he didn’t really care if you liked him or not.

He’s always been good at pretending as well.

That chirpy personality, kindness and humbleness he exudes in front of everyone else? An act.

And you were proud of yourself when you saw right through his bullshit when you were both eleven and left alone so he could show you around their new, bigger house.

Gone too soon was that child who wanted to teach you about worms in his backyard and in its place there was this distant tween who’s smile disappeared as soon as your mothers were out of sight.

“Listen, I don’t know why we’re being forced to hang out but I don’t like you.”

Dumb kid.

“Good, because I don't like you either but they can’t find that out.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms and frowning at you “I’m planning on telling mommy that you… chased me around with a knife or something, so she can see how psycho you actually are and stop forcing me to be around you!”

Eyes lighting up, that was the first time you saw a possible escape from all of this “You think that would actually work?”

Annoyed and a little freaked out, Yunho pointed at the smirk on your lips “See? That’s exactly what I mean: Psycho.”

And you both only grew hostile at each other since then. Sure, saving face in front of your parents and older siblings was necessary to not get scolded and revoked of your privileges (and you actually liked to be alone with him, only if it meant you could take a break from your mother and her judging gaze), but pretending to like Yunho proved to be more difficult than what you had imagined.

Especially when you both outgrew the phase where you tried anything and everything under the sun to piss the other off. Not so harmless pranks were pulled and the petty behavior got you both in trouble with your oldest brothers a couple of times but, no matter how hard you tried, it never “accidentally” got to your mother. Or his, for that matter.

So when you two stopped trying to get your point across and grew cold towards one another, that's when it got really ugly. Vile words cut through both of your egos harshly, family vacations that include his were uncomfortable and holidays were your personal hell.

December thirty-first and January first have always felt like purgatory. Christmas was always spared because you have family living on the other side of the world who you travel to see every year but it's never truly enjoyable when you know that, in the next couple of days after that, you'll see his dumb face.

But you have always smiled brightly at him and hugged him when he comes in with his unnecessary luggage at your home. You hold his arm and bat your eyelashes when you know your mom is watching from a distance and it all but confuses him every single time.

Remembering the time you both were thirteen and you went through very sudden puberty makes you smile. The look on his face when your kitty heels helped show how tall you got over the summer was fantastic.

“Look at what the cat brought in!” Scrunching your nose and squeezing his cheeks in fake affection, you noticed it took a lot for him to not swat your hands away.

But you also remember noticing that he was blushing when you pulled away.

“You look like a very ugly giant,” he whispered with a smile, matter of factly and all “It doesn't really suit you.”

He was a pain in the ass. A manageable pain in the ass, but a pain nonetheless.

It all took a wrong turn when he caught up on your mothers plans by age fifteen. By that age, you've known for a while and the mercy you had on him, on explaining everything you believed to be true, was simply a way of keeping everything at arm's length from you.

The second he put two and two together, your guesses had automatically turned into a possible reality you couldn't cope with.

A reality that's about to hit you in the face and leave a bruise that doesn't really go with your polished image.

The rain picks up and you close your eyes in hopes of coming up with a new idea.

It only makes your headache worse.

You really should get going with your day.

There's appointments you need to get to, meetings you have to fill the space in because your brother is going to fail to show up as usual and you have to get your hair and make-up done for tonight.

You really shouldn't be crying right now.

Are you even allowed to cry?

Your fate was probably decided the day you were born, five months and a few days after Yunho.

“Shit.”

Sobbing is useless, so you get in the shower. You do your skincare routine and plan the outfit you're going to wear to the office while you cover your eyebags and try to make it look seamless, natural even.

If the struggle shows up in your face, you're going to get yelled at downstairs.

Living with your parents might be a bigger nightmare than getting presented with Yunho tonight but there's really nothing you can do about that, either.

Working in their company, gaining connections through them and being praised by simply having your last name attached to your first makes you completely useless when faced with a situation where you simply want to tell your mom to fuck off.

“Y/N, I hope you already weighed down the options for the dress you're wearing tonight,” is what greets you when you enter the dining room, breakfast laid out perfectly across the table both your parents sit at. She's glancing at you in warning “And I hope you know that the navy blue dress is the best option. It's on theme and it's classy, it shows your figure too.”

Fuck off.

You might've been taught a bunch of things while growing up in this tinsel bubble but never ever were you taught how to stand up for yourself.

It shows in the way you nod and smile and sit down on your designated spot next to your dad and in front of your mom.

“Navy dress it is, ma'am.”

The nod she gives in approval makes you nauseous. At least she's not saying anything about Yunho.

“Excellent choice, dear.”

You swallow the food on your pre-portioned plate with a tight throat and, after sipping your black coffee, you turn to your dad.

Feeling a little delirious on lack of sleep and a little bold, especially when it comes to work related matters, you take the opportunity to press on the other thing that kept bothering you the entire night.

“Father—”

He sees right through you.

“No, Y/N. It's not an open discussion, the deal is signed and sealed.”

“It's not a smart choice.”

“Kim Y/N!” slamming her utensils down on the table and making everything shake in the process, you barely flinch at your mothers warning “Are you calling your father dumb?”

“No, of course I'm not,” you defend yourself immediately, the softness in your voice hanging by a thread because all you want to do is scream at her to stop putting words in your mouth “All I'm saying is that he's too generous. That company is not profitable and he gave them half a floor in the building and an initial investment that's going to backfire,” you calmly explain to her what you told him the day before “There’s not really a market for physical media anymore.”

“And they're trying to bring it back,” your father returns, his eyes never straining from his food “I think it's a great idea. You said a couple of months ago that eighties and nineties style is coming back.”

“As a trend,” you remind him with a tight smile “And trends tend to die down rather quickly.”

“Sukwon approved it,” he finally looks up and his next words have you biting your tongue bitterly “You don't have a say on the final decision and you know it.”

Damn right you fucking know it.

“Are we clear on that?”

Glancing at your mother, you notice how she's picking on her food to try and avoid sticking up for you. Not that she normally would but you think, as the years pass, the mistreatment must give her some sort of guilty feeling she can only escape if she avoids your eyes.

Straightening your spine, you fix your face and smile with fake acceptance “Yes, sir.”

The tinsel bubble brings in unnecessary amounts of money and privilege, but it doesn't really save you from tradition and misogyny.

Sukwon is the firstborn, after all.

He's also a complete fucking idiot.

You love him a lot, but he's completely useless when it comes to this business.

Although trained separately and for completely different positions, you always paid close attention to the company.

You studied hard, you graduated early at the top of your class and went to business school as soon as you were able to. You even got to be valedictorian last year at your graduation and even then you knew you weren't getting your father's role once he took a step back from being the face of the company.

But you couldn't help but wish.

Wishing and imagining was your way of coping with it. What if you were born a boy instead? You surely wouldn't be in this predicament.

What if your brother wasn't pampered the way he was growing up? You surely didn't have to step in to save appearances with your employees.

Your day to day would probably flow so much smoothly if he actually wanted to do his job like he should.

Heels clacking on the marble floor, you strut the hallway into his office to aggravate your headache just a bit more: The space is a mess and when you glance at the tree you started to paint on his wall when he asked you to help him quietly turn the space around but never got to finish it brings your mind to the man who declined your offer this morning.

And the clock in your mind starts ticking again, faster and louder this time.

Sukwon’s voice comes out of a corner in the big office, behind some piled up boxes “Well that's not good.”

Snapping out of it and turning to him, you cock your head to the side “What is it?”

“You,” he comes out of his hiding spot, suit barely ironed and hair a little messy which makes you cringe “Usually, you complain as soon as you close that door,” he points at it with a tiny and concerned smile “So now I'm worried they cloned and replaced you, sis.”

“Well, you made a mistake yesterday and there's nothing I can do now to cover it up so,” raising your arms before tossing your purse on the free loveseat that serves as his lounging area, you sigh “Nothing to complaint about today, except—” you squint your eyes, making a show of pretending to be thinking about it “Oh! I'm probably getting married off tonight.”

The fake happiness laced in your tone makes your brother scoff. He walks to his desk, sitting down on his chair and shaking his head in disapproval.

“It's not an engagement, Y/N. It's more of a… Public relations matter.”

“Oh, so you agree with it?” Blood pressure skyrocketing, you quickly make your way across the space until you stand in front of him “You're fine with it?!”

“Don't act like you didn't already know this was going to happen eventually,” leaning back, he gives you an apologetic look. That's how you know there's nothing he can do about it either “Jeong Tech is the largest investor, or primary partner and basically the first big successful business we helped to launch here.”

The explanation is unnecessary. You know. You know he knows you know.

“And after the stocks falling over that little… Hiccup they had last year—”

“The selling clients information hiccup.” You recall with a tight smile.

Sukwon gulps.

“Yes, that, they need to rekindle their image with the press and, in the process, we gain a few reputation points in the market by association. You know how this works,” looking away for a moment, he bites the inside of his cheek before pressing on “And you two are loved and shipped by everyone online already. Grandmas swoon at the potential TVN drama they could make about your love story.”

What fucking love story?

It's more like a gruesome, slashy horror movie to you.

“Okay, is that why they don't marry me to Gunho instead?”

“No, Y/N, they don't marry you off to Gunho because he's in love and soon to be engaged to a complete nobody,” he responds right away with a shrug “Besides, you and Yunho—”

“We hate each other. We—”

“Now, I wouldn't say that—”

“—Completely and utterly despise one another. He's the unwanted dirt under my Louis Vuitton heel, he's the bee I want to kill but can't because they are needed for the environment,” you continue without taking a breath “He's somehow needed to this environment,” meaning the company “Although he's attending a public university and detaches himself from his responsibilities because he already has a brother who actually takes care of it all, unlike me!”

Sukwon doesn't seem hurt at that and you're annoyed he's not. That he knows you well enough to know you're trying to sink your claws into his pride because yours is flat lining as the minutes pass.

That does nothing but fuel your anger.

“Unlike me,” you repeat “Who has to take care of your responsibilities because you are too busy playing renovation simulator in your stupid office to attend your meetings! Because if you did attend them you would know yesterday’s decision was a mistake and—”

“There it is!”

“—You're going to cost us millions of won for nothing.”

Sukwon sighs and the way he scowls at the scattered papers on his desk lets you know he's not about to entertain this conversation any longer.

For the third time today, you are about to lose. And you're a sore loser.

“You're not getting engaged,” he reminds you, standing up and fixing his hair with his hand, his expression kind and sweet like you didn't just yell at him “You don't have to marry Yunho.”

You scoff “For now.”

“Or never, if you don't want to,” rounding his desk, Sukwon pats your head softly like you're a child “Just pretend for a bit and then let him break your heart publicly so that the media doesn't treat you like a stoned hearted bitch.”

“I am a stoned hearted bitch.”

He shakes his head “You're not but even if you were no one has the right to call you that,” your expression softens and you kind of want to cry at that, but you don't “Except me. Now, we have a meeting to go to, don't we?”

Duty calls, like it always does. Your brother steps away and rushes to the door.

Grabbing your purse and following him out, you fix your own hair in the reflection of the glass separating the cubicles from the hall “Do you even know what it is about?”

He smiles back at you “Nope but you're going to tell me on the way there anyway.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

The call comes after the meeting, when the sun is finally breaking fully through the clouds and your headache is starting to go away.

Only to come back in full force once you see Yunho’s face as soon as you make your way to your own living room.

Wearing a formal black blazer with matching trousers and a white shirt, the asshole doesn't even spare a glance at you even when you're sure he knows you just walked in.

The room started to fill with negative energy. He must have felt it, right? But he doesn't show it.

He's on the phone, eyebrows almost melting together as he pays attention to what the person on the line is saying.

“What do you mean he met this girl two days ago?”

Oh, he's gossiping. Your eyes almost meet the back of your skull when you roll them and, with a sigh, you throw your purse at him.

He catches it without making that much of an effort.

Asshole.

“End the call.”

“Wait, wait,” he covers the microphone with his hand and frowns at you instead “Shut it up, princess, this is an important call.”

“Princess? Who are you calling princess?” It's not hard to hear the person on the other line, a poor confused guy, talking back.

“My mother's friend’s daughter,” he shoots back and gives you a tired look, putting the phone to his ear again and signaling you to close your mouth “Anyways, is Seonghwa sure he wants to introduce us to her? Isn't it too soon?”

At the name, you perk up. Gears turn in your head, one by one because you're tired and your machinery probably needs another coffee to oil everything up there, but then it hits you.

That's where you knew Park Seonghwa from.

You were not proud of yourself for letting curiosity tickle you enough to check Yunho’s instagram page merely six months ago. On your burner account, of course, the one with a fake name and fake pictures so that people don't know you stalk them when you're bored.

There's this picture on his finsta where they're all sitting around a bonfire. It looked cozy, like they actually love each other which is a crazy concept for you.

All your friends are fake. Also, the concept of a bonfire is insane. Bugs? Acoustic guitars and careless laughter?

Insane.

But it seemed genuine the first time you saw it and it made you burn with jealousy of a life you could never have.

And in that picture, Yunho was hugging Park Seonghwa.

Huh. You wonder what would've happened if he accepted your proposal earlier today.

“Well, okay, uhm… I probably can't tonight. I know I said— Yes, Wooyoung, I know,” he sighs deeply as you sit down right in front of him, one leg over the other with rehearsed poise “I’ll see you all at Hongjoong's gig this weekend, yeah? Okay, bye… I love you too, oh my god,” he giggles and you frown, disgusted “Bye.”

You immediately go for it.

“Your boyfriend?”

“My husband,” his smile is fake and tight and it makes you want to punch him in the face “That's what I'm telling our mothers in fifteen minutes, by the way.”

Rolling your eyes again, you let out a tired breath “As if that would ever stop them.”

“So I reckon you know what's going on?”

“You don't?” eyebrow rising inquisitively and expression turning into a pitiful one, you wonder if that's why he seems so laid back at the moment “Please, indulge me and tell me you do.”

“Of course I know what's going to happen,” scoffing, he crosses his arms and looks at the living room double doors “Just trying to figure out if you're out of the loop so I can put you up to speed on our escape.”

“Oh, please,” you huff out a bitter laugh “If you really wanted to escape you would have been out of the country by now. Don't pretend you're not a people pleaser, Yunho,” looking back at you, that familiar wrath burns in his brown eyes and it makes you smirk “Passing the opportunity to hang out with Park Seonghwa and the rest of your public university crew is not usually what you do. You were probably given an ultimatum by your mother and that's why you're here, isn't it?”

Watching his expression shift from annoyance to confusion to anger in the span of seconds gives you the satisfaction your lost fights of the day took away from you.

“She's really pretty, by the way. His new girlfriend, the mechanic,” you smile, moving your eyes to the ceiling like you're trying to remember something “Didn't catch her name, though. Tell her I say hi when you see her. Oh, and tell Mr. Park I say hi as well. You don't really have to explain to anyone how you know me after tonight anyway.”

“How the hell do you know them?” he's full on frowning now and the corners of your lips twitch in amusement “Are you stalking me, Y/N?”

“Wouldn't you like that, hm?” clicking your tongue in disappointment of his guess, you rest your arms over your knees and lean your weight on them, like you're about to share your secret “I always know everything, Yunho. It's my superpower.”

He imitates your movements, jaw clenched and chest heaving “And here I thought it was being spoiled and annoying.”

Shaking your head, you lean a little further now “You're so silly, Yun, you know that's yours… When will you stop projecting your shit on me?”

“When you stop ruining my fucking life.”

Oh, he's so easy to mess with.

“Glad to know you think I have that much power over you,” you bite the inside of your cheek for a second and then sigh loudly and dramatically “Sadly, I can't control what my parents want me to do. Or do you really think I would choose you, the hypocrite who pretends to run away from his responsibilities, out of all the men in the industry?”

That cuts deep. His face lets you know it does, you also know it's hypocritical on your side to criticize him for getting the treatment you wanted to get to begin with.

He leans in a bit more “As if I would ever choose you, the most cold hearted snake out of the elite.”

Fuck him.

You lean in more, chin up “Mama’s boy.”

Doing the same, he griths out: “Spoiled brat.”

“Rakehell.”

“Psychopath.”

Laughing, you dismiss the fact that your noses are almost touching to shoot back “I hope you enjoy the way the media is going to tear you apart when it comes out that you cheated on me, asshole.”

“And I hope you enjoy when Dispatch digs up what you did at that party four years ago, princess. Falling off a table for mixing your drinks and your drugs and yelling at the staff as they tried to helped you out is quite embarrassing, isn't it?” he returns immediately and it fails to intimidate you but the fact that he knows about that angers you and it sparks in your eyes, so he smirks “Not that I would ever leak that information, of course.”

“You stupid fucking—”

“Ah, good! You're both here already.”

Pulling apart and standing up, you both try to regulate your breathing and conceal your flustered state as your mom and his walk straight towards you.

They're here early, you think. You couldn't possibly have argued with Yunho for fifteen minutes straight.

“I beg you save the public displays of affection for later, though,” his mom says and with a hand on your back she directs you to sit on the sofa Yunho was occupying before. You sit and he does too and you both make sure to leave enough space for the holy spirit and all deities in between you “We're going to need them for the cameras.”

Uncomfortable, you fidget on your seat until the warning look from your mother forces you to stop. Yunho gulps beside you, probably just as uncomfortable as you.

Both women smile brightly like they're not about to lay on you the saddest news of your life.

“As you both know, tonight's gala is a celebration of the twenty years Jeong Tech and Kim’s Innovation have joined creative forces and built the empire we have the pleasure to see unfold today…”

Is your mother reciting your dads speech? It sounds robotic, rehearsed, fake and forced and it's not something new from her but you hate it either way.

“And in celebration of our families friendship, loyalty and alliance,” Yunho’s mom continues and you take in a breath “We're finally making your relationship public!”

Finally?

“Finally?” Yunho asks and you lick your lips “Mom, Auntie… We don't have a relationship.” He tells them plain and simple and you don't look at him when you nod in compliance with the statement.

“Oh, you two have been in love since forever!” His mother dismisses what she just heard “It's only fair to finally let everyone confirm it. This way, you can actually be seen together without our public relations team having to rush to cover everything up.”

That has never happened. You prefer to stay as far away from Yunho as possible when your free will is actually yours to live with.

“Mom, we—”

“We are friends, obviously,” you interrupt Yunho before he dives head first into the depths of hell and his head snaps to you, eyebrows creasing a bit “But it's very much platonic. I don't feel—”

“Yes you do,” your mother interferes, tone stern and fake smile falling for a second as a result before she composes herself “You have loved him since you both were kids and he saved you from falling in the pool at you tenth birthday,” that never happened and slowly but surely you realize they have a whole story planned out for you “And you, Yunho, realized you loved her when she stayed by your side when you had the flu at age thirteen. When she cried over your high fever and came over everyday until you got better. Right?”

The question floats in the air for what feels like eons and she has successfully shut you up for good.

You knew, when you first met Jeong Yunho, there was no way of escaping this.

And he, ever so hopeful and foolish, can't seem to accept it the way you do.

Standing up, he looks at his mother with so much hurt you wonder if you still have that amount of delusion inside of you “You can't do this to us!”

“Dear, do not raise your voice at me—”

“This is the stupidest idea you had yet! I don't care how many years you've been planning this, it's not fair!” He paces around the space and you sigh, looking down at your lap. His voice echoes around the living room and you can practically feel your mom scowl with annoyance at the recklessness “You can't marry me off to someone like it's the eighteenth century! This is ridiculous, I—”

“You'll do it,” his mother stands up as well, voice firmer than you have ever heard. She's a soft spoken woman, a sweet woman even. She's never raised her voice in your presence and you don't let it show how by surprise it takes you “And you know what happens if you don't.”

You don't know why you relate to the pained expression on his face. You really shouldn't because you two are, clearly, on two different ends when it comes to pleasing your family.

His family seems loving, the way his mother treated him growing up felt so genuine you always wished you could switch places with him. Even at times where they thought they were alone in the room and you hid to witness the cracks on the foundation of their love, it never happened.

Until now, when he storms off and she seems rather unaffected by his pain. What she gives off is annoyance, just like your mother, she's annoyed that this didn't go as smoothly as imagined. She moves to follow him.

“Jeong Yunho!”

After she leaves the room, there's screaming in the distance, probably at the end of the long hallway. And then, there's silence until your mother breaks it.

“Well that was an unfortunate mess.”

Your throat feels like it's closing up but you push through it, standing up when your mother does too.

“Mother, I don't really think this is the best way to—”

She frowns at you.

“What are you wearing? A suit?”

“W-what?”

Dumbfounded, you look down at your choice of outfit that she saw this morning and then back up at her.

“I understand there's really nothing that can be done about your body shape but wearing silhouettes like these makes you look very masculine, Y/N.”

She's doing that thing where she belittles you into submission. Vulnerable because of what you just lived and what you just witnessed, you stand there and take it.

“And are you wearing makeup? Your eyebags, darling… I can't believe you let Yunho see you in this state.”

If only she knew you stayed awake the entire night trying to sabotage her plans.

This triggers you beyond belief. It starts with your heartbeat picking up, with your inner child begging you to stand up for yourself and banging at the walls of the safe you locked her up so many years ago.

When you both hear footsteps coming down the hallway, she looks down at her watch and your chest starts heaving.

“You need to get your hair and makeup done in an hour and a half. No need to go to the salon, I arranged things and they're coming over,” she informs you calmly, putting on her fake smile when Yunho’s mom sighs at the doorway and when she turns away from you to get to her and loop her arm around hers, you catch his eye as he makes his way to you “Now, how about I show you what they did with the garden, dear.”

They walk away from the wreckage with a giggle that only raises your panic.

The fire of it burns your pride, your self image and your capability of keeping it together in front of your sworn enemy.

It doesn't help that he comes in with full vengeance, ready to take out on you what he obviously couldn't take out on his mom.

“Why didn't you say anything?!” his voice fills the room once again and you physically recoil, which makes him reconsider. He looks you over once and then takes a deep breath before pressing “Why did you tell them that we're friends? We're not friends, Y/N! You should've… You should've told them that you hated me, that y-you were in love with somebody else, anything!”

Tears cloud your vision and you can only reply in a faint whisper that sounds far away “Yunho, shut up.”

“Are you seriously letting them get away with this?” his index points at the door and he looks at you like he doesn't know you. He doesn't but he does know what your family is like, so you don't know why it surprises him “Are you seriously going along with this stupid charade?!”

Air leaves you. You can't breath but you try to and you faintly hear him say something else but it sounds bottled up, like you're underwater.

“I c-cant.” You try again but it barely comes out.

Breathing in with your mouth, you close your eyes and focus on the way your head pulses. Migraine in full force, it only aggravates the feeling of complete loss of control over your body. But your feet move before you can think, to the couch, to look through your purse because damn it if he finds out.

He follows you.

“Is this some sort of sick revenge against me or—”

They're not there. Why didn't you bring them with you today of all days?

God damn it. Yunho is, somehow, still talking.

“Because if we don't go out there and let them know that—”

“Yunho, shut the fuck up! Stop it!”

Turning around with tears streaming down your face and hyperventilating seems to shut him up for good.

“What's wrong?”

He stops, breathing hard with a confused look on his face and his eyes follow you when you quickly move around him to get out of the room.

“Y/N, wait—”

You don't wait to see if he's following you upstairs. You only know he is because when you trip midway, his hands are there to catch you.

Physical contact with him is so strange and unfamiliar that you have to push his helping hands away and, quickly and still hardly breathing, you make your way to your room.

Neatly done by the staff assigned to ready it up everyday before you get home, the order gets destroyed by your panicked state. You look through your vanity drawers messily, full on sobbing and mumbling incoherently as you do and you slam your fist down on the thing when you fail to find your pills.

“Where the fuck is it?!” You sob out, hand hurting and shaking until you fall to the ground.

You try to recenter, pressing your shaky palms into the soft material of the carpet and sinking your nails hard in it until it starts bunching up beneath your fingers. Eyes closed, you can't see when Yunho knees down next to you but you do jump in fear when his hand touches your arm.

Looking at him, you see when he removes his hand until, hesitantly, he places it firmly on your shoulder “I need you to breathe with me, Y/N,” he starts demonstrating, breathing in once, holding it in for a few seconds and letting the air go next. You choke out a sob “Breathe with me so you can tell me what I can get you.”

You want to scream at him to stop pretending to care and get out but you can't.

Instead, you listen to him. You breathe in when he does, hold the air a second longer than him and let it out afterwards. You do a few rounds of this, just staring at him with tears still falling down your cheeks until the fog in your brain starts clearing.

It's agonizingly slow and it pains you to let yourself be seen in these circumstances, especially by him.

“Now, what were you looking for?”

Coughing uncomfortably, you attempt to get up the floor but he stops you from doing so “You can leave, Yunho, I can get it myself.”

“You're shaking, Y/N,” it takes for him to say it for you to look down at your hands, which are barely grasping the carpet now and just hovering above it as they tremble “What do you need?”

“My pills,” you tell him in a murmur after a few seconds, closing your eyes because, to you, this whole thing is very embarrassing “I don't remember where I put them, m-maybe in my nightstand?”

“Drugs?” he asks with a frown and you shake your head, too panicky to get offended at the insinuation “Ah, actual pills, I see, um…” He gets up and you open your eyes to him walking over to your bed, sitting down to open up the drawer of your nightstand “You have a lot of shit here. What do they look like?”

“Prescription bottle, not a blister. Translucent, white cap.” You're taking control over your own body now, breathing starting to normalize and mind syncing up with the situation again.

Your head hurts still, but it's better than five minutes ago.

“Here it is,” you hear him say and he's on his knees next to you a second later. You take the bottle from his hand, unscrew the cap as fast as you can and shake it to get a pill out of it “It was behind a bunch of stuff. I'll get you some—” putting the pill on your mouth, you crane your head back and force yourself to swallow it “Water.” He finishes in a whisper.

When you look back at him, he looks a little freaked out.

“What?”

“N-nothing… Do you still need some—”

“No. Thank you for getting me these, you can leave now.”

Your tone is cold. The memory of him yelling at you downstairs returns so now you're pissed off and still very, very vulnerable. He's not allowed to see you this way or any way for that matter.

But he just did.

He stays still and you're about to ask him if he didn't hear you or what but then you follow his eyes and notice he's staring at the way your hands still shake a little while trying to get the cap on the bottle again. You presume he's trying to read the label on it, too.

“How long have you had them?”

“The pills? This is a new prescription, so like… A month or so.”

He sighs, closing his eyes and sitting fully on the floor next to you “You know what I'm talking about, Y/N.”

Looking away, you hate that the cat is out of the bag. If only your mother didn't comment on your appearance maybe, just maybe, you could've kept the secret to yourself and taken it to the grave with you.

You hate that Yunho, out of all people, found out.

But he helped you, so you decide to please him with an answer.

“I started getting them when I was ten, I think. I didn't know what was happening for a while and then at fourteen I learned what a panic attack was,” you recall, tone sounding breathy and tired and a little annoyed. He nods “And then I got officially diagnosed with panic disorder at twenty, so not that long ago.”

Eyes back at him, you see him frown and then nod again as if the information you just gave him is hard to digest. It's not, it's actually extremely normal for someone like you.

It makes you wonder if he has ever felt the same.

Taking another calming breath, you speak again “I would appreciate it if you keep this in between us. Not tell your brother or anything,” you clarify before he can respond “Because your brother is going to tell my brother who is going to tell my mom and that's a whole disaster I don't really want to deal with.”

“They don't know?”

“Of course they don't know,” a bitter laugh makes it past your lips “If they knew, don't you think I would be the image of a visibility campaign against anxiety or something like that?”

“They're your family, though.”

“Blood is thicker than water but I'm allowed to have my secrets,” it's pathetic, the way your vision clouds once more and tears trail their path down your face once nor3 “And you of all people know how exploitative they are, so don't tell them.”

What happens next takes your breath away again. Not for the reason you expect but it does and, for the first time in your life, Jeong Yunho is able to make your brain malfunction.

You don't really think he realizes his hand is on your cheek, thumb whipping away your tears so softly it turns to you to a puddle right away

The last time someone handled you with that much care was…

Never?

Unable to look away, you catch the second he notices what he's doing and, by the time he does, he already leaned in a fraction into your space.

Snapping out the weird, dizzy moment you two just had, he lowers his hand and you clear your throat to try and shake your feelings, all of them, off.

Off. Away. You need to get your shit together and work on depuffing your face before the makeup artist and hair stylist arrive.

“Listen, if you want to mysteriously disappear tonight and miss the gala you can totally do it and I'll cover up for you. I wouldn't blame you and I don't really care if our parents take it out on me,” your words are fast and your tone lighthearted. Like you're making a joke but, also, you're totally not “In return for you to keep your mouth shut about this,” you shake the pill bottle “I wouldn't do it out of kindness, of course, after all I am the most cold hearted snake of the elite.”

Scoffing, he closes his eyes and lets his head hang low for a few seconds “You’re so—”

“Beautiful? Smart? Outstanding?” You offer.

He looks back at you again “Insufferable.”

You squint your eyes at him before your lips turn upwards in a sardonic smile.

Yunho lets out a heavy sigh “I'll do it.”

“Run away to Timbuktu and change your identity?”

“Be there,” he corrects, clearly tired of your antics “I’ll be there tonight. We are up to our necks in this bullshit, both of us,” he reminds your “And I'm sure my mother wouldn't let me get far if I did try to run away.”

The ghost of a genuine smile curls in your lips “Pussy.”

He rolls his eyes.

“See? Annoying as fuck.”

Your smile fully widens at that. Finally, some sense of normalcy after whatever the hell happened a few minutes ago.

“What dirt does she have on you to make you bend to her will all of the sudden?”

“She—”

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” both looking up at your doorway, you try your best to hide the pills under your thighs as you eye the staff member suspiciously at his interruption “But misses Jeong is calling for Yunho downstairs. She says that you have to leave to get ready and misses Kim urges you, miss Kim, to get a shower.”

“Yeah, she smells kinda bad, doesn't she?” Yunho jokes but the staff member doesn't laugh at his quip. Instead, he earns a push from you before getting up “I'll get going then.”

The guy bows and disappears at that.

“Finally.”

You feel like you have to thank him again for what he did. With words, not actions. But he doesn't look like he's expecting it and the words hang on your tongue without making it past your lips because it's against your morals to thank Jeong Yunho for absolutely anything.

“See you tonight, Y/N,” he says and you make a face that makes him smile for some reason. He moves to the door but stalls and, as you get up, you see him turn to you one more time “Bring them with you,” he points at the bottle on your hand “Just in case.”

You huff and close the drawers of your vanity, stashing the pills in one of them “Don't tell me what to do.”

“I wouldn't dare,” mimicking the staff member, he bows dramatically and you groan “Goodbye, princess.”

You close the last drawer with a little more force than you intend to as soon as he's out of eyesight and then whisper and amused: “Asshole.”

Now that's a couple of hours later and your head allows you to lock back in, to focus on the matter at task and prepare for what's to come.

Sitting in the car, your chauffeur takes the hill up to the Jeong’s so you can pick up Yunho and show up together to the event.

Hair beautifully done and makeup beat to the gods, it irks you that your mothers have everything so planned out down to the last details. There's a tablet on your lap and you're rehearsing the backstory they put together for this made up relationship.

As they told you earlier, you have to pretend you two have been in love since childhood. There's some paragraphs narrating how you supposedly felt like you owe him your life after he “saved you” from failing into the deepest part of the pool when you didn't know how to swim.

Which is true, you didn't know how to swim at that age but Yunho never saved you from anything.

Except maybe today, only after aggravating the situation to the point you couldn't help but break down in front of him.

Pressing a finger down on your temple, you close your eyes and try to wipe the image of him helping you away. Instead, the way the washed your tears away pops into it and you groan, earning a curious look from your driver.

“Is this hill endless?” you ask in a way to cover up your true grieving and he laughs a little, which makes you smile before complaining again, as a joke. Kind of “That's why they usually come to our house, it takes a whole business day to get here.”

That seizes your driver's curiosity and you look out the window when their mansion comes in full view. It's majestic, it's modern and it looks really pretty from your balcony at night, when it's all lit up even when you know the probability of someone actually being there is scarce.

His dad and brother are always at the office, his mom is always at a meditation class or the gym or the mall with your mom and Yunho, well, you can only assume he's never actually there. He seems to have a very active social life and you don't think his mom would necessarily approve of his public university friends being there.

When the car comes to a stop in his driveway, you look back down and scroll to that part of the document: You're supposed to be supportive on his choice of avoiding a private education, call him humble and down to earth if the question gets asked but not praise the public education system because your dad endorses a really expensive school, the one he and your fake father in law graduated at.

The one you graduated at.

It was so freeing not looking at his face in the halls when you started uni and you, quite frankly, don't think about him often enough to wonder why he was allowed to attend the university of his liking and study what he pleases.

Now you're curious but, as you see him descend the stairs that lead to his massive front door, you're not sure you want to talk to him outside of business for too long.

He's all dolled up in a navy three-piece, color matching your dress and all. Hair done and out of his forehead, you hate to say it does more for him than the usual style he wears it in. You don't remember the last time his bangs didn't cover his eyebrows and now you're wondering if you pushed all the times you did to the back of your mind.

It'll be hard to pretend you don't think he looks good because he does and you don't want it to show in your face, so you stay focused on the tablet as he makes his way to the car.

The driver gets out and attempts to open the door for him but you hear Yunho telling him it's okay.

“I'll do it, thank you, thank you,” he opens the door and so you hear him more clearly now and he slides on the seat next to yours with ease, a disappointed look on his face when he notices you “Ah, you're here.”

“They didn't tell you?” sounding boring as hell, you scroll to the bottom of the document and pass the tablet to him, avoiding to look at him again “We're supposed to arrive together so the photographers waiting outside can start speculating and reporting to the media outlets that something might be going on.”

He grabs the tablet, looks at the document for five seconds in total and then hands it back to you “Oh, yeah, I didn't read that.”

Your driver gets in his seat and starts the car, maneuvering out of the driveway in seconds and so you have to brace yourself on the seat to avoid sliding down on it as you're driven down the hill.

“You didn't read it?” your head snaps back at him and he shrugs “Yunho, we're supposed to pretend we're madly in love with each other and you didn't study?!”

“We've been pretending to get along in front of our moms for over a decade, Y/N,” he deadpans “We're doing the same tonight, only at a bigger scale. It's not that complicated,” shrugging again, he looks out at the street for a second before looking at you again, a disgusted expression on his face “I hope you're not expecting me to be all over you because now that I can't fake.”

“Because you're never felt the touch of a girl in your entire life? I know that, loser,” he's about to retaliate but you stop him with your index finger “You've been away from the spotlight for way too long. You don't know how ruthless and scrutinizing the people attending are, I do. So sit pretty and study this.”

You shove the tablet back and he groans, looking through the document briefly again.

“And how do you know who's attending?”

“Page ten through twenty five. There's a detailed list with names, occupations and hobbies so you can have possible topics of conversation. I also took the time to highlight in pink the ones I want to avoid,” you point out and he moves his finger on the screen until he gets to the list, scoffing in amusement a second later “You should avoid them too. Especially the Hwang’s,” he gives you a look, asking for an explanation “They gossip too much, their friend groups are filled with snakes who can't take an NDA seriously and the girl is a little in love with you, so she'll flirt with you the entire night.”

“I don't even know her.”

“You don't have to, she's in love with the idea of you and your family's influence. Seriously, Yunho,” you let out an annoyed noise, crossing your arms over your chest “It's like amateur hour with you. You should know this.”

“I live a normal life, princess, I don't know any of this because it's not important to me,” he states as simple as that and you shake your head in disapproval “It shouldn't be important to you or to anyone, really.”

“Oh, but it is,” you return and when you look at him he's looking back. There's this electricity passing in the space in between you, something dangerous that's the tail tale of how different you both are and you start asking yourself how are you going to pull this whole thing off “And now, it is to you. You're about to enter a ballroom filled with people who admire you for simply being a Jeong, people who want to be you. It's hard and it’s pressuring but you declined my offer to not show up earlier today, so fucking own it.”

There's a pause where you see his jaw clenching, you see him shift uncomfortably and adjust his tie before presumably telling himself to relax.

“And study as much as you can, I'm not covering up your mistakes.”

The rest of the ride to the venue is silent and, when you get there, you exchange a look with your driver that's both apologetic and a request for discretion. You know your staff is discreet but you thank them every time you can because it's a lot of shit to handle.

“Here you go, honey.” The pet name almost makes you gag but you take the electronic from his hand, lock it and give it to the driver to safekeep.

“I prefer Y/N,” or even princess, because you're used to it “Don't try that inside.”

Rolling his eyes, he sarcastically lets out “Anything else your highness wants from me before we get off?”

“Yeah, for you to shut up and leave me alone forever after tonight but that's not really going to happen, hm?” You can see through the tinted windows how people gather outside to try and see who's inside the car and so you fix your hair with your fingers and then turn to fix Yunho’s tie. He makes a noise of disagreement but you shush him “Oh and for you to open the door for me?”

He levels you with his stare “Can't do it yourself?”

“Fucking do it and stop asking questions, Yunho.” You say under your breath and he smiles a little, triumphant like he just won something only for pissing you off.

Neither one of you want to lose the staring contest you suddenly have going on and it's, once again, electric. The tension is palpable and not in a positive way but you have to act quick when his brown eyes scan your face and linger where they don't need to. Hand still on his tie, it's tempting to try and choke him with it so instead you just tighten it a little more and it serves as a

“Now, Yunho.”

When he gets out of the car, you hear people gasp. He's not usually at these types of events because his mother must indulge him a lot. But also, he's usually seen with a frown whenever he does attend, so it must come to a shock to everyone he actually showed up.

It came with a shock for you too, you're not going to lie. You fully expected him to back out on his word and leave you hanging to deal with the shitshow yourself, no matter what he said this afternoon.

Rounding the car, he doesn't make the dramatic pause you were hoping for before opening the door and offering his hand to you. The gasps intensify once you elegantly get out, flashes going off and blinding you for a second before you take your surroundings in and loop your arm around Yunho’s.

There's people screaming both your names, asking questions that you don't get to answer because it's not the time for that and this is not a red carpet you have to walk through.

You wave your hand at the cameras, bow to the photographers and smile brightly when a girl behind an iphone tells you how pretty you look.

That would be the first person to compliment you today.

You don't turn to see what Yunho is doing, probably handling the attention in his own weird, detached way like he normally does and when someone signals you both to get going inside, you follow the person until the doors of the venue closing behind you drown out the paparazzi noise.

In the solitude of the initial hall, you see how Yunho lets his posture fall and lets out a breath “Well, I hated that.”

Condescendingly, you smile at him “Poor baby,” you lean in a bit into him “We’re only getting started.”

The horror on his face as he stares back brings out a nervous feeling inside you, but soon you're dragging him by his arm and following the staff member down the hall.

And when she opens the door into the ballroom, you let the feeling overcome you for a second and you gulp because of it.

Only getting started indeed.

If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH. This is part one of three (possibly more if the story extends that far). Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

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narrycherries · 4 months ago

Text

ivy: he’s gonna burn this house to the ground

He has added insult to injury and she gives him one chance to make it right.

(part 8)

masterlist // ivy series

word count: 17.5k

warnings/tags: harry x oc, angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, alcohol use, fluff

A heavy feeling had been weighing her down for the past two weeks. Ivy wasn’t sure why things happened the way they did, why things always went wrong for her. She was almost certain that everything had been fixed, that her situation with Harry had finally turned positive and hopeful. Unfortunately, she was wrong. He hasn’t talked to her since that night. There were no texts, no calls, nothing at all. It made her heart anxiously flutter and her head fill with racing thoughts - all of which just made her feel worse.

The feeling was a mix of pain, confusion, and fear. It hurt her feelings that he hadn’t talked to her. There had to be a reason why but she was so bewildered by it. What went south? What happened that caused a rift? And of course, above all else, she was terrified. She gave a small piece of herself to him and he ran off with it. She trusted him and allowed her lips to melt into his. Was it not enough to make him stick around? Was she not enough?

Emma was unaware of what happened between her and Harry during the party. As far as Ivy knew, nobody knew what occured. She was going to tell Emma a few days after it happened, because she was so excited to finally be able to express her feelings for him. But when she realized he hadn’t reached out to her, her feelings about everything shifted. She was embarrassed. Maybe she overreacted and Harry was just being nice to her.

Of course, she replayed the night over and over in her mind several times as she tried to figure out what was going on. Harry had been so sweet to her, so caring and concerned. She was sure that he meant it. Did she do something wrong? Maybe begging him to kiss her was too much too quickly for him. Whenever it popped in her mind, her hands went clammy and her stomach dropped. She wanted to scream.

It didn’t end on a sour note. When they went back inside that night, Harry stayed close by as they danced with their small group and even when they all sat around talking and eating at the table. Harry was pleasant with everyone, even Cory - despite being irritated with him. He was enjoyable. It’s almost like everything stopped and stayed at the bar. Those bubbly feelings she had turned to worry. The absolute pleasure that kissing and touching him gave her was burnt out. Ivy wanted to know why Harry wasn’t talking to her, why he didn’t reach out, why he kissed her that night and then suddenly disappeared..

“Hey.” Emma’s voice filled the quiet living room as she came down the hall, a towel wrapped her hair up on top of her head.

“Hey.” Ivy sighed out.

She wasn’t particularly thrilled when Emma sat down on the other end of the couch, her eyes moving to stare at Ivy. She had noticed that things weren’t so well the past few weeks. At first, Emma assumed that Ivy was just having some bad days and she needed to recharge on her own. But once the second week hit of her avoiding Emma in their shared spaces and insisting to not cook any meals or spend any time together, she knew something was wrong.

“Ivy, have you been okay?” She asked with a soft voice, not sure what to expect.

“I’m fine.”

Emma didn’t accept that answer. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Ivy, what’s wrong?”

As much as she wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor and cry her eyes out, or sit in the bathtub as the water poured onto her from the shower head, or sit in her car in the driveway and let a sad song break her even more - Ivy knew she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t vanish, she couldn’t avoid it anymore. Emma had noticed, and she knew there would be no end of the discussion until the truth was revealed.

Ivy licked her lips and chose to lock her gaze on the wall in front of her, not wanting Emma to see her eyes water over. “I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.” Emma gulped quietly and tried to remain calm, she didn’t want to freak out or scare Ivy off.

“The other night.. at your party.. Harry and I sat together and talked for a while.” She felt a pinch in her heart, it hurt to even mention it or think about it. Emma stayed silent and waited for the rest of the story, assuming there was more to it. Ivy chewed on her cheek for a few moments, deciding how to word the rest. “He was.. very nice to me. We talked about some.. personal things and eventually we.. were holding hands and kissing.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and she tried her best to control herself. She didn’t want to scream or look too terrified by the information. Ivy dropped her eyes to her hands where she was fumbling with her own fingers. She was sort of irritated with herself that she didn’t tell Emma this sooner. It would have been so exciting to debrief everything and squeal about all the possibilities as they both grinned. She just knew Emma would be so happy for her. There was relief, though. She didn’t have to face the consequences of telling her that he hadn’t spoken to her since. It would be more embarrassing.

“You kissed him?”

Ivy nodded lightly. “We kissed for a few minutes.. just light stuff, nothing intense.”

“Did you.. like it? Like, do you really like him?” Emma was hesitant, but she was hoping to be helpful.

“I do, yeah, but I don’t think he likes me in the same way.”

Emma furrowed her brows. “But he kissed you and touched you.. You don’t think he feels the same way?”

There was so much doubt in her mind, and so much guilt filling her heart. She was selfish and she took advantage of their closeness, she did what she wanted and now it seems that it wasn’t something he wanted. She crossed a line and he was being too open with her, too nice to her.

“He hasn’t talked to me since that night. No text or anything. If he liked me.. don’t you think he’d.. want to see me again? Or at least.. text me?”

It was easy for Emma to pick up on the sadness in her tone. She hated knowing that Ivy was so upset about this, and so worried about how it would play out. She took a deep breath and moved closer to her on the couch. Ivy shook her head as she felt a tear slip down her cheek. She didn’t want to cry again over this, especially not in front of Emma.

“Have you texted him?”

“No.”

Emma gave her a half smile. “Maybe you should try. He might think the same thing you’re thinking.”

“I’m pretty sure I made it clear that I liked him.” Ivy rolled her lips in as she tried her hardest to keep the tears from rapidly falling.

“Harry’s a bit stubborn.. maybe he doesn’t know what to do.”

Ivy wasn’t open to considering anything. “It’s me. He doesn’t like me.”

A frown covered Emma’s mouth. “Ivy, don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not hard to tell that he likes you. Niall’s even mentioned it to me before. He’s probably just unsure of how to approach it.”

It felt sickening to know that everyone has clearly noticed that there’s an attraction between them - Michelle wasn’t the only one. She swallowed harshly and wiped at her eyes, ridding her skin of the tears despite having replicas take their place. How could he be so willing to hold her hand and sit next to her and touch her waist and kiss her.. but not be up to reach out to her? It didn’t make any sense. She was drunk and vulnerable that night, it was most likely that she just felt her emotions too deeply. Harry was being nice to her, not flirting with her. He was being there for her as a friend, as a nice person. Right?

“Well, maybe everyone is blind because it’s obvious to me that he doesn’t care.” She threw her hands in the air, giving up on everything. She felt defeated.

Emma was slightly unsure about how to approach everything, but she wanted Ivy to at least know she wasn’t the problem. Ivy stood up as she was about to speak.

“He’s probably nervous, Ivy. I’m sure it’s not easy for him. He hasn’t been the nicest person to you.. he’s probably afraid he’s messed up too much.”

Ivy walked a few feet away, her back towards Emma as she battled the competing thoughts racing in her mind. “It doesn’t make sense. He.. he told me he didn’t hate me. He.. he wanted to kiss me first. God, I feel like I’m sixteen.”

Romantic relationships were not something she had much, or really any at all, experience with. She wasn’t sure what to classify this as. She knew she was head over heels for him, but was it that deep? She had nothing to compare it to. All she was sure of was that nobody she had ever gone on a date with or kissed made her feel the way Harry did. Nobody has ever occupied so much space in her mind before, claimed so much of her attention even when she wasn’t with them. No kiss had ever made her stomach fall and her heart twist in her chest, or made tingles roll down her spine and her head dizzy. Nothing had ever made her feel that way. It must be more than just physical attraction, but she was afraid to admit it to herself. One four letter word terrified her more than anything.

“From what Niall’s told me, Harry’s never had, like, an actual girlfriend. Maybe he doesn’t.. know how to do it.”

Ivy let out a sarcastic laugh. “It doesn’t take a genius to text someone.”

Emma frowned to herself. As much as she wanted Ivy to see her perspective, she knew it was going to be hard. Ivy’s thoughts are clouded, she isn’t thinking straight. She’s confused and upset, any obvious explanations aren’t going to cut it.

“You can text him first, Ivy. It’s not like we’re still living in times when the guy has to make the first move.”

The comment irked her. She was annoyed by everything anyway, but that just made it worse. Ivy didn’t move or rotate to face her, though, she didn’t want to be rude or let her anger get the best of her. She huffed through her nose and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’ve tried multiple times to talk to him and be nice to him. I’m not going to do it first this time. He owes me that. He should take a turn for once.”

To think about the amount of effort she put in to be polite to him was frustrating. Even after he insulted her that first time, she tried her absolute best to be kind to him. She didn’t want to hate him, she didn’t want to have any harsh feelings when he was around. She desired to be nice to him, to get to know him. Ivy put in so much work, and it seemed to be a waste now.

“Ivy-“

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Emma. It doesn’t matter.” She finally turned around, a mix of annoyance and sadness swept across her features.

Emma sighed softly. “I don’t want you to be upset.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Ivy gave up on everything. Without saying anything else, she disappeared down the hall and turned the lock on her bedroom door. She’d spend yet another night jotting her messy thoughts into her diary before crying herself to sleep, the stuffed animal Harry got her tight in her arms. She missed him more than she ever dreamed she would.

—•—

Later on in the week, Emma convinced Ivy to finally get out of the house and go do something more enjoyable than sitting in her bed sulking. It was Friday evening, she had gotten home from work early and hoped to stay home and relax. Emma brought up the idea of going to get a quick dinner together. She mentioned that she missed being around Ivy and she was hoping they could spend some time together. Of course, that made Ivy feel guilty for abandoning her friend for so many days, so she agreed to it.

They ate at one of their favorite restaurants. The conversations were light and funny, both of them avoided the hard topics Ivy dreaded to think about and that Emma nervously wanted to know. It was a relief to not discuss the situation with Harry, though. Ivy was able to think clearly and be in the moment with Emma, instead of losing her mind and getting lost in her head. When they finished eating, Emma mentioned that she needed to go by Niall’s store. Ivy wasn’t sure of the reason, but she didn’t mind.

Niall was working the later shift at the store, which was unusual for him for a Friday. He was scanning someone’s items at the register when they walked in. He looked up and smiled as he saw Emma. Ivy’s gaze started moving around the store like it normally did when she came here. She wasn’t new to the place, but everything was intriguing and attention catching for her. There was music playing softly from the ceiling, but the sound of someone in the back playing a guitar was overpowering whatever song was on. When the customer left, they met Niall at the counter.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Ivy.” He said after walking around the counter to give Emma a hug and a kiss.

She put on a light smile. “Yeah, I’ve been keeping to myself.”

“Well, we’ve got a show tomorrow night if you want to come out.” His invitation made her skin crawl. Usually, it would sound like a fun time and she’s agree to it, but not this time.

“I’m just going to stay home.”

Niall noticed the frown that shaped on Emma’s lips. He furrowed his brows and looked back to Ivy. “Everything okay?”

She shrugged, choosing to stare at her own hands now. Speaking to Emma about everything was hard enough, she didn’t think she’d be able to discuss it with Niall. Not only was Niall Harry’s roommate, but they were best friends. How could Ivy vent to him about his friend and expect him to be on her side? Emma wanted to say something, but she knew it would be crossing a line. Niall had some ideas about what was happening, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“Did something happen with Harry?”

Emma nudged him and sighed, not pleased with the fact he just jumped straight to the point. Ivy met his concerned stare and she knew that she couldn’t get out of it, yet again.

“I don’t know.”

He dropped his brows lower. “You don’t know?”

“It’s complicated, Niall.”

“I know it is. He told me about it.” He gave her an apologetic smile.

It wasn’t shocking news to hear, she suspected that he probably knew something. Emma pushed out a sigh and let go of his arm, giving him an irritated look. “Niall, she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Ivy licked her lips and thought quickly about what could come from this conversation. She wondered what all Niall knew. Did Harry tell him every little detail or did he tell it the way she did and just breeze past everything? Did he know that Harry was so sweet to her and was doing his best to make her feel better? How did the story go in Harry’s point of view, what all did he tell Niall? She shot her eyes back to Niall’s and gulped gently, there was nothing to lose.

“What did he tell you?”

Niall looked over his shoulder, almost like he was seeing if anyone was around. There were a few customers lurking in the store, but surely they weren’t that important to not speak in front of. Emma gave him a funny look when he did it again, double checking himself.

“What?” Emma said confused, looking back to see if she saw anything suspicious.

Niall turned his head back, giving them both a glance. “Harry’s in the back.”

Ivy felt her heart freeze and her chest tightened. Tension filled her body and strained her muscles, she was struggling almost like someone dropped a ton of bricks on her.

“I don’t care.” She forced out the lie, trying to appear nonchalant.

Niall could obviously tell she did care to a certain extent, but he wasn’t going to pester her about it. Instead, he took a deep breath and started explaining what he was told. While he spoke, Emma kept her eyes on Ivy to catch her reactions. She didn’t want her to get upset again.

“Well, he told me about.. how he found you outside and talked to you for a while. And he told me about the hand holding and the kissing.” Niall paused in case she wanted to say something, but her eyes were glued to him and she stayed quiet. “He also told me that he hasn’t spoken to you since then.”

“No, he hasn’t.” She had a firm line over her lips.

He nodded gently. “I know. He told me he’s-“

“Niall, I don’t want to know.” Ivy interrupted, rolling her eyes and shifting her body so she wasn’t facing him anymore. “I don’t want to hear it from you.”

“I can go get him.” Niall offered.

“No.” She was quick to reject the offer. “I don’t want to see him. I just.. want to go home.”

When her eyes moved to Emma’s, there was a silent understanding between them. Emma reached into her purse and took out her keys, passing them to Ivy. She was giving her the opportunity to go to the car if she wanted. Ivy took the chance and soon walked out of the door, the bells jingling above her made her ears ring.

Knowing Harry was in the same building as her made her stomach churn. Every piece of her was hurting, coated with fear and anxiety. She didn’t want to be near him. She didn’t want Niall’s version of Harry’s feelings and thoughts. Right now, the only thing she wanted was to disappear.

Ivy accidentally slammed the car door when she shut it. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands, fighting back a scream. There was a lot of anger boiling beneath her skin, but she was still sad.

Back inside, Niall received a gentle slap on his arm from Emma. He threw his hands up, silently surrendering to her. She was not pleased with what he said to Ivy, in fact she was very mad about it. She crossed her arms and shook her head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“I don’t want the girl to think she’s done something wrong. I was trying to help.”

Emma was tapping her foot on the ground, irritation taking over. “And seriously? Suggesting that you go get him? Niall, that was unnecessary.”

“Babe, I didn’t mean to make things worse. I thought maybe she’d want to talk to him. I’m sorry.”

Emma could easily explode any second now. She was disappointed that Niall was so bold and straight forward with Ivy. No matter how good his intentions were, he shouldn’t have done that. She was about to say something in return when a customer walked to the register. Niall quickly handled their transaction as Emma stepped a few feet away to give them space.

Once Niall had finished with the customer, she leaned her elbow on the counter and gave him a sour look. He locked the register and gave her a gentle frown, knowing that he messed up. He wanted to apologize again, but he was sure it wouldn’t matter.

“She’s been really upset about this.” Emma mumbled out, everything was crashing down at once.

Ivy was angry, but more than anything she was heart broken. Having her best friend feel that way made Emma just as sad. She wanted to scream at Harry and tell him how stupid his choices were, but she knew Ivy wouldn’t want her to do that and Niall wouldn’t either. It wasn’t her place to get in between them, just as it wasn’t Niall’s either.

“I was going to tell her that Harry’s been really worried about it. He doesn’t know what to do. It’s not like he’s.. the most open person or whatever.” Niall tried to offer the explanation, but he knew his words weren’t going to mean as much as Harry’s would.

Emma rolled her eyes. “He’s hard headed. There’s no reason why he should still act that way towards her.”

“I know that, Emma. I’ve tried to give him my advice.” Niall’s voice was lighter than it previously was.

“Do you really think he likes her, Niall? It would crush her if he didn’t.”

“He does. He told me.” Niall nodded, then pushed himself off the counter, his eyes looking past Emma. “Don’t say anything.” He quietly muttered to her.

She looked over her shoulder in time to see Harry walking up. She felt her stomach fall. He gave her a look, but didn’t offer a smile or anything too polite to her. He was concerned with one thing only, telling Niall he was about to leave.

“I’m out of here.” He said, gesturing his head towards the door.

Niall flicked his eyes to Emma’s and he easily caught her expression. She was practically pleading with him, and he caved quicker than he realized. He took a quick breath and mentally hit himself for doing this.

“Harry, wait.”

The call of his name made Harry stop just as he grabbed the door handle. He looked over and lifted his brows, hoping this wouldn’t take long. He was ready to go home and become reclusive in his room. Niall tapped his finger on the counter as he managed to get a sentence together in his mind.

“I just talked to Ivy.”

Harry shot his gaze to Emma for a split second. “Congratulations.”

Of course he was going to keep his hard front on in Emma’s presence. Not only was she Ivy’s roommate, but she was her best friend. He wasn’t going to be vulnerable.

Niall rolled his eyes. “I think you need to reach out to her, Harry.”

“I think you need to mind your business, Niall.” He mocked Niall’s tone and snarled his lip.

“Please.” Emma chirped out.

Harry shook his head, but he refrained from being rude to her. Instead, he focused on Niall. “Don’t talk to me about this again.”

“Harry, be more considerate of her feelings.” Niall tried to get through to him, but like always it was a failure.

“She’s better off without me considering anything involving her.” Harry made that his final comment. He pushed the door open and walked out, leaving Niall to drop his forehead against his head.

He was unaware of Ivy’s location, and he wasn’t paying enough attention to realize that she was in one of the cars outside the building. He didn’t catch a glimpse of her, though. However, she saw him. It was hard to resist looking at him and following his strides as he went to his motorcycle. Ivy bit down on her lip and pinched her own thigh, trying to distract herself but it was impossible. Harry was so close to her, and this time she could see him - but she knew nothing was going to happen. She watched him get on the bike and put his helmet on. She wondered how often he drove it, she obviously knew he had a car, too. Was it more freeing and fun to ride the motorcycle? Has he always been into them or was it a newer fascination? There she goes - getting lost in her mind, tangled in her thoughts about him. It was entirely too easy for her to trip over him.

Ivy ripped her eyes away and stared at the dashboard of Emma’s car, mixed emotions swirling in her body. It was heart wrenching and painful and annoying and aggravating and literally every emotion all at once. She wanted to hate him, but she could never bring herself to feel that way.

—•—

Although Emma tried her best to convince Ivy to go out for the night, it was a wasted attempt. She declined and eventually said she was tired of being asked, so Emma respected that and accepted the reality that Ivy wasn’t going to cave in. Ivy helped Emma with her outfit, of course, like a best friend would. They went back and forth on a few things, but eventually settled on something. Emma was sad to leave without her, even Niall asked to make sure Ivy wasn’t coming when he picked her up.

Ivy’s plans for the night consisted of take out and a movie. She wanted to snuggle a blanket on the couch and eat some of her favorite candies while she watched the television. She wasn’t concerned with what Emma was doing or what anyone else would think about her not being there. For the first time in the past two weeks, her mind was empty and her heart was calm. She relaxed with a glass of wine, settling on the couch once her dinner was over. Everything was normal, everything was peaceful.

Things were different at the bar, though. When it came time for the band to get ready to go on stage, Harry felt his stomach begin to twist and turn. He was nervous, and he normally was never, ever nervous to perform. If anyone had confidence and energy, it was him. Tonight was different. He sighed heavily as he watched Michelle check her phone one last time before sliding it into her back pocket. They had about three minutes to spare before they had to walk out. Niall was making sure everything was set up correctly while Zayn and Cory talked to each other.

Harry gulped quietly and mustered up his usual courage. “Hey, Michelle.”

She looked up and raised her brows high. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Harry to talk to her, he was her friend after all. He looked over towards the guys, then back at her. Her curiosity grew when he chose to walk closer to her, closing their distance.

He kept his voice low as he spoke. “Do you know if Ivy is coming tonight?”

“I know that Emma’s coming.”

He nodded lightly, forcing down the lump in his throat. “But you haven’t.. talked to Ivy?”

“No, I haven’t.” She shook her head, then tilted her head to the side. “Why are you so worried about it?”

“M’not worried.” He grumbled back.

She laughed. “Sure you’re not.”

“Whatever. I just wanted to know.” He huffed out, a flush covering his cheeks. It was sort of embarrassing for him to be so gushy about someone, and it was worse to think that Michelle suspected something more was going on. “Forget it.”

“Harry.” She quickly said his name as he turned away. “She’ll probably be with Emma.”

Her hopeful comment wasn’t enough to ease his anxiety. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t spare her a glance. He simply nodded his head and ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The owner offered them celebratory shots ten minutes ago that most of them accepted, Harry did not. He regretted that now, he needed something to distract him.

When he first got on stage and started singing, he was keeping his eyes fixed on the crowd and trying not to pick out any specific person. He was hoping to dissociate from what was going on, but as time went on, it was challenging. Harry was facing a slew of feelings. He was still very anxious, yet he was annoyed with himself for being so caught up on his thoughts. He was worried - what if she was here and she was being bothered by someone? He was on the stage and unable to be there for her. He was upset at himself for being so fixated on her, yet he couldn’t stop it.

Dissociating was his most successful process so far. They were half way through the show and he hadn’t even realized it until it was time to sing a certain song. He gulped down his anxious thoughts and started the song. Niall knew the significance of this song, so he kept his eye on Harry. He was unsure of how Harry would react.

As he sang the lyrics to “Crimson and Clover”, his eyes scanned the crowd in a different way this time. He was trying to find her, trying to catch just a glimpse of her long, pretty hair or see her smile shine as she danced. His eyes kept landing on Emma throughout his search, and just like every single time he’s looked at her tonight, she was alone. Emma wasn’t dancing with Ivy, she wasn’t singing along and grabbing her hands and jumping around - Ivy wasn't here.

He hoped that maybe she was just sitting at the bar to keep her distance from him, that would make sense. Avoiding him was not something new to her, so maybe she was trying to do that. The longer he sang into the microphone, the deeper his thoughts went and the more he convinced himself she wasn’t here at all. Not at the bar, not in the bathroom, not in the back of the crowd..

That lead to the spiraling thoughts of wondering where she could be. Was she alone at home, curled up in her bed asleep? Was she visiting her dad, maybe she was out of town and that’s why she missed the show? Or she could be out on a date, she could have moved on from him and be exploring different options. That thought made his chest go tight. He fucked up. He ruined his chance. Ivy didn’t want to be near him, she didn’t want to risk her own sanity. And he didn’t blame her.

When the show ended, Harry joined everyone at their usual spot. However, he wasn’t speaking at all. He downed two beers quicker than he should have. The goal was to get drunk, not to talk to anyone. Michelle glanced his way every now and then, aware of at least a partial reason why he was mute. She didn’t think that Ivy’s absence would affect him this much, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made.

When Emma came back from the bathroom, she sat down in between Niall and Harry. She took out her phone and started typing, the bright screen attracted Harry’s eyes. He didn’t dare read over her shoulder, he just noticed she had her phone out. She closed it after a few moments. Niall was talking to Zayn, so she was quiet next to him. Harry took the opportunity to say something.

“Emma.” He said loud enough for her to hear over the music.

She looked his way. “Yeah?”

Eye contact was too overwhelming. He looked down at his hands as he twisted one of his rings over his fingers. The scar on his skin made him frown as the memory of Ivy being so curious about it began to circle his mind. He took a deep breath and gently swallowed. Emma was being patient, giving him time to compose his words.

“How’s.. how’s Ivy doing?”

As much as she wanted to sarcastically laugh at him, she held it in and just kept her eyes on his face. She figured her staring was uncomfortable for him so that was going to be his punishment.

“Do you mean today or in general? Because lately she’s been going through it.”

He lifted his head and moved his eyes to hers. “Is she sick?”

Her brows dropped, was he clueless? “No, she’s fine.”

“Did.. did she have plans tonight?”

Emma easily caught the gist now. She pushed out a heavy breath. “No.”

“Why didn’t she come?” Harry couldn’t hold the stare anymore.

The desire to be polite to him was starting to fade. She knew all too well how Ivy had been feeling lately and it was all because of him. Emma shifted so she was facing him now, a serious look spread on her face. Harry could feel her stare burning holes through her, like daggers being thrown.

“Probably because she didn’t want to be around you.”

He nodded slowly, fully expecting that sort of response. “That makes sense, I guess.”

“A lot of sense to me.” She quickly replied.

“Is she mad at me?” He leaned up to grab the half full plastic cup he sat on the table a few minutes prior.

Emma wanted to grab him and shake some sense into him, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Not only would it be rude, but Ivy wouldn’t want her to. She knew the importance of accountability, and Harry needed to take some.

“Why are you asking me?”

He rolled his lips in for a moment. “I don’t know.”

Harry hated himself for what he did to her, for how he’s treated her since day one and for how he’s been acting now. He should’ve never done that if he knew he wasn’t going to pursue anything with her - and it’s never been his intention to make anything happen. He wasn’t good for her, she needed someone who could really love her.

Emma saw how far his frown tugged the corners of his lips down. While she was annoyed with his behavior, she had to remind herself that he was human. Everyone makes mistakes, and everyone deserves respect and sympathy.

“If you want to know how she is, you have to ask her yourself, Harry.”

All he did was lightly tilt his head back, his eyes were glued to his knees and his mind was dizzy with thoughts. Shortly after her final words, Emma occupied herself with Niall and left Harry alone. For the rest of the night, they all pretty much left him to himself. He downed more beer, ordered heavier drinks, and threw back shots. He wanted to get wasted, he wanted his thoughts to vanish. He didn’t want to think about Ivy, or anything for that matter. He swallowed the alcohol faster than he was taking breaths. The intention was to forget about her.

As the early morning rolled past three o’clock, Ivy was sound alseep in her bed tucked under her covers. Her bedroom was cool, but the heat her body let out encased her in a comforting warmth. Her bedroom was quiet, in fact the entire house was. Emma told her before she left that she’d be staying at Niall’s tonight. Ivy wasn’t expecting any sort of interruption. She was glad to be in a quiet space, after all her worrying her body needed the rest and relaxation.

That sense of peace ended abruptly when the sound of her phone ringing blared throughout her bedroom. She groaned, pulling the cover over her head to shield herself from the sound. She wasn’t sure of the time, so if the sun was out she didn’t want to risk her eyes being exposed to it. The phone rang until it went to voicemail. She figured it was some sort of spam call or something along those lines. It became silent again, so she hummed to herself as she got comfortable, ready to fall back asleep.

It was short lived. Just a few minutes later, the phone was ringing for a second time. She huffed this time, annoyed by the sound. Although she had a few thoughts pop in her mind, like maybe something was wrong with Emma or it was an emergency from her dad, her brain was fuzzy and she only wanted to sleep, not entertain any particular thought.

The third time the phone rang, she sat up in her bed and started mumbling to herself, cursing the noise for waking her up. She snatched the phone off her nightstand and pulled the charger out, bringing it closer so she could see. Her eyes squinted from the bright screen, but as they came back into focus, she saw five letters that made her heart drop. Harry.

Ivy read the time, furrowing her brows as she realized how late it was. Why was he calling her this late? She ignored the call, but opened her phone to check the previous missed calls. They were indeed all from him. What if something was wrong with him? Why would he be calling her? She felt an immense amount of anxiety start to build inside of her. The what if’s kept flying into her mind, circling her brain until her heart was fluttering from the anxious feeling. What if something bad happened?

Before she could even comprehend what to do, the phone rang for a fourth time. The sight of his name displayed on the screen was fueling her worry. If he was calling her again, that meant that he needed her. Something wasn’t right. Ivy sucked in a quick breath and answered the phone, pressing it to her ear as she anticipated hearing his voice. On the other end of the call, Harry was shocked that she answered.

“Hello?”

“Ivy.” His deep voice sounded groggy, almost like he was in the midst of falling asleep or just waking up.

She closed her eyes and calmly spoke back, trying not to fall apart. “Harry, why are you calling me?”

A grunt came out before his words. “M’sorry.. I know it’s late, Ivy.”

The sound of his voice saying her name was like music to her ears - a sound so beautiful and perfect that she wished she could hear it forever. Ivy gulped and took a long pause, which made him more nervous than he already was. She could hear how hard he was breathing, but it was slow.

“It’s very late.” She finally said back. “Are.. are you okay?”

Harry hesitated at first, only because he was unsure of how to word it. The alcohol was still present in his body. His mind wasn’t clear, and his heart was overpowering everything else. There was one thing he wanted.

“M’fine.. sorta.” He managed to get a couple words out, despite it not being what he wanted to tell her.

“Sorta?” She questioned, her voice so soft and light.

He wanted to reach through the phone and take ahold of her hands, he wanted to press a kiss to her forehead and tell her how pretty she was. He melted when she used that gentle tone, her innocence and sweetness made his heart swell.

“I.. m’not hurt or anything.”

A sigh of relief softly slipped through her lips. When her eyes opened, she realized it was dark in her room. She leaned over and switched on the lamp on her nightstand, the warm glow casted onto the ceiling. Harry was quiet as he waited for her to speak. As much as he wanted to ramble to her, he knew he had to be careful. One wrong thing could mess this all up.

“Why.. why did you call then?”

He gulped loud enough for her to hear over the phone. “I.. I have a question.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “A question at three in the morning?”

“M’sorry, Ivy, I know it’s.. it’s late.” He repeated what he already said.

Ivy felt a bit of irritation start to creep in. She wasn’t angry with him at this very moment, but she was confused as to what was happening. If he was alright and unharmed, then why was he calling her? More importantly, why was he avoiding telling her the truth?

“Harry, tell me why you called or I’m going to hang up.” She kept her courage solid, not willing to risk letting him get the upper hand in any way. One thing she had to enforce when it came to Harry was her own strength.

“Please, don’t.” He whispered out.

“Harry, I’m serious.”

She wasn’t completely sure, but she thought she heard him let out a soft whine. Thinking about him being sad was causing her heart to ache. She vividly remembered, and could never forget, how special it felt to have him console her when she was upset that night. Ivy wondered if he needed her in that way now, if it were his turn to be taken care of.

Harry choked out his response, his heart was racing in his chest. “Can.. can I see you? I.. I need to talk to you.”

She sighed. “Right now?”

This time she was sure she heard the whine he let out before his words stumbled from his mouth. “Yes, please. It’s.. it’s important, Ivy. I.. I need to see you.”

Everything was surreal now. She was becoming dizzy as the thoughts stormed in her mind. Harry was being more open than he ever had been. He was admitting that he needed to see her, and she could hear the desperation in his voice. She wanted to see him as much as he needed to see her..

“Are you drunk?”

Harry sucked in a breath, his nerves getting the best of him. “Yeah.. but it doesn't matter. I need to talk to you, please.”

Ivy’s heart skipped a beat as scary thoughts crossed her mind. “Are you driving?”

“No.” He was quick to answer, not wanting her to worry about him too much. “I’m with Michelle.. we had a show tonight.”

There was a quick feeling of remorse and regret growing in her gut. Although she was successful at not thinking about it all night, she began to wonder how the show was. She imagined Emma dancing along and cheering loud for them. She was curious to know what song they started off with because it was never the same order. And of course she was curious about their slower songs, what did Harry sit down on the stool and sing to the crowd? How many songs did he play the guitar while he sang? Did Harry’s eyes look out in the crowd for her, did he scan over heads and bodies trying to find her gaze? Her stomach was churning at the thoughts - had he been expecting to see her?

Ivy finally replied, pushing out a sigh. “Can this wait until-“

“No, Ivy.” Harry interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut as he silently prayed. “Please. I’m begging you, love.”

Just as every other time he’s said the word to her, it made her heart grow until it exploded in her chest. Her mind went fuzzy and her stomach filled with giant butterflies. It was such a simple word - one she wasn’t even sure was special - yet it easily drove her wild. It made her collapse like puddy in his hands.

“Ivy.. please.” He muttered out after a few long moments of her silence.

It was hard to weigh the pros and cons of her options. She was too focused on him to worry about anything else, including what wrong could come from this. It was safe to say she really didn’t care about the possible consequences.

“Okay.”

“Really?” He blurted.

“Yeah.” She kept her voice calm and light, not wanting to give away too much of her feelings over the phone. He didn’t need to know how worried she was about him.

“Michelle’s gonna drop me off. Is.. is that okay?” His voice quietened again, he was clearly nervous.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Just text me when you get here.”

Without waiting for his response, she ended the call and gripped the phone tight in her hand. She didn’t want him to get the last word - maybe that was part of her resentment towards him. He spent two weeks not communicating with her, he could survive the rest of his drive to her house.

Once Ivy realized what was actually about to happen, she climbed out of her bed and crossed her room. She put on a comfortable pair of pajama pants that didn’t really match her loose t-shirt, but she didn’t care as long as she was covered. She made her way into the living room where she turned on the lamp by the couch and sat down on the cushion, waiting somewhat patiently for her phone to ding.

Her eyes trailed over to the chair that Harry claimed as his spot while he stayed the weekend with her that time. The memories easily came to the forefront of her mind - he was so quiet and respectful while he was here. He watched the television with her mindlessly or sometimes focused depending on the show or movie, he sat at her kitchen table, he used her sink sponge, he touched the items in her refrigerator. He left his mark on everything in her house, including her.

Ivy opened the camera on her phone and looked at herself, hoping that she didn’t look worn out or ugly. Her hair was a bit messy, but she had it pushed over her shoulders. She let her lips shape to a soft smile as she thought about the night Harry touched her hair to move it for her. She liked the way it felt to have someone else’s fingers glide against her hair, especially Harry’s fingers. A sudden noise made her jump. A text message popped onto her screen, all of this was about to become very real for her. This wasn’t a dream.

Harry: I’m here

She didn’t reply, instead she moved her eyes to the door. She waited quietly, not sure how long it would take him to reach it. The house was extremely quiet, it was almost eerie. Her nerves were getting worked up as she sat there frozen on the couch. The sound his knuckles created against the door sounded amplified. She stood up and adjusted her shirt as she walked to the door, there was no going back now. If she really wanted to ignore him and forget this idea, she could simply turn around and go back to her room and leave him at the door. But that would be such a cruel thing to do. She wanted to see him, she just didn’t want to admit it to herself.

When she opened the door, she was met with his broad frame. The glow of the light outside of the door covered him, his saddened face shining in the yellow gleam. A frown was settled over his lips, his eyes weren’t wide open and his brows were limp on his forehead.

“Ivy.” He muttered her name out softly, afraid to speak too loudly to her.

She licked her lips and looked him up and down. He was in his usual attire, a dark colored tee and a pair of black jeans. She expected nothing different when it came to his clothes. And although it wasn’t necessarily cold outside, his leather jacket was tight on his arms. She gulped quietly, pushing down all the mixed emotions.

“Come inside.” She gestured with a nod of her head.

Harry dropped his eyes to his feet as he stepped over the threshold. He couldn’t believe that she was allowing this to happen. He knew he had one chance and he couldn’t fuck it up. There would be no way she would be able to forgive him if he did. Ivy shut the door behind him and turned the lock, chewing on her cheek as she watched him walk a few feet away from her. He was almost stumbling over his own feet.

“Hey, are you okay?” She appeared in front of him, her small hand reaching out to touch his elbow.

He was slightly hunched over, his head low and his arms seemingly weak by his sides. He grunted and lifted his eyes to look at her, surprised that she touched him but so grateful that she did.

“I’ve.. been trying to.. to sober up.”

Ivy nodded lightly, sliding her hand down to his wrist. He moved his eyes to witness it for himself. She carefully grabbed onto his hand, but she didn’t lace their fingers. She kept it loose, in case he wanted to pull back from her. She doubted he would, though.

“Do you want to sit down?”

Harry’s brows furrowed as he thought about her question. He had stopped drinking almost an hour ago, but the amount he consumed was more than he normally had and it was getting to him. He shrugged lightly before deciding to squeeze her hand. She liked the gesture, but she chose not to return it.

“Harry, look at me.” She reached up to nudge his chin with the side of her finger.

He sighed, but obliged with her command. When his eyes met hers, it was so easy to tell she was concerned. He felt his pulse go haywire as he stared into her pretty eyes. He missed her so much, missed looking at her and seeing her eyes sparkle.

“M’sorry m’drunk.” His voice was almost a slur.

“It’s fine. You just need some water and a snack.”

He shook his head. “No, I.. I wanna talk to you.”

“You can talk to me after I make sure you’re okay.” Ivy finally squeezed his hand back, that alone made his mood shift. He wanted to pick her up and twirl her around, but he didn’t have the stability to do that right now. “Are you tired?”

“A bit, yeah.” He nodded, but then he frowned. “But, but I.. want to talk, Ivy, not sleep.”

She let a soft laugh escape. “I know, we will.”

“Where are we going?” He asked as she started to walk, tugging him behind her.

“You seem dizzy and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He groaned slightly. “I won’t get hurt.”

“Shh, or I’ll make you go home.” She warned, slightly joking with him.

He smiled gently to himself, confused as to what she was doing but he was going along with it. He looked around as he walked the familiar path down her hallway. He had wished that weekend with her lasted a lot longer than it did, and now he’s glad he’s back. When she got to her bedroom, she opened the door and immediately guided him to her bed.

Harry’s eyes began to look around the room, it was foreign to him as he was forbidden from entering it during his stay. Ivy pointed to the bed, silently instructing him to sit down. He did as she wanted and let his head fall back so he could see her. She gave him a light smile and looked down at his feet.

“Take your shoes off. I’m going to go get you some water and something to eat.”

Just as she let go of his hand, he grunted and quickly spoke back. “Wait, am I.. am I staying here?”

“Well, I’m not driving this late at night and.. I figured you’d rather stay the night than find a way home.” She crossed her arms over her chest loosely, her eyes looking straight into his. “No funny business, though.”

“I.. I can stay on the couch.” He tried to stand up, but she grabbed his shoulder to push him back down.

“For now, stay here. We can talk when I get back, then I’ll get you a blanket for the couch.”

Harry didn’t say anything back, he was unsure of how this would go. When Ivy left the room, he let his curiosity get the best of him. He wasn’t sure what her room looked like before tonight. He had his wonders and his assumptions, but what he saw was more than he imagined. He figured she had a lot of girly things, maybe mostly pink or a chic white that matched everything. He was somewhat on the right path.

Her room was rather large, enough for her king sized bed to fit nicely while still having plenty of room. Her bed was tucked into the corner, and it was filled with more than just pillows and blankets. She had a collection of stuffed animals of varying sizes perfectly placed in the corner of the bed. They expanded out and against the wall, almost to the foot of the bed. Harry twisted his body as he looked around the room. He was amazed by all the different stuffed animals she had. Some were big and round, almost like thick pillows, while others were smaller and tucked tight against each other. When he looked at her pillow, he didn’t expect to see the pig he got her sitting there. It looked as though she abandoned it when she got up. Maybe she was sleeping with it cuddled against her? He hoped that was the case.

She had a few plants in her window that looked to be thriving and healthy. There were several little random things sitting next to the plants, including a small geode, a fairy figurine, and a glass jar full of buttons. He thought it was adorable, her mix of random odds and ends. She had a tall bookcase that was mostly full of things, only one shelf housed books. It was evident that she liked to collect random things. Most of the items seemed to be older or of a certain style. Harry felt as though he could discover something new every time he made his rounds in the room. There were things tucked here and there. Her vanity was neatly organized, aside from a few makeup products left out. He wondered what her routine was. Was it quick and easy or was it complicated and lengthy? His favorite thing, though, was a small, decorative glass dish on her nightstand that was placed next to her lamp. It was home to something familiar, something he recognized the moment his eyes landed on it. There in the small dish laid the guitar pick he had given her as a keepsake. It made his heart shake as he realized she kept it so close to her. It seemed like a safe spot for it, somewhere she could leave it and not worry about it. He knew she’d keep it safe. As he was scanning his eyes over the pattern of her rug, the door opened.

“I got you a banana.” She said with a soft sigh as she reached him, handing him the bottle of water and the piece of fruit she picked out.

He took them and started to peel open the banana. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Ivy sat down next to him, almost close enough for their bodies to touch. “If it’s not enough, you can have something else.”

Harry bit a piece off, chewing slowly as his headache started to pound harder. He closed his eyes to avoid the light, even though the lamp wasn’t bright it was enough to irritate him. Ivy watched him with worried eyes, not sure if he was going to pass out or throw up whatever his stomach was holding on to.

“Do you feel bad?” She asked quietly, her hand touching his thigh as she leaned closer, their arms brushing together.

“M’alright.”

She breathed out, not believing him. “Your face is red. Are you hot?”

“Little bit.” He mumbled back.

Ivy jumped up and walked towards the door. She flicked the switch, then went to pull the chain of her ceiling fan, turning the light off but leaving the blades spinning. She hoped that would help him some.

“Take this off.” Her hand touched his arm, her skin pressing against the leather jacket.

He finished off the banana, dropping the peel in her hand as she extended her palm to him. She tossed it in the small trash bin next to her vanity, not caring about taking it to the kitchen right now. Ivy kept herself a few feet away as Harry tugged the jacket off his body. He smiled to himself as she took it and laid it gently over her vanity chair.

“Now, that should help.” She returned to her spot next to him.

Being able to feel the cool air against his now exposed skin was actually relieving. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back messily. The motion made Ivy chew on her cheek. He was always so attractive in her eyes.

“Can, um, can we talk now?” Harry turned his head towards her, glad to see her sparkling eyes were already looking his way.

“I guess so.”

He didn’t know exactly how to say what he wanted to, so he took a long moment to think it through. He didn’t want to mess it up and ruin things with her again. She was too important to lose. Ivy was patient with him, understanding that not only was he upset, but his mind was juggling the alcohol, too. He realized he was staring at her leg, so he looked back up. The glimmer in her eyes made his heart flutter.

“I’m sorry I.. I haven’t talked to you.” He pushed out the words nervously. “I was.. kind of.. afraid.”

She licked her lips and swallowed softly. “I didn’t think you could be afraid of anything.”

The gentle smile on her mouth made his tension ease. “When it comes to you, I am.”

“You really hurt my feelings, Harry. I was.. very upset.”

His brows dropped and a frown tugged on his lips. “I know I did. I’m sorry.”

“Why were you afraid?” She wasn’t going to let him off that easily. She wanted to know the details and the reasoning behind his decision.

Harry tore his eyes away from her. He couldn’t stomach looking at her while talking about this. He was ashamed and upset at himself, and disappointing her made him feel terrible.

“Because I.. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to risk it. M’not good for you.”

Ivy trailed her gaze down to Harry’s hands. He was twisting one of his rings around his finger. It was evident that he was nervous and probably embarrassed. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who willingly admitted their feelings - she knew he wasn’t normally doing things like this. Although the whole situation hurt her, she couldn’t get past how he was battling this. She felt bad that he was so nervous. Ivy wanted him to fully trust her, to know she was right here.

“Why do you think that?”

The laugh he let out wasn’t humorous. “It’s pretty obvious I’m shit at treating you right.” He shook his head lightly as he pulled one of the rings off to push it down on another finger. He was trying to distract himself, but Ivy’s presence was making that impossible to achieve.

“You weren’t shit the other night. You were pretty good at it.”

He exhaled, not sure what to do. “Was I though? I didn’t talk to you after. I should have.”

“Well, I agree. You should have. But.. you were there for me when you didn’t have to be.” Ivy shifted her upper body so she was facing him, her hand moved to his forearm.

He looked over at her hand, noticing the perfectly painted pink polish on her nails. Her skin was the softest thing he’d ever felt. That night she held onto his hand like he’d slip away any moment was something he cherished. He missed the feeling of her skin.

“I know it’s kinda scary. I.. I was afraid to let myself open up to you, but when I did it felt so good. Like you were the only person I wanted to be around.” She pressed the pads of her fingers into his skin, careful not to let her nails sink into his flesh. “We don’t have to be scared anymore, Harry.”

When she said his name, he bit down on his tongue and tried to control the tingles running through his body. She was the one thing he wanted, the one thing he’d go to the ends of the earth to save. He wanted her, but the fear was strong. Ruining her was his biggest fear.

“I’m going to hurt you, Ivy.”

She squeezed his arm. “Why are you saying that?”

“Because I know it’s true.”

Harry immediately felt a punch to his gut as she let go of his arm. He wanted to beg her to put her hand back, to grip him even tighter. She didn’t move away, though. Her eyes stayed glued to the side of his face.

“If you don’t want to try, then just tell me, Harry.” Her voice wasn’t as soft as before, she was being serious. “I can’t keep.. running in the same circles.”

The thought of losing her to another person was heartbreaking. If he told her he couldn’t do this or didn’t want to, then she’d give up and let it go. She’d move on. She’d start by telling him to go home and never talk to her again. It was the scariest thought in his mind. He couldn’t lose her again, not forever.

“Of course I want to, Ivy. I don’t.. don’t wanna keep trying to.. to ignore you.” Harry fought the desire to reach for her hand. Even while telling her he wanted to do this with her, he was hesitant to make a move.

“Then let’s stop. I hate this stupid game.” Her voice fell back to a soft whisper.

“Can you.. forgive me?” He returned his eyes to hers, the world stopped spinning. “I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t.”

Ivy couldn’t help but to get lost in his eyes. She recalled the very first time she saw them. Nothing was as special as the night he was singing on stage with his gaze glued to her. It was easy to remember how bubbly her stomach was and how fast her heart raced that night. She thought about how worried he looked when she told him some stranger had approached her. But with every good memory, there were bad ones to consider. The night the cup of beer was accidentally spilt on her, his eyes were full of anger and rage. The time at the restaurant when he called her out for staring at him, his eyes were cold and harsh. She wondered if she could ease that anger, calm the rage, and tame the arrogance. She knew he could laugh and joke around. She knew he could grin and smirk. She knew he had joy in him, that he had happiness. She’s seen it first hand, felt the warmth of his smile, experienced the sweetness in his tone and the concern in his eyes. Ivy knew she could love him if he let her.

“Tell me something first.” She finally whispered, carefully placing her hand back on his arm.

He nodded, glancing down at her hand. Her skin was colder than usual, but he figured the temperature in the room was to blame.

“Be honest with me.” She started with a sigh, which made him wary. “Did you hate me when we first met?”

Harry gulped gently, hoping she couldn’t hear or notice his throat move. He licked his lips, his eyes fixated on hers. She wasn’t making it easy to stare at her - her gorgeous features always made him feel immense amounts of admiration.

“No, I never hated you. Not once.” Harry said truthfully.

“Then why did you act like you did?”

He shrugged lightly, the answer was complicated to understand himself, he was sure he couldn’t explain it correctly to her. He chose the best answer, making it quick while still being honest.

“I was jealous.. and I didn’t know how to talk to you.”

Ivy’s brows furrowed slightly. “Jealous?”

“Everyone kept your attention. I felt like I didn’t have a chance. Plus.. some people seem to like you in more ways than others.” His response was genuine and it made her smile a little.

“It’s hard to believe you couldn’t tell I was.. sort of fascinated by you. I would’ve talked to you for hours if you wanted me to.” Ivy slid her hand down some, covering his wrist but stopping before she reached his hand.

“I wanted to believe you were.. but I wasn’t sure. After a while, I knew you’d probably give me your attention.. but I was stupid.” Harry considered asking her to hold his hand, but he didn’t want to seem weird.

“I wish you would’ve tried.” Ivy felt a pinch in her heart. “But I could’ve tried more, too.”

He grunted. “You were nice to me a lot.. when you shouldn’t have been. It’s my fault.”

“Tried my best, I guess.”

Harry went quiet for a couple of long moments. He just stared at her like he’d never see again. Every detail of her face was captured by his brain - he wanted to remember every single inch of her face. She felt a layer of blush rise to her cheeks. Ivy nervously laughed and looked down at her lap. Now was his chance to tell her what he’s wanted to say this entire time, what he should’ve made clear the other night. She deserved to know how special she was, how much she mattered to him.

He reached over with his other hand to gently grab her chin between his thumb and index finger. He tilted her head back towards him, their eyes locking. Her breathing became more rapid as the anxiety began to creep through her veins. She wasn’t sure what to expect but she hoped it was going to be good. She couldn’t handle any more sadness.

His voice was low and deep as it rolled through the air, causing goosebumps to cover her skin. “You mean everything to me.. and I’m sorry if I ever made you think that you didn’t matter.”

“You did.. a lot.” Her lips fell, it was hard to admit it to his face but she knew he had to hear it.

He nodded back, already aware of his mistakes. “I know, and I’ll spend the rest of life trying to make it up to you. I’m sorry, Ivy.”

She finally moved her hand down to his, slipping her fingers around his palm. “I forgive you,”

“You don’t have to.” He furrowed his brows. As much as he wanted her to, he didn’t think he deserved her forgiveness.

She playfully rolled her eyes and leaned forward to place a kiss to his cheek. “But I do.”

“You’re too sweet to me, love.” He smiled when she kissed his dimple a second time.

“Just showing you that it’s possible for someone to be sweet to you.” Her light giggle made his smile grow.

“I like it, I know that for sure.” His fingertips traced her jaw bone as he moved his hand, settling it on the side of her neck just below her ear.

She nuzzled further into his touch, enjoying the way it made her feel. Ivy’s lips pecked a kiss to his chin, almost brushing his lips but she didn’t dare do that.

He rubbed his thumb over her skin. “Such a sweet girl, hm?”

“Sometimes.”

“Most of the time.” He clarified, his lips touching her cheek as he spoke. “Can.. can I kiss you?”

Ivy let out a quick breath, followed by a bigger smile and a soft laugh. “Please do.”

Harry molded his lips to hers and instantly sparks went off. He was gentle with her, paying attention to how she moved and reacted to him. The last thing he wanted was to move too quickly and scare her off. Ivy let go of his hand and grabbed onto his waist, squeezing him hard as she let out a soft moan. Since his hand was free, he slipped his arm around her body, pulling her forward. They moved in sync for a few minutes, softly pecking each other’s mouths and laughing between breaths. Harry had never kissed someone so gently before, aside from the first time he kissed her. It was magical and beautiful to him, everything was soft and sweet. It made him appreciate it more. It was special.

Ivy leaned back as she exhaled, but she didn’t go far. They stared at each other for a long moment, then returned to the kisses. This time, Harry held them longer and deeper. He wanted to ease her into doing more without scaring her. He didn’t know what her experience entailed.

A groan slipped out of his mouth as her hand found its way to his face. She held his cheek, keeping his mouth glued to hers. They were both lost in bliss, neither of them stuck dealing with their thoughts right now. Everything was perfect and just the way they imagined. Ivy felt some relief as Harry’s tongue gently poked out, silently testing the waters. When she didn’t pull away, he took that as permission. Her lips parted and his tongue slowly entered her mouth. She sunk her nails through the fabric of his shirt, anchoring into his body as he ran his tongue over hers.

Harry heard every single whimper and soft moan she let out, and he enjoyed every sound. He went on for as long as she wanted, letting her run her hand down his chest and around to his back. He let her do whatever she wanted. Her fingertips lurked around to the nape of his neck, twisting in his hair. That pulled a grunt deep from his throat, his stomach twisting as he fought back his stronger feelings. He didn’t want to push this too far.

After a couple of minutes of swapping tongue control and moaning lightly to each other, Ivy broke the kiss and left a few pecks on his mouth before pulling back. Her hand slid back to his neck then down, dropping onto his leg while the other still held his waist. He licked his wet lips and smirked as he caught her eyes. Her face was flushed and her gaze was starry.

“You’re good at that.” He whispered, letting a low laugh follow.

She grinned back. “As I’ve been told.”

Harry bit down on his lip, wishing he was back in her mouth. “Sweet but still sassy, hm?”

“Have to keep you on your toes.” Ivy dropped her eye in a wink.

“You’re good at that, too.” He placed a quick kiss on the corner of her mouth, making her blush even harder. “Thank you for letting me apologize and talk to you.”

She gave him a cheeky smile. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“That sounds familiar, hm?” He teased back, picking up on her cute joke.

“I’m glad we talked. This is how it should’ve been before.” She said through a sigh, keeping a smile on her face so he knew she wasn’t sad anymore.

“I know, but we’ll keep it this way from now on.”

“Sounds like a deal to me.”

Harry took a slow, deep breath and held it for a few seconds before pushing it out. He let go of her, bringing his hands to his thighs. Ivy wasn’t sure why he was moving away from her, but when he suddenly stood up she quickly joined him.

“I guess it’s time for me to head to the couch.” He nodded his head towards her bedroom door.

She felt a lump forming in her throat, but she pushed it down and stayed confident. “You don’t have to.. unless you want to.”

He really couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was she insisting he stay in her room and sleep in the bed with her? He didn’t want to assume anything, so he made sure to clarify.

“Do you want me to go in there?”

She shook her head shyly, her eyes falling down. “No, but.. if you want to, that’s fine.”

Harry chuckled as he took hold of her hand, giving her a comforting squeeze. “I’ll stay here with you.. I’d be honored to.”

“Okay.” A sweet smile covered her lips as she picked her head up to look at him.

“I’ll keep my clothes on.” He mumbled, glancing down at the fabrics latching onto his body.

Ivy couldn’t manage to get any words out, she was too embarrassed by him saying that. She couldn’t resist imagining him without a shirt on. She wondered what hid beneath the fabric.

“I’ll do what you tell me to do.” Harry said as he watched her eyes move over to the bed.

“There should be enough room.. with all my stuff.” She scanned over the plushies and roughly calculated the amount of space they had available.

“You don’t have to move anything for me.”

Ivy heard him but she ignored his comment. She climbed on the bed, moving on her hands and knees. She sat down and started to shift a few of the larger ones closer to the wall, creating more space for herself. She preferred to sleep in the middle of the bed, so she was leaving the outside open for him. Her legs slipped under the blankets before she looked back to him. He gave her a smile, amused by the precision she used to place the stuffed animals.

“Are you okay with the outside?”

Harry grabbed his belt buckle. “Whatever works for you, love.”

“What are you doing?” She chirped, her eyes widening as she watched him pull the belt through the loops.

He let out a light laugh. “Just taking this off so m’not laying on it. Is that alright?”

Her racing heart relaxed as she understood what he was doing. “Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s fine. I know it’s.. weird and unexpected. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m okay.” She assured him with a smile and a nod, then she patted the open space beside her. “Get comfy.”

Harry pulled each ring off his hands and carefully placed them on her nightstand. She had seen him wear more before, but tonight it was just a total of four. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it back, his eyes glancing down at the white sheet. He wasn’t expecting this to happen at all. He never would’ve imagined this option would be in the cards for him. With a gentle sigh, he got into her bed.

Ivy stayed still as he got situated, and once he was comfortable she laid down on her side to face him. There was space between them, but it felt like there was none at all. The reality of him being in her bed next to her was pumping her brain full of intense thoughts. Harry was in her bedroom laying next to her..

He was on his back with one arm resting over his stomach and the other folded underneath his head. His eyes were on her, though. The glow from the lamp casted a golden light over her, illuminating her features beautifully.

“Sorry you have to see all my stupid stuff.” She said in a mumble to break the silence.

He furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“My plushies and my crap all over the room.” She rolled her eyes at herself.

It wasn’t that she hated her belongings, it was just sort of embarrassing for her. Her bedroom was her most private space and allowing someone into it was not something she was used to. Emma was the only person who had experience being in here.

Harry was entertained by the annoyance she had with herself. “You have all these things for a reason.. I assume they mean something to you, yeah?”

“Yeah.. I’d say so.” She shrugged back.

He stared into her dazzling eyes for a moment, easily distracted by them. “Then it’s not stupid stuff. You love these little things.”

“It’s mostly silly things.”

Harry smiled. “Silly things you love.”

She became silent as her cheeks kept a hold of a thick layer of blush she couldn’t seem to get rid of at all. Harry kept his stare on her while she looked down, keeping her eyes away from his. It was so easy to feel his eyes, to feel the burning of her skin as he fixated on her.

He wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep talking or if she was tired. Her eyes weren’t struggling to stay open, so maybe she wasn’t sleepy just yet. A thousand thoughts flooded his mind, but he focused on only a few. He wanted to hear her voice, wanted her to talk his ears off. Without contemplating any further, he turned himself onto his side to face her, his arm sneaking under the pillow. His other hand dropped to rest on the mattress, capturing her attention. She stared at it for a long moment, wondering if she should grab it or not.

“Y’know.. I missed you at the show tonight.” Harry’s low tone made her toes curl, she loved the sound of his voice.

She darted her eyes back to his. “Well, I didn’t figure you’d want me there.. so I chose to stay home.”

“I messed up big time, hm?” He sighed out slowly, regretting so much while still being thankful for this moment and everything that happened tonight. “Hopefully you’ll come to the next one.”

She nervously laughed at his wink. “If I’m invited, of course.”

Harry moved his hand across the space between them and slid it beneath hers. “This is your invitation.”

Ivy smiled sweetly as he squeezed her hand. She chose to let him go, only so she could guide his hand where she wanted it. There was no doubt in her mind that he would be okay with whatever she wanted him to do. She placed his hand on her waist and let her fingers fall from his skin. He shaped his hand to her form and held her tight, glad to know she was wanting this from him.

She didn’t verbally acknowledge her actions. “Did you sing any new songs?”

“Yeah.. I sang one for you.. thought I’d see your pretty eyes in the crowd.” His lips turned to a smirk when she shied away from his stare.

“What song?”

“Lips of an Angel.. when I heard your karaoke rendition I figured you liked that song.” He tried to catch her gaze but she was purposely denying him of it.

“I love that song.. I’m sorry I missed it.”

“I’ll play it for you next time.” He squeezed her waist, getting her attention.

“Promise?” Her eyes moved to his finally after her tricks.

“Promise.”

There was only thing circling Ivy’s mind, and that was that she wanted to feel his lips on hers again. She wanted to kiss him until the world ended. The desire was burning inside of her, she was becoming impatient with her own thoughts. Harry believed he was good at catching every micro change in her expressions, so he noticed when she was suddenly distracted. He lowered his hand just a tiny bit on her waist, trying his best to get her attention. As her eyes shifted back to his, he gave her a soft smile. Before he could get anything out, she spoke.

“Harry.. can you..” The words were quiet, and the pause was not part of her plan. That confidence she thought she possessed had burned out, or at least vanished for now. She was nervous again.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” Harry reminded her as he watched her tongue poke out to coat her lips.

She pulled in a breath, then mustered up enough strength to ask him. “Can you come closer?”

“Yeah.” He was quick to reply.

Ivy felt the warmth radiating off his body come closer to her as he shifted over on the mattress. They were still apart, though. She didn’t think that would be enough to hold her over. She moved her hand onto his forearm, circling her fingers around him. Harry could tell she wanted to say something else, but she was anxious.

“Want me closer?” He decided to just ask her to make it easier for her.

She lifted the corners of her mouth, her eyes peering into his. “Please.”

He obliged and scooted closer to her, leaving just a few small inches between their bodies. Ivy’s heart grew ten times bigger as she realized how close they were. There was a relief that came with it. She felt safer now. If there was anything she was sure of, it was that Harry would do anything to protect her.. whether they were in a crowded bar or not.

“Is this better?” He asked, also noticing how much closer they were now. Her face was aligned with his, and the need to kiss her was trying to take over.

She grunted lightly. “A bit closer.”

Ivy was the one to move this time, fully closing the space. Her chest softly pushed into his, and at first she was hesitant about the feeling, but she quickly let it go. There were more important things to focus on in her mind. Harry’s hand slipped to the small of her back as he held her body against his own.

“Is this okay?”

He nodded lightly. “Perfect.”

“You’re so warm.” She whispered as her eyelids fell shut, she was soaking up every second of it.

Harry gently touched his lips to her chin, the heat of her breath fanned over his skin. “You’re quite the cuddle bug, hm?”

She put on a shy smile, burying her face into his. “Guess so.. never done this before.”

“Neither have I.”

Ivy dropped her brows, not fully believing him. “Really?”

“This is too personal and intimate.. never done this with anyone.”

She swallowed carefully, hoping not to make an audible noise. “Too personal?”

“It’s not a bad thing with you, love. I didn’t care about anyone else. I’d cuddle you forever, sweet girl.” Harry was more clear with his words this time, not wanting her to think that she wasn’t worth it.

“Don’t cuddle with anyone else ever.”

He chuckled back, his lips pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Only you.”

“Can you kiss me again?” The question flew from her mouth before she wanted it to, which made her cheeks glow red and her eyes squeeze shut.

Harry licked his lips and smirked lightly. “You can kiss me, too, y’know.”

He didn’t expect her to flutter her eyes open, but being this close made it so intense. She bit down on her cheek, just staring at him as he pecked her cheek again. She wanted to swallow his tongue, wanted to get so lost in his mouth that she would forget it was real.

“I like it when you do it first.” She uttered back, her lips barely moving as she spoke.

Harry didn’t want to tease her anymore, although he liked it when she was on the edge. He put his mouth on hers and instantly everything changed. This kiss felt different, it felt more intense and real. They were laying in her bed together, their bodies touching and their mouths connected. It felt like a dream.

As he brought his other arm out from under his head to wrap around her, she snuck her hands onto his body. One was pressed on the side of his neck as the other crawled down his torso until it landed on his waist. She could feel every curve and dip of his toned body through the fabric of his shirt, and the heat of his skin was burning hot. Harry lost his hand in the back of her head, tangling his fingers into her long hair and grunting loud as he pushed his tongue as far as it would go into her mouth. She enjoyed every second of it, every touch and sound and bump of their bodies hitting together.

Ivy’s chest was pushing into his and he couldn’t help but to feel the hardness of her nipples grow. He tried hard to ignore it, but they were literally against him and it was difficult. The kiss grew sloppier than the previous one had been. Ivy fought for control of his mouth and after a few giggles and scratches of her nails, he let her have it. She explored his mouth, pulling moans from his throat that made a small damp spot form on her underwear. She had never felt this way before, never felt like she was going to melt into someone’s arms. If she never kissed anyone again, she’d be fine with Harry being her last.

Her mind was so boggled and dizzy that she didn’t realize her leg was lifting to rest over his. Harry was reading her body, trying his best to determine what she wanted. He was confident that she was giving him signals, that she wanted more to happen. He was going with the flow he thought she was giving out. He grabbed her waist, just above her hip, and pushed her back. His elbow dug into the bed as he tried to get above her. But just as he managed to get a leg between hers, she came to her senses and started shaking her head, pulling herself from his mouth. Her hand shot to his chest as he tried to push him away.

“No, Harry, stop.”

He immediately froze and let go of her. He leaned back, tracing his eyes over her face to get her expression. She was frowning and her brows were low, and worse of all she had tears swelling in her eyes.

“I can’t.. not now, I’m sorry.” Ivy’s bottom lip started to quiver.

Harry shook his head and reached up to touch her jaw. “Don’t get upset, baby. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

He swore he saw twinkles in her eyes as they widened. She didn’t care about anything that he said except one specific word. It made her heart stop and her stomach fall, did he actually say that? Harry was getting nervous as she just gazed at him, almost like she couldn’t believe what was happening.

“B-baby?” She muttered out.

“Do you not want me to call you that? M’sorry.”

Her frustrated frown turned up to a smile. “No, I do. I.. I do.”

“Yeah?” He said with a gentle laugh, amazed by her reactions to him.

It was just literal moments ago that she was scared and worried, now she’s being the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Her hand reached up to his neck, pulling him down to her mouth. She laid a few kisses on his lips, then one to both of his dimples. He grinned when she let him go.

“Yeah.” She assured him.

“Then you’re my baby, hm?” He planted a kiss on her forehead before looking back into her pretty eyes. Her emotions were swirled thick, he still wasn’t quite sure how she was feeling. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pressure you.”

“It’s okay, I know.” Ivy said through a brief.

He furrowed his brows, sort of irritated by his own actions. “Got a bit ahead of m’self.”

“Me, too.” She smiled back, letting her teeth show for a second as she laughed.

“I don’t want to rush anything with you. Take your time, okay?” He made sure his tone was serious so she knew he wasn’t trying to do anything she wasn’t ready for.

“Okay.”

Harry moved back to his previous spot, his hand returning to her waist. She seemed fine with the arrangement as she snuggled closer to him again, hiding her face in his neck. When she moved her arm between their bodies, Harry was confused by what she was doing. She covered her own chest, separating their bodies.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry. I.. it won’t stop.” Ivy whined as she tried her best to get her nipples to relax.

“What’s the matter?”

“My.. my boobs.” She sighed out, not wanting to directly say it.

Harry smiled and held in a laugh, he didn’t want her to think he was making fun of her. “You’re fine, love. Just a natural reaction.”

A huff passed her lips. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I didn’t mind it. That showed me I was doing something right. You don’t have to hide unless you want to.” He had a way of talking that just made her entire body relax. Any worry she had subsided, he knew exactly what to say and how to say it.

“Having my arm like this isn’t comfortable.” She admitted.

“Then put it down. You’re fine.” Harry’s hand moved to gently touch her elbow, insisting she relax her body.

They went silent for a short time, both of them just staring at the other. Harry’s eyes were half hooded as his body began to slowly crash down. He was exhausted, but he was trying to stay active for her. Even after their heated exchange of physical contact, he was tired. Ivy kept looking at the chain around his neck. After a few minutes of just admiring the metal against his skin, she let her curiosity take over. Her hand moved up to his collar, her fingers dipping under his shirt. Harry’s eyes opened as he felt her tugging the pendant out of his shirt. She rubbed the cross slowly, feeling the smooth texture of the metal against her skin.

“Curious little cat, hm?” Harry hummed, the vibrations from his throat sounded loud to her ears.

She rolled in her lips as she stared at the cross for a little while longer before letting it fall. “Harry.”

“Yeah?”

Ivy leaned forward to leave a kiss on his chin. “I like kissing you.. a lot.”

A smile yanked his lips up. “Yeah? You’ve got nice lips.”

“Mhm.” She nodded gently when he moved his eyes to meet hers. “And I.. like it when you touch me. Feel so safe when you do that.”

Harry returned the gesture and placed a soft kiss on her cheek, making her curl her body closer into his. “I’ll always keep you safe.”

His hand shaped to the curve of her lower back, securing her body in place. He wasn’t sure how she slept, if she was the kind of person who tossed and turned or if she got settled in one spot and stayed there until morning. It was exciting to know he’d find out soon, that he’d wake up to see her in the morning. Ivy pushed her face back into his neck, her lips leaving a kiss on the base of his throat.

“Promise you’ll still be here when I wake up?” She mumbled out quietly.

He kissed her head, her hair slightly sticking to his lips. “I promise. I have to get some good morning kisses.”

“We’ll see about that. Goodnight, Harry.” Her words were followed by a yawn, he knew it was over for her. She would be fast asleep before she realized.

“Goodnight, Ivy. Sweet dreams.”

—•—

It wasn’t exactly early in the morning when Ivy started to stir, waking up from her deep sleep. She grunted slightly as she felt an incredible warmth engulfing her, the same heat that kept her cozy all night. Her eyes finally peeled open. A gentle sigh left her mouth as she was met with an incredibly close view of Harry’s neck. It was hard to believe it all wasn’t some crazy, elaborate dream. It was real. He was in her bed with her, sleeping peacefully with his arms locked around her body.

The sun snuck in through the blinds and half drawn back curtains. She didn’t dare move her body to check the time, she didn’t care about that. If she moved, she’d disturb Harry and she knew he needed as much rest as possible. Not only did he have a show the night before that wore him out, but he consumed a lot of alcohol and exhausted himself. She wanted him to sleep longer.

As he laid there asleep, she couldn’t help but stare at him. Now was her perfect chance to get an uninterrupted look at every inch of him. Ivy wanted to take note of every detail of his face, look over every little thing to memorize it. So she did just that. For what felt like forever, she observed his skin. She was familiar with his face, but she did take notice of a few small things she hadn’t seen before. When she moved her eyes down his neck, she felt a jolt inside of her at the sight of the structure hiding beneath his skin. Veins, muscles, bones. He was beautiful in every way to her.

What captured her attention the most, though, was his arm. She slowly snuck her hand up to his bicep where she pushed back the cover and started to run her eyes over his tattoos. She’s seen his arms plenty of times before, but she never had the chance to actually look at the ink buried into his skin. Ivy practically held her breath in order to stay calm and quiet. She tried not to make a sound. In addition to his tattoos, his toned muscles wrapped tight by his skin made her heart beat faster than usual. He was attractive in every way possible.

She didn’t really know what hid under his sleeve. She couldn’t recall ever seeing that area of his arm. Her fingers lightly touched his skin, just enough so she could push them up against the fabric. It raised with her movements, scrunching up as she moved it up his arm. She wasn't sure how far she could get it without being a pest and disturbing his slumber, but she tested the limits. A faint grunt came from him as she shoved the sleeve up even further. Ivy paused, her eyes shooting to his to make sure they were still closed. The tiny space between his parted lips hadn’t changed and his eyes were sealed, she was certain that he was asleep.

A smile formed over her lips as she scanned over the tattoos she hadn’t seen before. It made her curiosity about the rest of his body grow. Did he have tattoos on this part of his other arm? Were his legs home to any ink? Was his back free of anything or was it covered? She wanted to know, and she hoped that one day soon she’d find out. Once she made a mental note of the tattoos, she rested her hand on his arm and slowly inched it back down to his elbow. She couldn’t remember a time when she was more gentle than right now. Her eyes were trained on his arm so intensely that she didn’t catch him waking up.

Harry first thought he was imagining something touching him. Maybe it was just the blanket moving on his skin? But he quickly realized there was actually something moving against his skin. When he barely opened his eyes, just enough for him to see through his lashes, he saw that Ivy was in fact awake and touching him. He recognized the feeling of her fingertips on his skin, of her hand moving down his arm. Her pretty eyes were locked elsewhere, not looking his way at all. A subtle smile crept on his lips as he watched her. She seemed to be very focused on what she was feeling and staring at. He wondered what was going through her mind. Was she patiently waiting for him to wake up or was she savoring the silence and opportunity to admire him without being watched? He assumed it was both. Ivy drug her hand further down his arm, rubbing over his elbow before she stopped it again, at the top of his forearm. She was hardly applying any pressure, which created a tingly feeling on his skin.

After a few more moments of watching her, he started to wake up more. He didn’t want to startle her, so he carefully began to move. He slid his hand a few inches up her back, grunting as he leaned his head forward. She had created a little distance when she chose to observe him. Ivy shot her eyes to his face, not expecting to see his eyes. He smiled lightly, still trying to wake up fully.

“Good morning.” She whispered sweetly as she kissed his chin.

He went in for a kiss, but instead of her cheek he opted for her lips. She smiled against his mouth, happy that he greeted her with a few soft pecks. As much as she enjoyed the use of his tongue, she appreciated the soft, delicate actions just as much.

“Good morning.”

Ivy let out a gentle sigh. “Did I wake you up?”

“No.. but I saw you looking at my arm.” Harry gave her a smile, amused by how red her cheeks were.

“Sorry, I was being nosy.” A breathy laugh followed her soft voice.

“You’re fine, love. Do you wanna see the rest?” Harry didn’t give her time to answer, instead he raised his arm up, exposing the underside.

It took all of her control to not burst into flames from the embarrassment of being caught. Although she was shy at first about it, Ivy found herself pulling down the sleeve of his shirt so she could see every inch of his arm. Harry watched her eyes as they moved along his skin, covering every line inked into his arm. She was trying to take a note of each one, making sure she’d never forget them.

“Why are you staring at me? You’re making me nervous.” She mumbled in a light tone, her eyes avoiding his as she fixed his sleeve back to its normal spot.

Harry lowered his arm, returning his hand to her waist. “Because you’re beautiful. Hard not to stare at something so perfect.”

Ivy pushed out a breath and lightly shook her head. She placed her hand on his forearm and gave it a squeeze, wishing he’d go easy on her with his statements of admiration. As much as she appreciated it, it was hard for her to believe it was true. He took notice of how she was growing shy again, her eyes were trained on his neck and her teeth sunk into her bottom lip.

“Do you want to see more of them?”

Ivy perked up, her eyes growing wide with curiosity. A smile covered her lips, Harry was glad to see that his idea had brightened her mood. She nodded and waited patiently as he started to move. Harry laid back and shoved the blankets down. As he grabbed the hem of his shirt, Ivy propped up on her elbow to get a better view. She wasn’t sure what he was going to uncover, but she was ready to glue her eyes to his skin. Harry pulled his shirt up to his collarbones, holding it out of the way.

She was unsure of what captivated her the most - his tattoos or his body. His muscles were toned beneath his skin, just like they were in his arms. He was built incredibly, like a marble statue in a museum. On his abdomen laid a large insect tattoo, sunk deep into skin. Every line was crisp and each blended area of the ink into his skin was smooth. She couldn’t help but want to reach out and touch it, but she was fighting that urge.

Ivy had seen the tattoos at the top of his chest poking out before, but seeing them in their full glory amongst everything else was fascinating. He was a collection of designs, words, drawings, meanings.. These things were a part of him, and she was intrigued by every single one. Harry smirked to himself as he saw her hand come up, but she quickly withdrew it.

“This might be my favorite.” She pointed to the insect, her eyes glancing his way for just a second.

“You can touch me. M’all yours.” Harry carefully grabbed her wrist and started to pull her hand down. He waited for her to resist or pull away, but when she didn’t, he laid her hand over the tattoo. His hand covered hers, pressing down so she wouldn’t be afraid to actually touch him. Ivy held her breath as Harry rubbed his thumb over her skin.

“All mine, hm?” She whispered, her lips barely moving with her words.

Harry chuckled, the movement of his body made her heart flutter. “All yours, darling.”

It wasn’t long after the tattoo tour that Ivy’s stomach started to growl from hunger. She didn’t want to get out of the bed, mainly because she didn’t want to leave Harry’s side, but her stomach was fighting against her heart. She brought up the idea to make breakfast, and that was an offer Harry wasn’t going to pass up. They got out of the bed and walked to the kitchen together. While she cooked, Harry sat at the table and watched her in silence, smiling and holding back laughs as he listened to her talk to herself and get frustrated by the smallest annoyances. Being able to experience her in this kind of scenario was more magical than kissing her seemed to be. Of course he enjoyed that an immense amount - but this was different. He got to witness how she naturally behaved when she cooked and waltzed around the kitchen. She was deep in her own world as she hummed while flipping the eggs. Harry was unable to look away the entire time.

After they ate together, Harry gave her no choice but to let him clean up the mess. She wanted to help, and actually do it all herself, but he refused. He told her she’d given so much time and energy to him in such a short time that it was only right for him to do something for her. It wasn’t long after they finished the dishes that Niall called to find out where Harry had ended up last night. He was astonished to hear that Harry had crashed at her place. Niall finding that out immediately resulted in a call from Emma, who was in the car with him. He was bringing her home since she stayed the night at his place.

Ivy laughed on the phone and promised Emma she’d give her all the details when she arrived. Harry was fine with the fact that Niall and Emma would find out everything and obviously be aware of what was now going on between them. In fact, he was telling Niall the same thing - he’d find out the details later. Since he was going to catch a ride home with Niall while he had the chance, he thought it would be better to tell Ivy what was on his mind before they got here to bother them.

Harry grabbed her waist and pulled her body into his, the strength he possessed made it easy for her to fall into him. She looked up, her pretty eyes full of stars. He just knew there was no pair of eyes more beautiful than hers. He leaned down to her lips and pressed a kiss to her mouth.

“Thank you.”

She let out a light giggle. “For what?”

“For breakfast.” His mouth lifted with a smile. “And for letting me stay.. and for talking with me and forgiving me.”

Ivy pushed herself up on her tiptoes, her lips planting pecks along his chin. “You’re welcome.”

“I promise I’ll call you this time.” His wink made her stomach twirl.

“You better.”

Harry gripped her waist tight, not wanting to ever let her go. “I already miss you.”

“I think I’m gonna miss you more.” She lifted her arms to hug him.

The moment he felt her lips pressing a kiss to the spot below his ear, he regretted saying he needed to go home so early. She had plans today that she couldn’t get out of and didn’t necessarily want to change, so he was being respectful of that by giving her space. As much as he wished he could stay with her forever, she had things to do and he had a few tasks he had to get done at home, anyway. Ivy locked her arms around his neck, letting one hand slip into his hair. He hummed as she tugged at his roots, not wanting to let him slip away just yet. They stayed like that, holding each other breathing slow and steady, until Niall and Emma arrived. He wasn't sure of the exact time he’d see her again, but he knew it couldn’t be too long. He couldn’t survive another two weeks without her.

[a/n:: I am so excited that this part is finally out! I hope you enjoyed soft h :) thank u endlessly for all the positive feedback & love you’ve shown to this series! I don’t think I’ve been this proud of myself before I love writing this series. reblog, like, comment all that nice stuff if you’d like.. see u soon! Ps I was very tied when I edited this so if there’s any errors just ignore them I’ll fix it later]

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