#RUNNING A THOUSAND LAPS AROUND MY ROOM THIS IS PERFECT

[ncsdlr]

Album-making and Tour with a Plus Side of Romance

Billie Eilish x Reader

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[Pre-tour - Winter]

The first rule you learn about working with Billie Eilish: She hates being touched.

Like—visibly recoils if anyone gets too close without warning. Even Finneas, who's her brother, gets a look if he forgets to announce himself before handing her a water bottle.

But you?

Apparently you’re exempt.

Which is weird, because you don’t like being touched either. Hugs make you tense. Group photos are your nightmare. You’ve perfected the art of the polite, just-out-of-reach wave.

And yet here you are. Studio couch. Billie’s foot brushing yours. Neither of you moves.

Her foot is cold. She’s not wearing socks. You could mention it. You don’t.

Instead, you stretch slightly, fingers drumming a lazy beat on the notebook in your lap, and say, “You always this handsy with your collaborators?”

Billie glances at your foot, still nudging hers. Then at your face. “You started it.”

You hum. “Did I?”

She raises a brow. “You’re the one who sat down here.”

“You’re the one who spread out like this was your bed.”

“It’s my couch.”

“It’s Finneas’s couch.”

Finneas, across the room, lifts a hand. “I don’t want to be part of this.”

Neither of you look away from each other.

“Do you want me to move?” you ask finally, low and light.

Billie exhales through her nose. “No. Stay.”

You nod once. “Wasn't gonna move anyway.”

The silence that follows is deceptively casual. Except your heart is doing that thing where it acts like a traitor in your chest, and Billie’s tongue is pressed to the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to smile too wide.

---

Billie steps out of the vocal booth, tugging one ear of her headphones off and letting the other dangle against her shoulder. Her voice is still warm in the room, caught in the echo of the track.

You’re leaned back in the chair by the board, spinning it slowly with your foot, arms crossed, watching her.

She catches the look you’re giving her and squints. “What.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”

She walks closer. “No. You’re looking at me like you just thought something filthy.”

“I did,” you say, casually, like you’re commenting on the weather.

She blinks. “Jesus.”

You smile, slow. “What, you want me to lie?”

Billie laughs, high and sharp, hand pressing over her mouth as she stops in front of you. Her fingers curl over the top of the chair you’re in. She leans forward, just slightly.

“You always think like that when I sing?” she asks, voice low and sugar-slick.

You lift your chin, eyes dragging slowly down her throat and back up. “Only when you sound like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sound like what?”

“Like you want me to feel you up halfway through the second verse.”

Billie sucks in a breath like you just slapped her.

And God, she looks good wrecked like that—even just from words. She glances over her shoulder quickly, checking that Finneas is still at the far end of the studio, pretending to fiddle with cables.

When she turns back, she’s smirking—but barely. Her eyes are darker now. She runs her tongue across her bottom lip, like she’s trying to bite back a thousand replies at once.

“You shouldn’t say shit like that,” she says.

You shrug, relaxed, confident. “Then stop singing like it’s foreplay.”

She stares at you. You stare back. The air stretches between you like a taut string.

“Seriously,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna fuck around and find out.”

You tilt your head. “You promise?”

She closes her eyes like she’s praying, then straightens, jaw tight. “I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. With you.”

You grin. “You’re already doing it, Billie.”

And she knows you’re right. You both do.

She turns away too quickly, muttering something under her breath that might be a curse or your name—same difference at this point.

You lean back in the chair, hands behind your head, smug as hell.

Behind you, Finneas sighs like he’s aged ten years in one session.

“Can you two either make out or finish the goddamn track,” he says flatly, “so I can go home and pretend I’m not a part of whatever’s happening in here?”

You and Billie say nothing.

But when she goes to sit across from you again, her knee presses against yours.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

---

There’s a beat of almost-silence after Finneas calls you out—just the soft hum of equipment, Billie’s laptop fan buzzing, and the residual heat of her pressed against your knee.

She doesn't move. Neither do you. Neither says a word.

The tension has curved inward—less flirty now, more loaded. You know what she’s thinking. You know because it’s exactly what you’re thinking.

If we weren’t being watched. If I just leaned in. If she said one more thing in that voice.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she grabs the half-empty bag of pretzels from the floor, tosses a few into her mouth like her teeth aren’t clenched and her neck isn’t flushed pink.

You glance over lazily with a small smirk. “Careful. You bite too hard on those.”

She chokes slightly on a chuckle. “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”

You shrug and laugh along with her.

She rolls her eyes to dismiss you, but lets herself laugh anyway.

And then—like the gods intervening—the door opens.

Maggie steps in, holding a coffee in each hand and the kind of look that says, I have news and you’re not gonna like it.

Billie immediately straightens up, the only time she’s ever moved away from you this fast.

“Hi, Mom,” she says. “Is that for me?”

Maggie hands her a coffee with a smile, then gives you the other. “And you. You both need caffeine. And a ten-foot barrier between you at all times.”

You blink, then smirk. “Is that the official tour policy?”

Billie freezes mid-sip. “Huh?”

Maggie sets her bag down, exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. “Yeah, so, about that…”

You and Billie both look at her.

She pauses.

Then sighs.

“So. Your managers and I had a call this morning. It's confirmed. You’re touring together.”

Billie stares. “Like… a feature? A couple shows?”

Maggie grimaces. “No, honey. Like the full tour. Eleven months. All over. Headline's still yours, but she’s on everything. Name’s on the posters. Setlist’s already being restructured.”

You blink. “Wait, since when?”

“Since your manager pitched the collab album as a dual tour strategy, and Billie's team didn’t exactly say no.” Maggie’s tone is way too calm for the explosion she just set off. “It’s happening.”

Billie sets her coffee down too hard. “No offense,” she says to you quickly, “but I didn’t agree to that.”

Maggie shrugs. “Neither did she. Management made the call.”

You narrow your eyes. “They pitched me as a guest and forgot to mention I’m being stapled to her for a year?”

Maggie holds up both hands. “Look. You two are obsessed with each other’s music, the album’s stupid good, the internet is already convinced you’re secretly dating—”

“We’re not,” you and Billie say at the exact same time.

Maggie doesn’t even blink. “—so this is a marketing dream. And let’s be honest, you’re not gonna say no.”

She’s right. You both know she’s right.

But Billie’s frowning. “Do they even have room for her? Like, tour bus, hotels—”

“They’re figuring that out,” Maggie says. “You’re being squeezed in where possible. Your manager said you're flexible.”

You blink. “Squeezed in?”

Maggie points her stir stick at you like it’s a sword. “Hotel room might be a shared situation until something opens up. They didn’t want to split the teams across buildings.”

Billie laughs—laughs—like it’s the most cursed joke in the world. “Oh my God.”

You nod slowly. “So just to recap—I’m the last-minute feature, I’m now touring across the world on someone else’s bus, and I’m sharing a hotel room with Billie Eilish?”

Maggie claps her hands. “Exactly!”

You turn to Billie. “You good with that?”

Billie stares at you like you just asked her to strip.

Then mutters, “I’m gonna need noise-canceling headphones.”

You smirk. “You'll like it when I'm loud.”

Meanwhile, Finneas is still in his seat casually watching the exchange with a "tired of this" expression on his face.

Maggie shakes her head. “I’m scheduling a chaperone.”

Billie downs the rest of her coffee in one go. “Yeah, make sure they’re deaf.”

****

[During Tour - Winter]

The venue smells like dust and LED lights. You’ve been here less than ten minutes and you’re already sweating.

There are cords everywhere, a guy named Kyle keeps asking for your “IEM preferences” like you know what that means, and Billie’s been muttering “where’s my fucking hoodie” under her breath like a prayer for the past half hour.

Rehearsals are chaos. Always are. But touring with Billie Eilish means chaos with an audience—her entire team, who all have their shit together, and you and your PA, who are very much making it up as you go.

You’re on stage running harmonies for the second track when Billie walks by, trailing a tangle of mic wire, and brushes her shoulder against yours.

Not accidentally.

You glance over. She doesn’t even look at you, but you can see the smirk she’s biting back.

You lean into your mic, still mid-run, and murmur, “Touch me like that again and I’m filing an HR complaint.”

Billie doesn’t miss a beat. “You think we have HR?”

You pause. “Oh god. We don’t, do we?”

She finally looks at you—smirks, full and slow. “Nope. No rules.”

You blink. “Terrifying.”

She keeps walking. “Sexy.”

Finneas groans from the soundboard. “I swear to God. Can you two act normal for fifteen minutes?”

You and Billie: “Absolutely not.”

---

By the time soundcheck wraps, you’re on the floor behind the stage, half-lying across a crate of coiled cables, sipping from a bottle of water like it’s alcohol.

Billie drops beside you, dramatic as ever. Her t-shirt’s stuck to her spine and her eyeliner’s smudged like she meant to cry.

She takes your water. You let her.

“Your voice sounded like sin today,” she says, too casually.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yours sounded like you’ve been keeping secrets.”

“Oh?” she glances at you. “You wanna dig ‘em out?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowed. “We doing innuendo again?”

“Again? Babe, I never stopped.”

You stare at her for a second too long. She’s flushed from the lights. Lips parted. Hands braced behind her to keep herself upright.

And then Maggie appears around the corner like a human fire extinguisher.

“There you two are,” she says, looking like she’s just barely holding onto patience. “Hotel assignments are in.”

You both sit up straighter.

Billie wipes her forehead with her sleeve. “Finally. I need a fucking shower.”

“Uh-huh,” Maggie says. “You’ll have to coordinate that with your roommate.”

Billie pauses. “Sorry, what?”

You don’t react. You knew this was coming. Your manager warned you. “They didn’t find me a separate room?”

Maggie shrugs. “Venue city’s small. Hotels are slammed. Your teams said it was fine since you worked together on the album.”

Billie’s jaw twitches. “Okay, but shared-shared? Like same room? Same bedroom?”

You look at Maggie. “One bed or two?”

Billie’s entire body turns toward you. “Why is that your first question?!”

You smile. “Because if it’s one, we’re gonna have to discuss what side of the bed you think you’re getting.”

“I’m not—” Billie blinks. “You think you’re getting a side?”

You stand, brushing dust off your jeans. “Well, I am the guest.”

“You’re the intruder.”

“I’m the feature.”

“You’re a menace.”

You shrug, smug. “Still the reason you’re not doing this tour solo.”

Billie opens her mouth to respond, then closes it like she’s thinking better of whatever was about to fall out.

Maggie sighs. “I’m giving the key to your PA. Figure it out before nightfall, or someone’s sleeping in the bathtub.”

She walks off.

You and Billie just stand there. Both pretending you’re fine. Both very much not fine.

Finally, Billie clears her throat. “So, uh. What do you wear to bed?”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Billie swallows hard.

And you walk away—slow, calm, victorious.

Behind you, you hear her mutter:

“Fuck.”

---

The hotel door clicks open with that cheap little beep. You shoulder it open with one hand, Billie behind you, dragging her suitcase like it personally insulted her.

“Bet it’s a shoebox,” she mutters.

You snort. “Bet it’s nicer than your attitude.”

The hallway light flickers once as you both step inside—and immediately freeze.

Two beds.

Two gloriously separate, freshly-made, blessedly individual beds.

You and Billie both let out the exact same sigh of relief.

And then:

“Damn,” you say, deadpan. “There goes my plan to spoon you until you give in.”

Billie scoffs, stepping past you. “Please. You’d fold the second I pushed a knee between your legs.”

You laugh, toss your bag onto the left bed, and glance over. “You’re awfully confident for someone who couldn’t even look at me during soundcheck.”

“I wasn’t looking away,” she lies.

“You were blushing.”

“I was sweating.”

“From me.”

She throws a pillow at your head. You catch it one-handed.

Then you both stand there for a moment too long, the space between you charged but not unfun. The kind of tension that keeps the corners of your mouth tilted up even when no one’s talking.

Billie flops back onto her bed with a dramatic exhale. Her hoodie rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of her stomach. She catches you looking. Doesn’t cover it.

“Stop staring,” she says.

“You wore that on purpose,” you reply easily.

She smirks. “You think I dress for you?”

You toe off your shoes, stretch your arms overhead like you know she’s watching. “I know you do.”

Billie groans and buries her face in her pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“Tallest, too,” you add.

She flips you off without lifting her head.

You glance around. “You want the bathroom first?”

Billie rolls over to face you. “Are you gonna take two hours like you’re prepping for the Met Gala?”

“I take exactly as long as it takes to look like this.” You gesture down your body. “You’re welcome.”

She laughs under her breath, and it’s real. Quiet. Honest.

“Okay,” she says, “go first. I need to text Finneas and tell him I survived a whole day without making out with you.”

You stop in the doorway and look back over your shoulder.

“Tell him tomorrow’s looking rough.”

She throws another pillow. You close the bathroom door with a smirk still stuck on your face.

---

When you come out—hair damp, teeth brushed, wearing a tank and shorts that definitely don’t leave enough to the imagination—Billie’s already curled up in bed, phone screen lighting her face.

She glances up and immediately does that thing where her eyes trail from your shoulders down to your thighs and then snap back to her phone too fast.

You don’t mention it.

She doesn’t stop blushing.

You pull back the covers of your bed and settle in, letting the quiet stretch between you. Not awkward. Just... full.

After a minute, Billie mumbles, “You snore?”

“Only when I’m being spooned wrong.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You smile into your pillow. “Goodnight, Billie.”

“Night,” she mutters, too soft.

You both lie there for a while.

Not sleeping.

Definitely thinking.

****

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wired on a performance day before.

It’s not nerves. Not the crowd. Not the fact that your name is now printed across the entire fucking LED wall behind Billie’s.

It’s her.

It’s Billie Eilish, standing at the edge of the stage during pre-show run-throughs, hair tied back, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, whisper-singing your lyrics back at you with a look like she’s got plans.

She mouths a line you wrote—“If I touch you, it’s over”—and then winks.

Right at you.

From behind her mic stand.

You aim your mic away from your face and mutter, “You wanna be careful doing that.”

Billie smirks. “Why?”

You flick your eyes down to her legs, then back up. “Might slip and fall.”

She laughs into her mic, loud enough the crew thinks it's part of the set. Your IEM crackles with Finneas groaning, “Oh my godddd, you two are insufferable.”

--

Onstage, the lights are blinding—but not enough to hide the looks you and Billie keep exchanging.

During her second verse, she circles you. You harmonize behind her, barely singing your part, watching the way her hands move like they’re talking too.

At one point, you brush past her on your way to the center riser. Your hand catches her wrist for half a second. Just long enough for her to inhale sharply.

She doesn’t miss her cue, but she does shoot you a look that could kill.

You smirk back. The crowd screams. Neither of you are acting.

---

Backstage, Billie’s peeling her performance hoodie off her shoulders, her skin flushed and glowing.

You lean against the green room doorway, sipping her water bottle just to annoy her.

“That part in 'Buried In Velvet’?” you say casually. “When you did the drop and spun? You know that was hot, right?”

She tosses a towel at your face. “Shut up.”

You catch it one-handed. “I’m just saying. Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

Billie narrows her eyes. “And what if I can finish?”

You tilt your head, grin slow. “Then you’re in trouble.”

She looks like she wants to punch you. Or climb you. Possibly both.

But instead, she just says, “We’re going out after. You coming?”

You arch a brow. “That a question or an invitation?”

She doesn't blink. “It’s a dare.”

---

Some vibey little local bar the crew found last-minute. Not loud enough to yell over, not quiet enough for comfort. The music hums in your chest. The drinks are sweet.

You’re both pressed into a booth with too many people. Billie ends up sitting beside you. Her thigh touches yours under the table. Neither of you moves.

At one point, she leans in to say something and her breath hits your ear. “You’re the reason I messed up that second chorus.”

You laugh. “You’re blaming me for forgetting your lyrics?”

“You kept looking at me like you wanted to kiss me mid-bridge.”

You sip your drink, don’t even blink. “Yeah, well. You kept singing like you’d let me.”

Billie blinks slowly. “You’re such a dick.”

You sip on your drink and mutter around the straw, “You'd like this dick though.”

She doesn't answer, merely hitting you over the head, thus causing you to choke and chuckle right on your drink.

---

Back at the hotel, it’s late. Everyone smells like stage sweat and vodka, but in that content, glowing kind of way.

You and Billie step into your room last—still laughing about something Finneas said about the sound tech’s haircut.

The door closes behind you.

Silence.

You both stand there for a beat. Still tipsy. Still buzzing.

You kick your boots off, flop face-down on your bed. “Can’t believe you forgot your own lyrics.”

Billie throws her jacket at your head. “Can’t believe you wore that onstage.”

You turn over to grin at her. “You mean the crop top that had you staring during your entire bridge?”

She unzips her boots like she’s pretending not to be affected. “No. I mean the pants that made your legs look seven feet long.”

You shrug. “They’re custom.”

She snorts. “You’re custom.”

You both go quiet.

Then you ask, voice low, “Is that a compliment?”

Billie looks at you from across the room. You’re still in your shirt, your hair messy, your mouth tilted up.

She hesitates. Then: “Yeah.”

You nod once. “Good.”

Neither of you moves toward your beds.

Not for a long, long minute.

Finally, Billie mutters, “I’m showering. Don’t steal my side.”

You roll onto your back, grinning at the ceiling. “I’ll just sleep on you instead.”

She freezes halfway to the bathroom. Then flips you off over her shoulder.

You wink at her retreating back. “You better lock that door.”

She doesn’t respond. She just disappears into the steam.

****

The bathroom door creaks open, steam curling out like smoke from something freshly ruined.

You’re half-asleep, phone in hand, barely blinking at the ceiling when Billie steps out—wearing nothing but a black tank top and a pair of sleep shorts that should be illegal for public hotel use.

Her hair’s damp. Her face is bare. There’s a towel slung over her shoulder and her legs go on for days—even if they’re not nearly as long as yours.

You glance at her once, then make a slow show of rolling onto your side, cheek pressed to your pillow.

“You done trying to kill me?”

Billie dries her hair with the towel, completely unfazed. “If I was trying, you’d be dead.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And yet I’m still breathing.”

She shoots you a look. “Not for long if you keep staring.”

You grin. “You walked out in that. I’m a victim.”

She laughs—quiet and real. Then walks over and drops into her bed with a sigh, back turned, one leg out of the blanket like she’s trying to cool down and tempt you at the same time.

You wait a beat.

Then: “You always sleep that close to the edge?”

Billie shifts to glance over her shoulder. “You always comment on my sleeping style?”

“Only when I can see your entire spine,” you say.

She throws a pillow at you, but her heart’s not in it. You both settle back down.

The room falls quiet.

Not awkward. Just... soft.

Somewhere between the buzz of the night and the crash of the silence after, it feels like something shifts.

You hear her exhale, slow and tired.

“You ever get scared you’re gonna mess this whole thing up?” she asks suddenly.

You look over. She’s still turned away. Her voice is low. Barely there.

“Mess what up?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then: “All of it. Music. Life. This tour. Us.”

Us.

The word hangs in the air.

You shift onto your back, stare at the ceiling.

“All the time,” you admit. “But... if it’s gonna blow up, I want it to be because I let it. Not because I never touched the fuse.”

She hums softly. “Dangerous mindset.”

You glance at her again. “You scared?”

“Terrified.”

You smile, soft. “Good. That means we’re doing it right.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Billie says, “If you snore, I’m putting a sock in your mouth.”

You snort. “Kinky.”

“Go to sleep, you freak.”

You do.

Eventually.

****

Tour goes on.

City after city. Night after night. Each stage feels louder than the last—but nothing drowns out her.

You’ve got your banter down to an art now. She throws the setups, you deliver the punchlines. You stand too close during duets. You share one mic for no reason.

The crowd eats it up.

You eat each other alive with your eyes.

---

She sings “Velvet” like it’s a secret. You hit your verse like a confession. She walks past you mid-bridge and whispers “You sound like sin tonight” into your mic.

The crowd (s)creams.

You almost do too.

---

You’re supposed to stay on opposite sides of the stage during “Six Seconds.” You don’t.

You cross the space, stop directly in front of her, and keep singing like your mouth doesn’t want to be on her neck.

She doesn’t move back. Doesn’t blink.

She leans in.

Forehead to forehead.

You’re both still singing—barely—but no one’s listening to the lyrics anymore.

The entire arena holds its breath.

Billie looks at your mouth. Just for a second.

And then grins, tilts her head, and backs away like it was a joke.

The crowd screams like they’re being stabbed.

You walk back to your side of the stage.

Your heart? You'll look for it later.

---

You’re both flushed. Breathless.

Billie bumps into you in the green room, cups her hand over her mouth and says, “You were gonna kiss me.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You were gonna let me.”

She smirks. “You wanted to.”

You lean in, murmur, “You still want me to?”

She stares. Just for a beat.

Then tosses her mic pack at you. “Fuck off.”

You grin. “Say that louder. The crowd might believe you.”

---

You unlock the room first.

She walks in behind you, drops her bag, and then—without a word—flops face-down onto your bed.

You look over. “That’s not yours.”

“Mmm,” she mumbles into your pillow. “You’re not stopping me.”

You sigh. “Don’t tempt me.”

She flips onto her back, eyes closed, lips parted.

And smirks.

You cross the room.

Sit on her bed.

She opens one eye.

“You scared?” she asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good,” she says. “That means we’re doing it right.”

****

The hotel room door slams shut behind you with a low, echoing thud. You’re laughing before it even clicks locked.

Billie stumbles in right after, hoodie falling off one shoulder, eyeliner smudged like she forgot how to wipe her face, and cheeks flushed in a way that has nothing to do with the cold outside.

She kicks her shoes off with a groan. “I’m, like, almost drunk.”

You raise an eyebrow, tossing your jacket over the chair. “Just almost?”

“I’m hanging on by a thread,” she says dramatically, then trips over your suitcase and catches herself on the edge of the desk. “A very frayed thread.”

You cross the room slowly, eyes locked on her. “Want me to cut it?”

She laughs—that laugh, the breathless one she only lets out when she’s tipsy and flustered and not thinking. “You are so full of shit.”

You’re in front of her now. Not touching. Not quite.

She’s half-sitting on the edge of the desk. You’re standing between her legs. Her breath hitches a little when you lean in.

You don’t say anything.

You just watch the way her pupils flicker—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. Her hands come up, light on your waist like she’s not even aware she’s holding you.

And then—without really meaning to—you lean forward.

Not all the way.

Just close enough to see the way her lashes flutter.

Your hands find the desk on either side of her hips. Your nose brushes hers.

One inch closer and she’d be kissing you.

She blinks, slow. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

She swallows. “The thing where you look like you’re gonna ruin me.”

You grin. “Is that a request?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s weak. Flirty. Her lips part. Your mouth is right there.

Then—just when the moment goes too still, too heavy—she bites her lip and ducks her head into your shoulder, giggling.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” she says into your collarbone.

You laugh, hands still caging her in. “Me? You’re the one who let me this close.”

“You did not need permission.”

You pull back, just enough to see her face again—still flushed, still grinning. There’s no sadness here. Just heat. Fun. Want.

Your forehead rests against hers, and she lets it.

You whisper, “You know we’re gonna actually do it someday, right?”

Billie closes her eyes like she’s praying.

And smiles.

“I know.”

---

You’re already awake by the time Billie stirs—barely—face half-smashed into her pillow, hoodie tangled around her waist, hair a disaster and one sock somehow hanging off the bottom of the bed like it gave up during the night.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your own bed, coffee in hand, scrolling through fan posts and pretending not to laugh every time someone tweets:

“OKAY BUT DID THEY ALMOST KISS ONSTAGE OR AM I DELULU??”

You hear Billie groan softly.

Then:

“Ugh... murder me.”

You glance over. “Was that an actual request or just general morning vibes?”

She flips onto her back, eyes still closed. “Both.”

You take a sip of your coffee. “You alive?”

“Barely. How are you vertical right now?”

You shrug. “Discipline. Strength. Raw sexual energy. I dunno.”

She throws her arm over her face. “Don’t talk to me about raw anything before noon.”

You smirk, toss a pack of gum at her. “Hydrate your soul, Eilish. You were drunk-flirty as hell last night.”

She groans again, but this time it’s the fake-dramatic kind. “Oh god. What did I do?”

You lean back against the wall. “You backed into a wall, let me stand all up on you forehead-to-forehead, gripped my hips, and told me I was gonna ruin you.”

Billie’s hand shoots off her face. “I did not.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You did. Then you nuzzled my neck and giggled. Like a flirtatious possum.”

She sits up slowly, hair sticking out in twelve directions. “Okay but like… I was cute about it, right?”

You grin. “You were criminally adorable.”

Billie narrows her eyes. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I didn’t kiss you.”

You shrug. “I mean. Yeah. That would’ve made it a felony.”

She throws a pillow at your head. “Shut up.”

You catch it with one hand—again.

She stares at you. “Why are you so coordinated before coffee?”

You sip your mug. “Because I’m taller than you.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does the way you looked at me after shot number three, but we’re letting that slide too.”

Billie throws herself backward onto the bed with a groan. “God, last night was lit.”

You grin, stretching. “Yeah. ‘Ayeeee last night though!’”

Billie wheezes a laugh into the mattress. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying.” You pause for dramatic effect. “I can’t believe we didn’t make out.”

Billie lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes squinting. “I can. We’re still on tour, remember? You’re dangerous.”

You smirk. “I’m not dangerous. I’m just effective.”

She rolls back onto her stomach, mumbling into the sheets. “So effective I’m considering a restraining order.”

You finish your coffee. “Make sure it has a kiss clause.”

****

[During Tour - Spring - Tour Bus]

The first night on the bus, Billie refuses to admit she’s carsick. She lies down on the little couch near the mini-fridge, hoodie drawn over her head like a disgruntled gremlin, and grumbles “I’m fine” every time you glance her way.

You’re curled up across from her, knees pulled to your chest, nursing a bottle of ginger ale like a cocktail.

“I will vomit on your bed,” she says dramatically, not lifting her hood.

You sip. “Technically, it’s also your bed. I saw the bunk list.”

Billie peeks out, eyes squinting. “Don’t even play with me.”

You grin. “Top bunk. Same side. Across from me.”

She groans, flops back. “Kill me.”

You laugh. “You’re obsessed with me.”

She mumbles something into the cushion. You don’t catch it. You don’t have to.

---

[Philadelphia]

You and Billie climb up the venue fire escape at 2AM for no reason except that she said “I dare you.”

You sit on the edge of the roof, legs swinging. She sits beside you, hood pulled up, chewing on a piece of gum like it’s keeping her sane.

“Why’s it always feel better when we’re up here?” she asks.

You glance at her. “Because you like pretending the whole city’s your fan club.”

She shrugs. “Or maybe I like being alone with you in places no one can follow.”

You blink. Billie’s still chewing her gum like she didn’t just say something raw as hell.

You bump her shoulder. “You’re soft.”

She bumps you back. “You’re annoying.”

---

[Tour Bus]

You’re watching a movie neither of you care about. Billie’s legs are stretched across your lap. You’re drawing shapes on her shin without thinking about it.

She shifts. Doesn’t stop you.

You say, “You’re kind of clingy when you’re tired.”

She mutters, “You’re kind of hot when you’re not talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So... always?”

She groans. “See? There it is.”

But she doesn’t move.

Not for hours.

---

[Nashville]

You’re sharing a dressing room. Billie’s on the floor in front of the mirror, touching up her mascara. You’re half-dressed in your stage fit, shirt slung over your shoulder.

She looks up. Sees your reflection.

And says, “Can you not be hot for five seconds?”

You walk over, lean down beside her ear. “Not while you’re watching.”

She flicks her brush at you. It leaves a streak of black on your cheek.

You grin.

She doesn’t wipe it off. And neither do you. The little streak was on your face during the performance.

---

[Tour Bus]

It’s raining outside. The road hums under the wheels.

You and Billie are in your bunks, across from each other, separated by a stupid, thin little curtain.

You hear her whisper: “You awake?”

You whisper back: “No.”

She laughs.

Then silence.

Then—

“You ever think about it?” she says.

You blink into the dark. “About what?”

“You know.”

You know.

You swallow. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Silence again.

And then:

“Me too.”

Nothing happens. No one moves. But the bus keeps rolling forward. And so do you.

---

[Tour Bus]

It starts with the rain.

Soft at first. Then louder. Then louder—pelting the roof of the bus like it’s trying to punch through.

You’re lying in your bunk, staring at the ceiling two inches from your face, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder like it’s gonna make a difference.

Billie’s across from you. Her curtain’s drawn. You can tell she’s awake because she cleared her throat twenty minutes ago and then went suspiciously quiet.

Another crack of thunder splits the night.

And that’s it. You’re done.

You shove your curtain open, lean out, and tap on hers.

“Billie.”

No answer.

“Billie.”

Still nothing.

So you slide it open yourself.

She’s curled up like a cat, hoodie hood up, earbuds dangling around her neck like she gave up halfway through pretending to sleep.

Her eyes blink open. “No.”

You blink. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

She deadpans, “Whatever it is, no.”

You climb in anyway.

“Jesus—” she hisses, shifting fast. “Your knees are like weapons—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, squirming to fit. “I’m bored.”

“You’re huge.”

“You love it.”

Billie groans as your arm presses along her side. “There’s no room—”

You both freeze when the bus lurches slightly. Thunder crashes again.

You’re close enough now to count her lashes. To feel her breath on your collarbone.

“Comfortable?” she mutters.

You grin. “Actually, yeah.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re warm.”

Billie sighs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t push you out. Her hand shifts just slightly—ends up resting on your hip.

Not intentional.

Maybe.

“Still scared of storms?” you whisper.

She scoffs. “Please. I’m just not used to them on wheels.”

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t get scared?”

You shake your head, cheek brushing her temple. “Nope.”

She’s quiet a moment. Then: “Liar.”

You laugh into her hair. “Busted.”

The bunk is too quiet after that. Her fingers still resting against your waist. Yours brushing her thigh without meaning to—or maybe meaning to a little.

Then, so soft you barely hear it:

“Thanks for climbing in.”

You nuzzle her slightly. Just a second. Just long enough to feel her lean into it.

“Anytime.”

The thunder cracks again.

But neither of you flinch.

****

You don’t notice she’s wearing it at first.

You're too busy warming up backstage, bouncing on your heels and running scales while someone double-checks your mic pack. The air is sticky with August heat. Sweat already beads at your temples before you even hit the stage.

Then Billie walks past you.

And you stop.

Because that hoodie? The navy blue one with the frayed sleeve and the little bleach stain near the pocket? That’s yours.

That’s your hoodie.

You blink. “Hey—”

She turns around slowly. “Hmm?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

She shrugs. “You left it on the couch.”

You walk over. “That doesn’t mean it’s free real estate.”

Billie pulls the hem slightly. “It’s oversized. Looks better on me.”

You bite your smile back. “You’re out of control.”

She leans up a little, close enough for only you to hear. “And you’re not gonna do anything about it.”

---

Onstage, it’s chaos.

The heat. The lights. The sound of thousands screaming back your own lyrics like a dare.

Halfway through “Dead End Devotion,” Billie crosses to your side of the stage for a little call-and-response.

She holds the mic between you both, mouths “I know you want to.”

You lean in so close your noses brush. You smirk, don’t kiss her, and sing your line with your mouth a whisper from hers.

The crowd absolutely loses it.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize: They know. They see the hoodie. They see the way her fingers trail across your back when you turn. They see the way you look at each other like the world is a little quieter when you’re close.

---

After the show, someone from Billie’s team corners you in the hallway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You two together?”

You blink. “What?”

“You and Billie,” they say, tilting their head. “Everyone’s asking. The internet is—well.” They pull out their phone, flip it around.

There’s a still from the show. Billie, grinning mid-verse. You, two inches from her. The hoodie’s clearly not hers.

The caption reads:

“Billie Eilish wearing HER hoodie and smiling like that? be serious rn.”

You laugh. Loud. A little fake.

“Nah,” you say casually. “We’re just... performers.”

The team member nods slowly. “Right. Just performers.”

You walk off. Smirking.

Ten steps later, Billie falls into step beside you, face damp from her post-show towel.

“You lie good,” she murmurs.

You glance over. “You wore my hoodie onstage.”

She shrugs. “You didn’t stop me.”

You bump her shoulder. “You liked the attention.”

She grins. “So did you.”

---

You notice it first thing in the morning.

Billie’s curled up on the lounge couch of the bus, one leg tucked under her, face lit up by her phone screen.

And she’s wearing your hoodie again.

Like full-on sleeves-past-her-fingers, hood-up, slept-in-it-for-hours wearing it.

You pause in the hallway, toothbrush in one hand, squinting.

“That mine?”

She glances up, totally unfazed. “Mmhm.”

“You wore it yesterday.”

“Smells like you.”

You blink. “That’s not a reason—”

“Sure it is,” she says, and stretches like a cat. “Smells hot.”

You make a face. “What does that even mean?”

She grins. “You’re the musician. Write a song about it.”

---

She wears it the next night too. To dinner with the crew. To soundcheck. To bed. To your side of the bus just to “see what you’re doing.” (No one believes that.)

Every time you try to comment on it, she just goes, “It’s not a crime.” Like she didn’t just climb into your entire identity.

And then.

Then.

It happens.

---

You’re backstage. Sweaty, laughing, still high from the show. Billie’s got her hand on your chest, pushing you gently into the wall like she’s trying to stop you from making her laugh again.

You're grinning. “You’re obsessed with me.”

She huffs. “I barely tolerate you.”

But she’s close.

You’re close.

Too close.

She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers are still fisted in the front of your hoodie—her hoodie now, apparently—and she’s looking at your mouth like it’s a melody she knows too well.

Your hands slide to her waist.

She tilts her head.

And that’s when—

“Ayo!?”

You both flinch like you’ve been caught robbing a bank.

Finneas. Wide-eyed. Smirking. Holding a half-eaten granola bar like a weapon.

He stares.

Then grins.

“Oh my GOD,” he says, pointing between you two. “Are we—did I just interrupt a moment?”

Billie groans, stepping back so fast she nearly trips.

You rub your face. “Jesus Christ—”

“Oh no no no,” Finneas says, already fishing his phone out. “No one’s ever living this down.”

Billie tries to swipe it. “Don’t you dare—”

He skips away, laughing like a man possessed.

“HEY GUYS,” he yells into the hallway, “They were about to kiss—tell the security to evacuate the tension!”

Billie shouts after him while you're halfway down the wall, doubled over in wheezing laughter, “You're a menace!”

He shouts back, “You're in love with my sister!”

****

[During Tour - Autumn - Final Three Shows]

You're scheduled for three interviews today.

The first is solo. Second is with Billie. Third—back-to-back one-on-ones again, right across the hall.

You and Billie haven’t kissed. Haven’t said anything real. But somehow you’re still orbiting each other like gravity isn’t even pretending to be subtle.

---

The host grins. “You’ve been touring all year with Billie Eilish. What’s that like?”

You smile, casual. “It’s fun. Loud. Slightly chaotic.”

“Just slightly?”

“The woman is stealing my closet.”

The interviewer perks up. “Wait, really?”

You laugh, slow and knowing. “You’ll see.”

---

You’re both on the couch, Billie in that hoodie again—yours, stretched and worn and soft enough now to count as property damage.

The host notices instantly. “Is that—wait, Billie, is that the hoodie?”

Billie looks down like she forgot what she was wearing. Shrugs.

“Uh-huh.”

The host looks between you. “It’s theirs, right?”

You smile into your water bottle.

Billie doesn’t even flinch. “Yeah,” she says simply. “It’s theirs.”

No explanation. No attempt to make it a joke.

Just… acknowledgement.

You blink. Okay, then.

---

The rest of the interview is worse.

She touches your knee once. You say something stupid and she laughs so hard she leans fully into your shoulder. At one point you compliment her stage presence and she blushes.

Like visibly. On camera.

---

You watch from the hallway as she sits across from a different host. You’re sipping tea, trying not to stare.

It’s not working.

The host asks: “People are convinced that there’s something going on between you and Y/N Y/L/N. Anything you wanna clear up?”

Billie shrugs. Casual. Controlled.

Then says: “They’re my favorite person.”

You nearly choke on your tea.

The host goes, “Favorite how?”

Billie grins. “Let people wonder.”

---

Later, in the car, she nudges your thigh with hers.

“You good?”

You blink. “You called me your favorite person.”

She shrugs again. “You are 'cause you're hot.”

You deadpan at her, feigning unimpressed.

She chuckles and looks out the window.

Leaves fall outside. Gold and red and slow.

You could fall too. If you haven't already.

---

The venue is bigger tonight. Open roof. Packed crowd. That kind of restless electric in the air that only happens near endings.

You’re backstage, stretching your hands, trying to stay calm. This is show #87. There are three left.

You should be used to her by now.

You’re not.

Billie walks up behind you, gently bumps your shoulder with hers. “Ready to give them a heart attack?”

You glance at her. “That’s your job.”

She’s already wearing your hoodie again. Cropped under her stage jacket. No shame. Just claiming.

The lights shift.

The stage calls.

---

You hit the stage side by side. The roar of the crowd drowns everything for a moment.

And then: The music starts. And it’s just the two of you again.

---

Second verse.

You’re at your mic. Billie’s across the stage, singing her heart out like she’s never looked at anyone else the way she looks at you.

You hold eye contact.

Too long.

Your cue comes and you almost miss it.

You catch yourself just in time, smirking as you step forward. She bites her lip mid-lyric to stop herself from laughing.

The crowd screams.

---

You’re supposed to walk toward each other. Just a choreo note, nothing serious.

But something’s different tonight.

You don’t stop walking.

Neither does she.

You’re chest-to-chest, sharing one mic between you, harmonizing like the world’s closing in.

Her hand finds your jaw for just a second. Just enough.

You swear the fans collectively forget how to breathe.

---

Final chorus.

She’s behind you now. You’re singing the last line.

And Billie leans in—barely, subtly—and sings it with you.

Right into your ear.

You close your eyes.

It’s too much.

And not enough.

---

After the show.

You're dripping sweat, vibrating with adrenaline, half convinced you're hallucinating.

Billie’s beside you again, this time backstage, breathless and laughing.

She says, “You almost forgot your cue.”

You shrug. “You looked hot.”

She grins. “You sound jealous.”

“Of myself?”

She shrugs. “You’ve got range.”

You shake your head, smirking.

Then she reaches out, tugs lightly at your sleeve.

“Two more,” she says.

You nod. “Two more.”

And then what?

She doesn’t say.

You don’t ask.

But both of you are thinking it.

---

It’s 11:47 PM when you get back to the room.

Billie throws her jacket onto the armchair and kicks her shoes off like they personally offended her.

You flop onto your bed with a dramatic groan, face down, limbs spread like a crime scene victim. She snorts.

"You good?"

You groan louder.

“That was a lot.”

You lift your head just enough to look at her. She’s peeling off the hoodie—your hoodie—and tossing it on the bed before flopping onto her own mattress, hair messy and skin flushed from the stage lights.

You mutter, “You grinded on me during the bridge.”

Billie smirks at the ceiling. “And?”

You sit up. “Billie. You sang into my mouth.”

She turns her head slowly, meets your eyes with that lazy, wicked grin.

“I felt like projecting.”

You blink. “You’re gonna give people an aneurysm.”

She shrugs, one leg bent, one arm behind her head. “Let 'em suffer.”

There’s a moment.

Just a beat of silence.

And then:

“You stared at my mouth again,” she says softly.

You freeze.

She doesn’t let up. “You always do that after the third chorus. Like clockwork.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You keep track of when I look at your mouth?”

She shrugs again, grinning like she won. “You make it obvious.”

You sit back, arms crossed. “You’re literally always touching me.”

“That’s called stage chemistry, babe.”

“Stage chemistry doesn’t involve hand-holding between songs.”

“You looked nervous.”

“You winked at me while singing the line about taking someone home.”

Billie bites her lip. “I said what I said.”

You glare.

She smiles.

You toss a pillow at her. She catches it one-handed and hugs it to her chest.

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter:

“You gonna keep staring or what?”

You blink.

Your voice comes out low. “You gonna stop letting me?”

Another pause.

Billie breathes out a laugh. “God, we’re insufferable.”

You nod. “It’s honestly impressive how long we’ve lasted without making out.”

She nods back. “A miracle, really.”

More silence.

You both stare at the ceiling like it’ll give you a sign.

Then, without looking at you, Billie whispers, “You want your hoodie back?”

You glance over.

She’s holding it out with one hand.

You take it slowly.

But she doesn’t let go right away.

Your fingers brush.

It’s not much.

But it’s too much.

You both look away.

Nothing happens.

But everything almost does.

---

It’s the second-to-last show.

Your blood is loud in your ears. Your lungs are full of heat. Every nerve in your body is buzzing with Billie. The stage. The crowd. The countdown.

She’s been testing you all night.

Walking too close.

Singing too soft.

Touching your back between verses.

And then the last song starts.

The one where you always walk toward each other, meet center-stage, faces close. A moment. A tease.

But this time?

This time, something’s different.

---

You're mid-line, stepping forward, voice raw.

Billie steps up too—closer than usual.

Closer than ever.

You swear her mouth brushes your jaw when she sings her part, the crowd roaring so loud your heart stutters.

And then?

No one moves.

The music plays on.

But you don’t.

You just look at her. And she looks at you. And something in both of you snaps.

You almost drop your mic the same way she almost drops hers.

And then your hands are in her hair and her mouth’s on yours and she kisses you like she’s been starving since spring.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s months of wanting and waiting and breaking onstage in real time.

The crowd screams.

Like a collective gasp followed by stadium-shaking chaos.

Your name trends before the song even ends.

---

Backstage. No one says a word.

The team parts like the sea when you pass.

Finneas opens his mouth to say something and someone—bless them—shoves a mic pack in his hands to shut him up.

You and Billie walk in silence.

Not touching.

Not looking.

Just... thinking.

Still tasting.

---

You close the door behind you. Click.

Billie stands in the middle of the room like she forgot how to sit down.

You lean against the door. “Wanna talk about it?”

She runs a hand through her hair. “Do you?”

“Nope.”

She turns to look at you. “Good.”

You both stand there, two feet apart, staring.

Then, softer:

“You kissed me.”

You scoff. “You kissed me.”

Her eyes narrow. “You had your hand down my jacket.”

You throw up your arms. “I blacked out from horniness, Billie!”

She laughs.

Like really laughs.

You grin, breathless. “Jesus Christ.”

She’s still laughing when she crosses the room, grabs your collar, and pulls you in again—fast and full and this time with no crowd, no stage, no cameras.

Just you. Just her. Just the kiss that should’ve happened months ago.

You pull back barely an inch, lips brushing hers.

“So… we’re talking now?”

She nods. “Eventually.”

Then kisses you again.

---

It’s the day after the kiss.

Tour’s almost done, but tonight? No shows. No rehearsals. No interviews.

Just dinner.

You didn’t plan anything fancy. Billie didn’t want that. She texted you from her hotel bed:

“u hungry or in denial”

You replied:

“both but i could eat”

She sent back a pin to a quiet diner just two blocks from the hotel.

---

The diner’s nearly empty.

Dim lighting. Warm air. One sleepy waiter in the corner pretending not to watch them. You sit across from Billie in a red vinyl booth that squeaks every time either of you move. There’s sugar in the ketchup bottle. The jukebox is broken.

It’s perfect.

Billie looks half-asleep, hair tied up in some lazy knot, face clean of makeup. Your hoodie’s drowning her shoulders. She hasn’t even opened her menu.

“You gonna order?” you ask, eyes flicking up over the rim of your milkshake.

She shrugs. “Already know what I want.”

You roll your eyes. “How mysterious.”

“Right?” she smirks. “I’m so cool.”

You laugh, leaning back into the booth, socked foot nudging hers under the table. “So humble, too.”

She kicks you lightly in retaliation, then sits back and exhales like she’s been holding it in for years.

“...This is weird,” she says after a second.

“What, being somewhere normal?”

Billie nods slowly. “No stage. No bus. No crew. Just… this.”

You glance at the table between you, then back at her. “It’s kinda nice.”

She hums. “Yeah.”

A quiet minute passes. You both let the silence stretch.

Then she says it.

“So... that happened.”

Your heart kicks. But your smile stays easy. “Yeah.”

There’s a long beat.

Billie’s gaze flicks up from the table. Her voice is soft—serious in a way she doesn’t do often. “Do you regret it?”

Your fingers tap your glass. You glance at her, eyebrow raised.

“Would you do it again?”

She doesn’t flinch.

You pause. Let your mouth tilt into something crooked. “No regrets.”

She doesn’t blink.

“Ten out of ten,” you say, “would do again.”

She chuckles as her shoulders drop the tiniest bit, like she’s been bracing for something. You feel it in your own chest too, that nervous flutter, the almost-fear that this could’ve been a one-time thing. A glitch.

But now she knows.

You meant it.

“I like you,” she says then. Soft, but steady. “Like… a lot.”

You almost smile, but there’s something in your throat. Something warm and sharp and real.

Billie goes on before you can answer. “I know we’ve been doing this thing—flirting, pretending it’s for fun. But I’m tired of being weird about it.”

You breathe in. Exhale through your nose.

“I like you too,” you say, finally. “A stupid amount.”

She smiles, nose scrunching slightly. “Stupid?”

“Yeah.” You rest your elbow on the table, lean in. “You’re dramatic. And demanding. You take my hoodies without asking.”

“You leave them in reach,” she argues.

“Because I live with you on a bus, Billie!”

“That’s a you problem.”

You laugh—sharp, bright, totally yours.

Then softer, as you settle again: “I’d do the last eleven months over again just to get here.”

She looks at you for a long time. You let her.

Then she asks, “So… we’re doing this?”

You nod. “Yeah. We are.”

Billie’s eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. “Cool.”

You grin. “Cool.”

She smirks a little. “You gonna kiss me again or what?”

You blink. “We’re in public.”

She shrugs. “Pussy.”

You scoff, then lean across the table and kiss her anyway—slow, sure, and right there, beside the salt and pepper shakers.

It tastes like milkshake. And freedom. And finally.

****

[During Tour - Autumn - Final Show]

You feel it in your chest the second you step on stage.

This one’s different.

You’ve played eighty-eight shows together. Cities blurring. Airports forgotten. Dressing rooms, green rooms, soundcheck jokes and half-missed cues. But this?

This is the last one.

And this time, Billie reaches for your hand without thinking.

Fingers linked. Palms warm. The crowd roars.

You glance at her.

She’s already looking at you.

---

The show is everything.

Lights brighter. Crowd louder. Setlist tighter. Even the air feels thicker, golden and buzzing.

Billie dances like she’s weightless.

You sing like the words were born on your tongue.

And somewhere in the second verse of “Bleed Into You,” when she backs up against you and your hands find her waist automatically—

You realize the crowd already knows.

They’ve always known.

But tonight? You’re not pretending anymore.

---

The last song comes.

You hear the opening notes and your chest tightens in the best way.

The crowd’s already screaming. They know this part. They wait for it.

You walk toward center stage.

Billie walks toward you.

You meet.

Just like always.

But now… there’s no pause. No hesitation.

Billie looks at you and smiles like you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted.

And you—

You lean in.

Hands on her jaw.

And this time?

You kiss her.

Not rushed. Not stolen. Not hidden behind fog machines or chaos.

You kiss her like you mean it. Because you do.

And she kisses you back with both hands in your hair and a soft little sound in her throat that makes your knees weak.

The crowd is screaming. Crying. Filming. You don’t care.

The music plays on behind you.

And she whispers, right against your lips:

“Finally.”

You pull back, just enough to see her face. She’s glowing.

You grin, dizzy and sure. “Took us long enough.”

She laces your fingers again and turns you both toward the crowd.

You raise your hands.

They cheer like you just announced the second coming.

Billie tugs you close one more time and kisses your cheek, then murmurs against your temple:

“Let them look.”

You nod. “They’ve been watching the whole time.”

--------------------

Ayee

[aayakashii]

GOING ABSOLUTELY COOCOO CRAZY WITH THIS RN

On the Mend

Comments: Haru x Reader fic request for @aayakashii, comfort fic about bad experiences w/ love. I usually suck at this, keep your expectations low everyone... (BTW, I think I figured out the cute gif aesthetic for this one, I hope you're proud of me, Aaya (〃^∇^)ﾉ )

The sound of the doorbell going off reverberates throughout your room in the cathedral.

You had personally installed it yourself a few weeks prior to make it easier to alert you of guests visiting, considering you generally stayed on the second floor. This was probably the first time you've heard it ring, and you weren't expecting company. 

You rolled lethargically out from underneath your blanket and pulled on a cozy cardigan that was hanging on the headboard of your bed. It was already around seven in the evening, so you're far from what you would consider to be presentable at the moment. As you make your way down the steps and towards the front door, you do your best to brush down your disheveled hair. Hopefully the visitor wasn't anyone you'd hate to look crusty in front of. Though, there was really only one person that you had to worry about that with and SURELY it isn't him. He rarely has time to leave Jabberwock, after all.

You make it to the front door and swing it open. An all too familiar eccentric captain in an orange jumpsuit is standing right outside your door. 

Some higher entity had to be playing a prank on you right now. 

"Heya, (Y/N)! You sure look cozy!" 

"Haru… what are you doing here?" You ask, quirking an eyebrow. 

"I came to check on you! I know it's late, buuut..." Haru tilts his head, observing you inquisitively. "It's Saturday! You usually come over in the early afternoon."

Your eyes widen. "Saturday...?" 

You reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull out your phone to verify his claim.

And sure enough, he was right. 

It had been a few days since you left the cathedral because you had been recovering from a cold. That and you were in dire need of some personal time. No people, no missions, no Darkwick. 

Regardless, you most certainly didn't intend to skip out on Haru. You always went out of your way to help him on Saturdays because it was the day that you had the least obligations. The Jabberwock Captain is someone that you consider to be a close friend, so you did your best to alleviate some of his overwhelming workload. 

"Haru, I'm so, so, sorry!" You apologize with a bow. "I really didn't even notice it was Saturday. My internal clock is out of whack because I haven't been feeling well."

Haru waves his hands placatingly in the air. "No, no! I sent you a text earlier today, but I don't think you saw it, so I was making sure you're as fit as a fiddle!" The Jabberwock Captain pauses and tents his eyebrows, his lips puckering into a pout. "But you're not feeling well?"

"You sent me a text...?" 

That's right, you did turn off your message notifications for the day. 

"Mmmhm! Just asking your availability for the day. No worries, though! The farm is in tip-top shape!" Haru assures with a radiant smile. 

"I'm glad it turned out okay," You hesitate, carefully deliberating over your next words. "...Are you going to be busy anytime soon?"

The Jabberwock Captain shakes his head. "Nope! The kiddo is in bed and I have a baby monitor set up just in case!"

You avert your gaze, doing your utmost to not seem nervous. "Would you like to come inside?"

"Are you kidding? I've been dying to see your place. Count me in!" Haru readily agrees.

You lead him inside, shutting the door behind the both of you. The Jabberwock Captain walks ahead with his hands on his hips, peering around the open space with curiosity.

"I don't usually stay down here," You clarify preemptively. 

Haru lets out a low whistle. "This place is pretty big! How do you get to dusting around here?" 

"Dusting?" You chuckle at that. "I don't exactly have a ladder fit for that here."

"That's no good! Especially when you're sick! I can get a ladder real quick if you want. I'll have this whole place spic and span in no time!"

"Nooope. Not gonna happen." Immediately rejecting the idea, you walk up to Haru and take his gloved hand in yours, pulling him towards the staircase. "If I'm relaxing you are too, for once."

"If you say so... don't be surprised if you come home one day to a brand new cathedral," Haru says as he follows you. The way he wraps his fingers securely around yours doesn't go unnoticed. 

"I lock my doors before I leave," You counter.

Haru hums ambiguously behind you. 

You don't need to turn around to know why. "No lock picking, either."

The captain clicks his tongue. "Darn."

Once the two of you get upstairs, you make your way to your vintage sofa on the right side of the room. A few months ago, you picked up a smart TV when you were out in the mundane world on a mission. Currently, it was set up on a wooden media console right across from the couch. You waste no time plopping down, pulling a nearby throw blanket over you, and reaching for the remote on the end table to find something to watch. 

Rather than joining you, Haru opts to shamelessly look around the room once he kicks off his shoes by the entrance. It didn't bother you-- not now anyway. You're pretty sure you don't have anything embarrassing laying out in the open. As you search through different streaming services, you catch Haru in your peripheral periodically darting around the room.

"What's this? VHS scary movies...?" Haru asks as he stops at the bookshelf by your bed. He begins pulling out some of the tapes to further examine them. "Hey, Ren likes some of these! I've seen them in his room, too!"

With permission, surely...

"Before I got a smart TV in here, all I had was a VHS player," You explain, glancing up at him from the screen. "This place was pretty dated."

"You are the first person I've seen stay here," Haru remarks as he pushes the tapes back in their respective places. 

You divert your attention back to the television and continue scrolling through your recommended shows. It's mostly horror movies. Save for a few K-dramas that contributed to your sour mood earlier in the day. Maybe you were being petty and bitter, but romance just isn't speaking to you the way it used to.

"Doujinshi manga...?" Haru reads aloud, humming with curiosity. The nosey captain pries open the book without hesitation. "Let's take a peeksies...!"

Shit, you thought you threw that out forever ago. It was definitely kind of smutty. 

You snap your head in his direction, your cheeks burning with embarrasment. "H-Haru! That's enough sifting through my stuff for now, get your butt over here!"

The Jabberwock Captain sways his body to face your direction, a teasing smile plastered on his face. "Can I take the book?"

He so knew what he was doing. 

"No. Put it back," You retort sternly. 

"Okay, okaaay."

Haru obeys, placing the novel back where he found it before making his way towards you. When he sits down next to you, he's rather close. It gives your heart a little jumpstart, and you desperately try not to think about the fact that your knees are now touching. Sure, the captain could have sat farther away, but it's a small couch.

"What are we watching?" Haru asks as he peers at the screen ahead. "You really like horror movies, dontchya?"

"Do you?" You counter.

"I don't mind them! If I get scared, can I hold onto you?" Haru jokes.

You wish he would hold onto you anyway, but you don't say that. 

"Only if I get the same pass." Somehow you manage that without tripping over your words. You just hope you're not blushing. 

"Of course! It goes without saying-- a tooth for a tooth." Haru looks back at the screen and something you're highlighting seems to catch his eye. "Oooh, that K-drama there! Towa told me about it, he said it's really good. You watched an episode already?"

You groan, scrolling past it anyway. "Towa told me about it too. The only romance related stuff I'd be willing to watch right now is trash TV. Unhappy couples only."

You probably sound like a bitter goblin, but you're too tired to care. 

Haru quirks a skeptic eyebrow. "Unhappy only? You don't like the happy ones?"

"I just need to be injected with a little realism right now. And this isn't it," You reply, dodging the question.

Haru stares at you like he has more to say for several beats. You pretend not to notice and find the trashiest trash TV show possible. This was probably just what you needed. You silently commend your big-brained idea before clicking and starting up the show. 

"... So, I heard you missed class the last two days!" The Jabberwock Captain comments with an awkward chuckle. "What happened there?"

You flit your gaze to him as you lean back into the cushion of the couch. "And how do you know that?"

"Ahahaha..." Haru nervously musses his hair and avoids your searching eyes. "Well, your professor phoned me and what not! Yup, yup."

"Strange... I didn't realize Darkwick staff called to report an absence for a grown adult woman. To a captain who's house I'm not even a part of, no less," You remark coolly. 

Haru presses his lips into a thin line and you can practically see the sweat dripping from his forehead as he fumbles for an excuse. "Er... well. Gahaha."

You place your elbow on the armrest next to you and support your head against your knuckles, narrowing your eyes at him. "Spill."

"...Okay, so maaaybe when I installed the new 'Find My Kiddo' tracking chips on Ren's phone, they may have accidentally tumbled into your bag last time you were over?" Haru suggests, his tone as guilty as he looks. 

You harden your gaze, enunciating his name with bite. "Haru."

Haru picks up a throw pillow from behind himself and hugs it against his chest. "Okay, okay, fine! I installed it on your phone, too." The Jabberwock Captain sucks in a gust of air, near whispering his next words. "...Don't be mad?"

You click your tongue and reach a hand forward, squishing his cheek-- albeit lightly. It elicits a satisfying squeak out of him anyway. 

"I'm not mad," You assure him, tapping his chin softly before withdrawing your hand. "But why did you do that?"

Haru chews on his lip, appearing rather meek. "What if you get in to trouble? Or someone kidnaps you? Or what if you get attacked by a vicious dog on the way to campus? Anything could happen...!" 

If it were literally anyone else, this would be creepy as hell. But Haru gets a pass. He always does.

You snort, your mood lifting by the second. "A dog? Is that what I should be worried about? You're so silly, sometimes." 

Haru's expression relaxes at your response. He smiles, his eyebrows tented. "I hope you know that you can talk to me if you need to! A silly fella like me is still willing to listen."

It's not as if you're not willing to vent to Haru, but this particular topic would be strange for you to breach. On top of recovering from a cold, you had been feeling down and out regarding the lack of success in your love life. The last person that should hear about that stuff is the guy you have the hots for. 

You shoot him a wary look before tossing your gaze ahead to the TV. "What makes you think I need to talk?"

Haru shifts his eyes in the direction of your sleeping area. "Well... the filled trash can with crumpled up tissues is one thing."

Your face burns at the insinuation. "I...! I told you I wasn't feeling well! I had the sniffles!" 

Okay, that may or may not be the only reason. 

Haru pauses, turning to look towards you again. "And I noticed your stereo has a playlist paused called 'Songs to Cry to'. Not to mention your favorite comfort cookies are nestled in your sheets like a baby in a bassinet!" 

"Are you trying to embarrass me right now?" You accuse, though you don't even believe it yourself. "And when did you have a chance to notice all that?”

Haru smiles sheepishly. "I notice everything about you! Er, well I try…!”

You feel your heart catch in your throat at the unexpected comment. Why does he have to make things so complicated by being the most reliable and sweet ray of sunshine you ever laid your eyes upon? You should have figured he was snooping more than you thought. 

Sighing, you pull the throw blanket on your lap over your shoulders as you pull your knees to your chest. Maybe in an attempt to make yourself feel less exposed physically than you do emotionally right now. "...You really want me to tell you? It's pretty lame."

Haru pivots in his spot to face you and crosses his legs. "Only if you feel comfy doing it!"

You fidget underneath the blanket and train your gaze on the TV ahead. The show is playing, but the volume is currently so low you don't even need to bother adjusting it. "I feel comfortable talking to you, of course. This is just a weird topic I don't think I've brought up around you."

Haru leans his head against the back of the couch and patiently waits for you to continue.

You can't imagine Haru feeling weird about anything really. He was always the type to roll with the punches. Regardless, you ask him a question to gauge his response to the topic. 

"Have you dated anyone, Haru?"

The Jabberwock Captain pauses, pressing his lips together as he deliberates a reply. 

It's not like much time passes, but you find yourself immediately regretting the question. “You don't have to answer that, sorry!"

"Don't be! I just, er... wouldn't call it dating? Hehe." Haru scratches his face with a gloved finger. 

"...You mean like hookups?" You deadpan.

Haru nods, a nervous laugh spilling from his lips. "Yeaaah! It was like a bajillion years ago, though!"

You look at him with curiosity. For some reason that doesn't surprise you a whole lot. "How was it? Your experience with that?"

The captain's cheeks tinge pink, but he answers readily. "Hmm... at the time I probably thought it was great. Hormones and adolescence can really pull the wool over your eyes, though!"

"You aren't seeing anyone now?" The question leaves your mouth before you can consider how suggestive it may sound.

"Gahaha, there aren't enough hours in a day for all that! Unless they became a ranger for Jabberwock!" Haru suddenly sits up and smacks a fist against his open palm, like he just remembered something. "Oh, oh! That reminds me! I finally got a Jabberwock uniform for you on the way! It's lavender colored! Cute, right?"

You sigh and mentally kick yourself for how excited you feel from his impulsive word vomit. "I know you didn't mean it like that, but you did NOT time those two pieces of information together well... lavender is cute by the way, thanks."

"Hmm?" Haru stares at you, looking a little lost.

Moving on.

"I think we have had very different experiences in the romance department," You remark. "I suppose that only makes sense."

"Tell me about yours," Haru prods, his lips curling into an encouraging smile. 

"...Not great. And if I'm being completely honest, terrible." You laugh bitterly, despite yourself. 

Haru tents his eyebrows, concern etched on his features. "Terrible?"

"I'm not very experienced with intimacy," You admit, breaking away from his stare. "I rushed into things quickly before, because I was intimidated by my lack of experience. It backfired in a way..."

"How so?" Haru presses.

"Well... the whole ordeal was not only lackluster, but left me feeling humiliated and almost entirely opposed to the idea of intimacy afterwards," You explain, vaguely. 

Haru nods in understanding. "So, it was someone that you weren't comfortable with?"

You nod. "Definitely not. I suppose I thought I would be at the time, but it didn't turn out that way. They weren't the person they made themselves out to be."

"Have you dated anyone else?" 

"I've tried. It never feels right, so it doesn't go far."

Haru hums, offering you a sympathetic glance. "So, you wanna find one that does?"

You idly pull at loose strings on the hem of your sleepwear, while you gather your thoughts. "...I just kinda want to have someone special like that. But not just anyone, obviously. I know better now." 

"Clicking with people is tough work! I wish that your first experience had been more positive for you." Haru reaches a hand forward and pats your head gently. "One positive that could come from this is that if you have low expectations, you'll know what's right for you when the time comes! Maybe your next experience will be like fireworks– no second guessing.”

You laugh a little. "That's... certainly one way of looking at it. Assuming I ever find that person."

"Someone who accepts YOU fully? I bet it will be a cinch!" Haru counters enthusiastically. 

"It doesn't feel that simple," You argue unthinkingly. "I've heard plenty of people around me talk shit about other people's performance in bed. Most people would be quick to say there's nothing sexy about needing to reassure someone a lot."

Haru frowns. "Someone who cares about you won't make you feel bad about that, I promise!"

You know he's right. And you feel a bit bad for being so cynical when he's just trying to be supportive. 

You shake your head decidedly. "...Sorry, Haru! I didn't mean to sound so mopey."

A lopsided smile forms on the Jabberwock Captain's face. "Mopey is fine with me! I just hope I can help!”

"You're such a sweetheart, Haru," You comment easily, flashing him a bright smile. "Thanks. This whole curse thing sucked at first, but I'm glad it got me to meet you."

Haru creases his eyebrows and audibly gulps. "M-Me too...! I'm glad I met you too, (Y/N)."

"And you're probably right, anyway. One day, someone might be patient enough to deal with my old hangups,” You shake your head dismissively, eager to clear your thoughts. “Let's watch this show, I don't wanna waste the night away on sad topics." Fixing your gaze ahead, you lift the remote in your hand, and turn the volume on the TV up a couple of notches. 

From your right, you pick up a barely discernible voice.

"...I would."

"..."

You must be hearing things, but you think to double check anyway. Turning the volume down again, you redirect your attention to Haru. The captain's elbows are on his knees, and he's cupping his right hand over his mouth as he looks off to the side. 

Suspicious.

“Did you say something?” You ask. 

“Gahaha… did I?” The captain replies, his voice a little stifled.

Okay, so�� Haru's not outright denying it. Your stomach flips. 

“...Correct me if I'm wrong.”

You watch his lips part slightly as he sucks in a sharp intake of air.

“You just said ‘I would’?” You clarify.

“Urk…!” Haru sits upright and waves his hands erratically. “Ahahahaha, ignore that– please!”

You blink, at a loss for words. Haru is such a firecracker in personality that anything he ever said or did that could be interpreted as flirtatious just felt normal for him. Did he really mean that? If anyone were to successfully help you through your trepidation with physical affection it would be someone kind-hearted and patient like Haru. 

“Crap, I didn't mean to make it weird! A-and about the tracking app! I swear I wasn't doing it to be a creep– please don't get a restraining order…!” Haru clasps his hands together and bows apologetically. “I can totally take it off, no problem!”

A bubbly laugh escapes as you witness his flustered state. “Pffft, a restraining order? What law personnel does Darkwick have to enforce that?”

Haru lowers his hands and looks up at you, his features relaxing. “Ahaha… none really? Now that I think about it.”

“Don't worry, I don't plan on doing that ever,” You assure, smiling brightly for good measure. “But did you really mean what you said?”

Haru nods sheepishly. “I think you're the bee's knees! If anyone deserves patience, it's you. You're nice, smart, helpful, and pretty,” The captain flushes as he vocalizes that last detail more quietly, before brushing past it. “You help out everyone a lot, including me! I barely got a wink of sleep for days, until you started helping around the farm a few months ago. Now I sleep semi-regularly!” 

Haru's words of praise make your stomach do backflips, but you end up fixating on his sleeping habits. You shoot him a tired look. “You still need more sleep, Haru. In fact, you should be using this time to rest!”

“No way…!” Haru protests, appearing almost offended by the suggestion. “I hardly have time to sit down with you like this. I'm way too giddy to sleep!”

You push out an exasperated sigh. Debating his unhealthy habits right now wouldn't result in anything fruitful. So, instead you decide to take his confession into consideration as you carefully mull over your next words.

“...I feel the same way about you.”

The captain snaps to attention, his expression bewildered. “Really?!”

You snort, resting your cheek on your knees as you regard him with adoration. “Don't act so surprised. You're one of the most genuine and good-natured people I've ever met. If I were to try and re-experience anything in the romance department, it would be with someone like you.”

Haru gapes, his cheeks visibly heating up again. “...No joke?” 

You shake your head. “No joke.”

Haru stills rigidly for the moment.

“S-So… what now?” He asks, maybe with a little too much anticipation.

You purse your lips together, eyeing him carefully. “What are you comfortable with?” 

“Anything!” Haru insists, his expression determined.

“Hmm… let's start small then.” You drop your feet to the ground and grab the pillow from Haru's lap, setting it on your own. Patting the soft object encouragingly, you offer an idea. “Lay down?”

“Me? But you're the one who's sick,” Haru counters.

“I'm fine now! Besides, you worked twice as hard today because I was here. So, I insist!”

Despite his initial protest, Haru wastes no time adjusting his position and plopping his head on the cushion. You turn the volume to the TV up marginally, before tentatively running your fingers through the captain's hair. Haru immediately relaxes into the touch, a sigh escaping his lips.

His hair is soft, like it had just recently been conditioned. You begin to pick up the scent of Haru's shampoo as you continue to play with it. The show displayed on the screen in front of you stars broken couples arguing about baby mama drama, but you're hardly paying attention to it. An impossible feat considering the man you harbored feelings for is at such close proximity. 

At some point you massage the pads of your fingertips against Haru's scalp, eliciting a satisfied hum from him. Without warning, the captain flips over to face your waist. He shifts to where he's able to wrap both of his arms around you as he lays across your lap. 

“You're a dream. I'm really living the high life right now,” Haru murmurs. He nestles his face closer into the fabric of your shirt as he tightens his hold on you. 

The action is so endearing you're nearly at a loss for words. His warm breath ghosting over your waist rouses a hoard of fitful butterflies in the pit of your stomach. Pushing through your nerves, you force an airy laugh. “Are you comfortable like that?” 

“Mmmhm. So comfy,” Haru replies, his voice a bit muffled.

The two of you stay like that for some time, all the while you carry on with stroking his hair. You do your best to keep your eyes locked ahead, occasionally stealing glances at the man clinging to you. Eventually, the episode comes to an end and the credits start rolling. 

“Haru, do you want to pick something…?” You ask, picking up the remote again.

No response.

You glance down and notice the rise and fall of Haru's rhythmic breathing. He's sound asleep. 

Considering how little the captain slept, the fact that he felt comfortable enough to do so is nothing short of heartwarming. The only problem is your legs are getting all tingly from falling asleep. Maybe you should just ask him to stay over considering the time? 

You adjust your position ever so slightly to get some relief for your temporarily compressed nerves. Unfortunately, this causes Haru to stir from his slumber in the process.

The arms around your waist relax and the captain props himself up on his elbows, to where he's hovering over your lap and inadvertently caging in your thighs. “Mmn… Did I just fall asleep?”

“You did, but that's okay. Do you want to lie down? I'll move the cookies and Kleenex for you,” You tease with a smirk. 

Haru languidly lifts himself to a sitting position and rubs his eyes. “...In your bed?” 

“It's getting kind of late to walk home. Only if you're comfortable with it,” You explain, doing your best to quell the anxiety you felt from proposing the idea.

Haru moves his hand from his face and blinks in surprise. 

“I'm offering so you can get proper sleep,” You clarify hastily.

“...Can we cuddle?” Haru asks, his tone hopeful. 

You let out a short laugh. “Yes, I'd love that.”

A grin splits the captain's face. “Heck, yeah! Now I'm stoked for sleep!”

“I just wanted to say… Thank you for listening to my problems. And for giving me company.”

Haru waves his hand flippantly. “Come now! I should thank you for having me! If you ever need anything, don't be shy to ask!” 

You smile teasingly. “I'll hold you to that. Anyway, let me clear off my mattress, it's a mess!” With that, you get to your feet with intention to make your way to your bed, but the sensation of pins and needles in your legs causes you to stumble forward. 

“Aaah!” Not missing a beat, Haru shoots upright and catches you in his arms. “Are you okay?!”

The faint scent of musky cologne fills your nostrils as you fall forward against the Jabberwock Captain's chest. Making a point to hardly move so as to not make the sensation any more unbearable, you rigidly lift your head. “Yup, my legs just fell asleep, ahaha.”

Haru snickers. “Darn, I hate when that happens! No worries, I gotchya!” 

You don't even get a chance to ask what he means before you're lifted from your spot on the ground and hoisted over his shoulder. 

A squeak of protest escapes your lips. “H-Haru…!”

“Trust the process!” Haru begins to walk over towards your bed, holding you in place as he goes. “You'll be down before you can say Jack Robinson, gahaha!”

“Jack Robinson, Jack Robinson, Jack Robins–” Your mantra is abruptly caught off when Haru easily lifts and maneuvers your body back first onto the mattress. You narrow your eyes up at the captain, who's hovering over you with his palms flat against the plush surface beneath you. “Two and a half times,” You point out. 

“If I went any faster, you may have gotten motion sickness!” Haru argues, puckering his bottom lip out. “Better than walking on stiff feet though, yeah?”

The captain begins to lift himself up and for some reason you find yourself abruptly catching the collar of his shirt. Haru appears mildly surprised by the action. 

“Er, s-sorry!” You hastily apologize, loosening your grip on the fabric. 

Haru tents his eyebrows and smiles, his tone amused. “You want me to stay like this?”

“That wouldn't exactly be comfortable,” You counter, fighting back a blush.

The captain hums and leans against the mattress, just between your legs that are hanging over the side. “This is comfy enough, for now!”

Your heart slams erratically in your chest as you lock eyes with Haru at such close proximity. Of course, he would immediately be receptive to any protest you have. But why exactly did you stop him from leaving? 

“I… can I kiss you?” You manage, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Haru’s cheeks tinge pink at the sudden request. Regardless, he doesn't delay in his efforts to fulfill it. You catch a glimpse of his hand moving in your peripheral before you feel it cup your cheek and tilt your face upwards. Your eyes flutter shut when you register him closing the distance.

The sensation of Haru's warm lips against yours is mind-numbing. To say you have butterflies would feel like a disservice to the unfamiliar emotions flooding over you like a tidal wave. Countless years of resolute aversion directed at the idea of sharing another kiss with someone melted away with the first chaste contact. Haru separates his lips briefly, only to reconnect with yours over and over again in a barrage of subdued and languid kisses. 

When Haru eventually pulls away, his features are completely flushed. He props himself over you with his elbows and eyes you warily. “Was that okay…?”

You bring your own hand up to touch your face. Considering how warm you feel right now there's no way he doesn't see the effect he has on you. “I think I must be down bad for you, Haru.”

The response seems to pacify the captain because he smiles at you. “Hah… if that's the case I sure am a lucky guy.”

“I think I'm the lucky one.”

Haru shakes his head emphatically. “You reckon we can keep doing this? Or, er… is it a one time thing?” 

The anxiety in his tone is enough to gut you. As if you would have it any other way. 

“You're the only one I want,” You assure. “I would love to keep spending time with you.”

Haru regards you with such a doting look that it's a wonder you're not dissolving from the overload of emotions being thrown at you all at once. 

“Looks like I'm gonna have to bribe the team so I can open up my schedule!”

[aliteralsemicolon]

Crawling back to you

Masterlist

GIF by undertheniall

Prison changed a lot of things in your relationship with Spencer. The one thing that remains the same is the mutual desire to hold on to the person you love.

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER I do not consent to my work being used to feed/train AI and/or re-posted anywhere by anybody else You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Minors do not interact at all. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read.

WARNING: Drunk! Spencer. I think that’s it. I hope. Idk it’s been a minute I’m sorry. Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 3.4K See notes at end for author's note & spoilers.

Full playlist

There’s instant comfort in the sound of laughter coming from somebody you love. It's the kind of laughter that bubbles from deep inside the lungs, depriving them of air and pushing their voice up an octave or two. It envelopes you; you can feel the laughter vibrating between your torsos.

“Spencer, come on!” There’s a failed sternness in your tone, you have to physically fight the giggles away by nuzzling your head in his neck. You’re sure the neighbours below you won’t appreciate the loud thud omitted from the sound of their drunken neighbours toppling over, barely a few steps into the apartment. More precisely, the tall, lanky one drunkenly toppled over and took his girlfriend down with him. 

“I’m sorry! I’m s—so,” He’s not even trying to muffle the sounds, he’s practically hysterical. “Baby—I can’t breathe.” 

“Oh my god.” You push yourself off his chest, grabbing his arms as you stand. It takes all your physical strength to pull him up. Even then, you only manage to get him to sit. “Help me out over here!”

Your plea falls on deaf ears as Spencer bursts into another, slightly more muted, fit of giggles. He places an arm around his ribs and uses the other to hug your leg, leaning his head against your thigh. The muscles in your cheeks begin to ache from how wide your grin is. You have to brace yourself using his shoulder. Your other hand lands in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. 

What even is comfort? 

Spencer would tell you that its origins can be traced back to the Latin word ‘fortis’—meaning strong—combined with the late Latin word ‘com’ to produce’ confortare’. The word ‘comfort’ as we currently know it, was derived from the later French translation of ‘confort.’ The Oxford Dictionary defines it as ‘the easing or alleviation of a person’s feelings of grief or distress.’

What possible grief or distress could there be when his lips press on your thigh, followed by a satisfied hum from the feeling of your skin? And when he looks up at you with those big brown eyes the sun's warmth seeps into your skin, despite it being the moon's hour. You look relaxed. Happy. His lips part and his mouth runs dry. Behind adoration is curiosity painted on his face.

“What?” It makes you nervous. He doesn’t reply instantly, words escape him.

“There are…hundreds of quotes I could pull apart—th—thousands of scientific comparisons I could make, but all I’m able to say right now…is that you’re…perfect. Eve—even your flaws. They’re perfect.” His brows are concentrated and you scoff half-heartedly. It’s not the sun's warmth. It’s him. He is the sun. “Which doesn’t really make sense. But—you. You make sense.”

His eyes wander frantically as he tries to keep track of his thoughts. “Does that make sense?”

Comfort.

You would equate it to the phrase ‘welcome home’. Home. Sanctuary. Retreat from the brutal realities of the cruel world. The lack of response tells him your attention is not entirely on him. He pouts.

“You’re too far away. C’mere.” He whines, his arm moving from his ribcage to tug on your hand. He leans back to make room for you on his lap.

“No, you c’mere.” You resist, trying to pull him up to his feet instead. “We need to get you to bed.” 

“Just two minutes.” 

The tug of war is short-lived; he carries more body strength. Not that he uses much, all it takes is the sweet lull of his voice for him to command you down. His hands glide up your thighs, stopping at your waist once you’re fully straddling him. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, noses nudging and gaze fixed on each other. Spencer brushes his lips against yours, gradually locking them. The kiss is slow, there’s no urgency. The kind that makes you feel like this is forever. As sure as flowers blooming every spring and leaves falling every autumn.

“Impossibly perfect.” He mumbles with a sigh, reaffirming his previous train of thought. The statement travels off his tongue so naturally. Your ears heat up and you fail to respond once again. What response can you give? More sweet affirmations are whispered, and although you don’t hear them, you feel his lips graze your cheek. 

“I love you.” He mumbles against your skin before planting a kiss. You hum in return and diffidently nestle your face in his neck. Spencer shrieks and rolls both of you on the ground. “That tickles!”

He attempts to separate his body from yours, but your arms tighten around his neck. “Let go!”

“Mm-mm.” You shake your head and nuzzle your nose further in. Laughter engulfs you again.

“You have three—ah—three seconds to let go before I start tickling you back.” 

An empty threat, he knows how much you hate it. It works, though. You push off him begrudgingly. 

“Fine.”

His drunken state confuses your playful pout for a sad one and his victorious smirk is short-lived. Spencer ejects upright, hooking his fingers under your chin with a pout of his own. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Just my boyfriend hates me.” You dramatically sigh and lower your sight, toying with the buttons on his shirt. 

Meanwhile, your boyfriend is aghast that he has you feeling so. If only you could see the genuine furrow in his raised brows. The subtle pout of his lips and his head tilting to the side. His eyes always look like they’re pleading for something, but that’s just the cost of having big, round, beautiful eyes. 

“No. What? N-no!” He’s almost too offended to articulate an appropriate response. “Do you—no!”

Entirely baffled and unable to verbally reject your claim, he opts for physical expression to show you just how wrong you are. He cups your cheeks in both hands and lunges at you with a flurry of kisses, each landing blindly on any accessible part of your face. You anchor an arm behind you to stabilise yourself. The whole scene is chaotic.

“Spence—mmph—” 

With every kiss he inches closer until he’s practically on top of you, leaning his weight forward on one arm. His free hand cradles the back of your head and focuses entirely on your lips. Kissing you soft, slow, deep. Any worries lingering in the back of your mind can wait. Nothing exists outside the bubble you’ve created. That is, until Spencer loses his balance for the umpteenth time and, as usual, you go down with him. At least his inebriated brain had the foresight to shield your head from the hardwood floor. He falls flat on you, free hand defeatedly next to his ear. 

The two of you freeze momentarily, processing the drop. You throw your head back with a loud ‘pfft’ and both of you break out into laughter. You can hear him cackling with his forehead pressing against your jaw. It goes on for at least a minute or two. That’s when you feel it again. The sun’s warmth. It enters your system with every grappling inhale, passing from your lungs, vibrating through your ribs and taking over every limb as it travels through your bloodstream. Your legs trap his waist and you bury your hands in his hair. His other hand shifts from under your head to your collarbone. 

“You’re so silly.” He wheezes.

“I’m silly?!” You tuck your chin in, looking down at him as you push through your giggles. “You’re silly. And drunk. And clumsy.” 

It only spurs him on, nearly to the point of tears. Spencer's drinking is not a common occurrence. Up until recently, he’d been very committed to staying away from alcohol; always choosing a glass of water or some other alternative. At the start, you assumed it was a health-related preference until he sat you down and explained his history with addiction. You can count on one hand the number of outings Spencer has taken so much as a sip of alcohol throughout your relationship. The count only began after his return from Millburn. 

You’d never previously wondered if and how alcohol changes his behaviour, but now you know anyway. It’s unusual, not because he’s different, but because it’s everything you know him to be when it’s just the two of you. There's an air of freedom alongside his gentleness, attentiveness and sass. His own mind doesn’t torment him. He exists—presently, unapologetically. Or at least it was everything you knew him to be. 

Comfort.

Noun. ‘The easing or alleviation of a person’s feelings of grief or distress.’ 

It comes in different forms for different people. For you? You’ve never known a comfort more powerful than Spencer Reid. Not the one that lays next to you every night, but the one lying on top of you right now. In all honesty, you don’t know the man you share a bed with anymore. Physically, you could describe every freckle and mole from memory. Emotionally, he’s practically a stranger. Robotic is an adjective that’s been used to describe him his whole life. It’s a literal manifestation these days. 

Your laughter starts to fade and his follows after. He doesn’t need to ask where your mind is at. Deep down he knows. It’s why he’s too afraid to meet your eyes. He can’t bear the reminiscence he’ll find.

“Too far away...” He repeats, his mumble fading as he reaches your head space.

From dawn, when he first opens his eyes, til dusk, when he finally shuts them; everything he does is part of his ritual. 

Wake up. Work. Home. Sleep. 

Somewhere along the way he’ll eat. Socialise. Read. He can’t recall doing any of it, but he knows it happened because you were there. That’s the only memorable part of it. There’s a faint image of you sitting across from him, nervously watching him nibble the meals you cook for him. He’ll force it down his throat so he doesn’t have to see the worried look on your face. The sound of your voice is slightly more vivid. Speaking at him—for him, making full sentences out of his one-word answers. Because words escape him. Visually, verbally. They’ll run from him on every page he turns; dancing around, mocking him. 

He can feel you staring. You probably don’t even know you are. 

Strange, missing somebody that’s right here. Most people know the feeling all too well, but no one can ever explain it. You can still see fragments of the man Spencer used to be under the rubble of the walls he once lowered for you. Buried too deep inside a cold, dark, liminal pit for you to rescue. A ghost trapped in purgatory. Sometimes he manifests physically. The light in his eyes returns as a culmination of the intent and curiosity he was filled with before. Every look brighter, every touch warmer. 

Comfort.

He’s just as much the source as he is the reason you go weeks without it. Your own, personal double-edged sword, threatening to slice your skin. And you’ll let him, because any ounce of heartache will melt away under the tender feel of his lips. Like slapping a bandaid over the gash and pretending it’s enough to contain the bleeding. You snap back to reality when the weight of his body lifts off you. Spencer’s on his knees cupping your thighs on either side of him, looking down at you. His irises are slightly duller than they were a moment ago. You thrust to sit up too, hands racing to cradle his face. 

“Spence?” Your meekness almost breaks him. 

His vision centres on you. You’re smiling. You have such a beautiful smile. But this one isn’t genuine. It’s a desperate attempt at keeping the pieces together. You’re so afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing, he hates it. His brows furrow and he blinks rapidly. The guilt of knowing he’s the reason you’ve been walking on eggshells is overwhelming. You can visibly see his heart sink and his breathing growing shallow. Panic sets in; he pushes away from you, shaking his head and backing himself against the console table.

“Spence?” You repeat worriedly, crawling after him. “Spence, what’s wrong?”

“No. No, stop. Don’t. Please.” His voice cracks and holds his arm out to keep you from moving closer. 

You don’t understand what you did to cause the rapid change in emotions. You pause, hesitantly and kneeling a little too far from him for your liking. You look to the ground and then back at him. It hurts to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Baby—”

The frustration in his tone is evident as he whispers your name with the most strained, painful pronunciation you’ve ever heard of it. It’s not as if he wants this. To be distant or keep you at arm's length, no, on the contrary, he wants to wrap you closely against his chest and never let you go. Your proximity is the only tangible testimonial of the man he once was, the one you fell in love with—the one you deserve. 

“Don’t do that…” He pleads with almost no voice to accompany his words. 

Your arms drop in your lap in defeat. All you're capable of giving him is a hopeless expression, begging him to help you understand. He looks at you accusatorily, as if to say you know exactly what’s wrong. You inadvertently confirm it by averting your eyes.

“How long are you going to pretend?” 

“What?” You pretend to mishear him, your eyes snapping back, wide and watering. 

“That everything’s okay?”

“Why…where is this coming from?” You scoff nervously.

“Nothing’s okay.” 

His direct demeanour should feel icier than it does. Instead, you find familiarity within it. You’ve seen it before. He’s used it when you’ve shown up to his apartment in the later hours of the night, lecturing you about walking alone, and often drunk. It’s been used for many other lectures too, reprimanding any self-destructive or dangerous behaviour. He’s stern, but he’s just as gentle. It’s in his nature—was in his nature. You open your mouth for a rebuttal but he doesn’t give you that chance. 

“Me, you, us. Nothing about us is okay. I’m not okay. To you. I’m not…” His tongue swipes the corner of his mouth, retreating quickly as he stares up at the ceiling and then back at you. “I’m not good for you. Anymore.”

“Spencer, no.” The response flies out of your mouth immediately. Your chest tightens and you try to inch closer to him again. And again, he extends his hand out as a signal to stop. 

“Yes! Don’t you—god—do you think I don’t see how much I hurt you? When I leave the bed before you’re awake, climb in after you’re asleep, when I stay late—”

He doesn’t have it in him to carry on when you whimper out a hum and deflate. It compels him to close the distance by shuffling to you, cupping your face.

“How long are you going to let me get away with hurting you like this?”

At times Spencer feels the skin he inhabits isn’t his own. He doesn’t recognise the face he grew up with and although he can avoid his reflection, he can’t escape reminders of his deteriorated mental performance. There’s no running from the shame he feels every time his team looks to him for answers that he doesn’t have anymore. Solutions take a significantly longer time to reach and oftentimes the realisation of the fact hits him sooner. Being ‘the genius’ is his only value, he doesn’t have anything else to offer. 

He also doesn’t have the strength to outright tell you to walk away. Even if logically, he knows you deserve better than him. Somebody who can be there to laugh with you, hold you when you cry, talk to you about anything and everything. The way he once could. You deserve a person who makes you smile out of genuine happiness. Someone who can offer you pure, whole love. It pains him that he can’t be that for you anymore. 

“I’m sorry.” He smooths your hair, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry. My sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

His lips brush against yours and both of you melt. Bandaid over gash.

You sniffle and instantly inhale, breaking out of his grasp. “You’re drunk. It’s late. Let’s just—let’s go to bed. Okay?”

He knows that you can’t avoid the reality for long, but he’ll let you try, for now. So he nods, smiling half-heartedly. You use his shoulders to push yourself to stand, helping pull him up after you. Your hands intertwine, gripping tightly and only letting go when you reach the bedroom. Both of you enter a slight dissociative state to cope with the heaviness of the situation. He sits you down on the bed, falling to his knees before you. At first, you mistake his intentions as lustful. He guides your ankle to his knee and starts to remove your shoes. The bitterness is fleeting and dissipates into disgust with yourself for thinking so lowly of Spencer. Your Spencer. 

Comfort.

He motions for you to stand so you do. Naturally, he takes care of you before himself. He works to rid you of your pants, sliding them down your legs. You don’t question him this time. His hands trail up your bare legs, skimming past your clothed hips and stopping at your waist. He buries his face in the soft of your belly, squeezing your sides and exhaling deeply. You card his hair, holding him. To any third party, it’s an entirely romantic scene, but you suppose Romeo and Juliet’s corpses appeared just as romantic tangled together. Star-crossed lovers. A regrettable cliché for sure. 

The moment passes and Spencer stands, removing your shirt and leading you towards the bathroom. He opens the door for you, but doesn’t follow you inside, allowing you some space to carry on your night routine. Tonight’s routine consists of you staring in the mirror for god knows how long before splashing cold water on your face. You’re not sure whether to be surprised when you exit the bathroom to see your favourite pajamas laid out for you. Current or old, drunk or sober, you suppose Spencer’s attention to detail is the one constant thing about him. You slip into the pajamas and find your place next to him on the bed, but not before setting some water and pain relief on his side table.

You give him one last glance before turning off your lamp. He’s facing away from you, messy brown curls splayed out against his pillow. Darkness surrounds you temporarily before the dim light from the moon sets in. You’re about to set your head down when he speaks. 

“I…I wish I could go back.”

“Hmm?”

He rolls over and you reach to stroke his cheek. It’s cold, wet. He’s been crying.

“To being him.”

“Baby…”

“I can see the way you look at me sometimes. It’s the same look I see in the mirror every morning.” He takes hold of your wrist.

You shuffle closer, placing a chaste kiss on his nose. Maybe if you had any energy left you’d try to deny it, but right now you don’t have a better response to give. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you left, you know.”

“Shhhhh.” You can’t bear the idea. Just him raising it enough to flood tears to your eyes. 

Silence takes over and you pull him closer into your arms, resting his head against your chest. A sob racks through him, his hands scrunching the sides of your shirt. It’s jarring to see him cry so openly to you. You’ve never seen this version of him so vulnerable. You can feel the ghost slipping away. 

“Please don’t leave me. You’re all I have left of him.”

It’s entirely contradictory. A conflict between morality and desire uttered so breathlessly that you almost miss it. It shatters your soul. 

“I won't.” You reply in an even quieter voice, doing your best to hold back your own sob.

Comfort.

You’ll wait for it to come around again. For now, you wrap yourself tighter around him, both your faces drenched in tears, too afraid to let go. In all your grief you failed to notice something hidden in plain sight. If anybody misses Spencer Reid more than you, it’s Spencer Reid himself.

“Don’t go.”

You can’t say who the words come from, but you know that they’re not for you. They’re meant for somebody who’s no longer with you.

Spoilers: Post-prison Spencer, established relationship, fluff, hurt with (kind of) comfort, angst, ambiguous-ish ending. Idk I wasn’t present when I wrote it tbh.

AN - Heyyyy I know it’s been like over 5 months but in my defence. Also this could have been better, but writing literally hates me, so you get what you get. Guys please don’t worry about the grammar, I was in a mood and it’s all very dramatic and correct because I’m right and English is wrong. Also, I was bullied, blackmailed and emotionally coerced into posting this.

Okay, so I will see you soon or like in another 5 or more months maybe who knows?

Thanks for reading!

[duvetchico]

tiny human

summary when y/n’s sister has to leave town for a few days, she asks y/n to babysit her toddler niece. jimin is unreasonably excited and becomes mom of the year overnight. y/n? y/n is spiraling because holy shit she’s in love.

genre extreme domestic fluff / baby fever / established relationship

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

masterlist.

when your sister first asks you to babysit your niece for a few days, you panic.

when your girlfriend hears about it, she sprints into the room yelling, “YES. FINALLY. GIVE ME THE BABY.”

you blink. “jimin, she’s two.”

“perfect age. chaotic. teething. developing opinions. i’m ready for battle.”

day one.

you’re half-asleep in the living room. your niece is sitting on jimin’s lap, watching cocomelon like it’s crack cocaine. jimin is—get this—singing along.

you stare at them. jimin catches your eye, grins, and mouths, “i’m gonna cry she’s so small.”

you melt.

jimin whispers to your niece, “between you and me, your aunt’s kinda dramatic.”

“am not,” you say, standing there with your arms crossed.

your niece stares at you.

jimin deadpans: “you cried during madagascar 2 last week.”

“SHUT UP IT WAS EMOTIONAL.”

later that night, your niece falls asleep on jimin’s chest while they’re coloring. jimin doesn’t move for two hours.

“baby,” you whisper, nudging her. “you can put her down.”

“no. she trusts me. she chose me. this is my child now.”

the next day,

you try to feed your niece.

she throws her broccoli.

you sigh. “i don’t think she wants it—”

“give me a sec,” jimin says. she turns to the toddler. “listen. you don’t gotta like it. but your tiny body needs this green tree. eat the tree and i’ll give you two strawberries after.”

the child pauses. grabs the broccoli. eats it.

you stare. “how did you do that.”

“i’m a milf,” she says proudly. “mentally intelligent loving figure.”

you spit out your juice.

evening.

your niece has a meltdown because she can’t find her stuffed bunny.

jimin, already wrapped in a weighted blanket on the couch, RISES LIKE A WARRIOR and says, “DON’T WORRY. I GOT THIS.”

twenty minutes later, jimin returns victorious, holding the bunny like mufasa presenting simba. your niece cheers. jimin takes a dramatic bow.

you lean against the doorway, arms crossed. “you’re kinda good at this.”

she grins at you. “so you agree. we should have three.”

“three what—”

“babies.”

“OH MY GOD—”

day three.

the power goes out during a thunderstorm. your niece gets scared and starts crying. before you can even reach her, jimin’s already scooping her up, whispering softly, kissing her forehead.

you watch from the doorway.

“do you think you’ll ever want kids?” you ask her later, curled up on the couch.

jimin blinks at you. “with you? one thousand percent. ten. a dozen. let’s build a football team.”

you laugh, face burning. “jimin.”

“seriously,” she says, pulling you closer. “you’d be such a good mom, baby. watching you this week? made me love you even more.”

you bury your face in her neck, hiding your red ears.

“stop. you’re embarrassing me.”

she kisses your head. “too bad. you’re mine forever. our future kids are stuck with us.”

later, when your niece is asleep, you wrap your arms around jimin from behind.

“i just like being around you,” she murmurs. “and this made me realize… i want all of it. the screaming. the cuddles. the stupid cartoons.”

she turns to face you. “i want a tiny you running around.”

you nearly explode on the spot.

last day.

your sister comes to pick her up.

your niece doesn’t want to leave. she hugs jimin like she’s saying goodbye to her favorite disney character.

jimin tears up a little. you do too.

“we’ll see you soon, okay?” she says, kneeling in front of her.

your niece nods. and then she says, “bye mama two.”

you and jimin freeze.

your sister chokes.

jimin turns into literal glass.

you whisper, “you okay?”

“i’m in shambles. i need to go cry in the laundry room.”

later that night.

you’re lying in bed. jimin’s on her phone, scrolling through baby clothing like she’s online shopping for fun.

“you want matching overalls?” she asks.

“for us?”

“for our future spawn.”

you throw a pillow at her. “you’re insane.”

she giggles, catching the pillow and tossing it back.

“and you love it.”

you do. god, you do.

[miss-fanfictions]

Sundays at the Library

Part Two

Pairing] Spencer Reader x glasses wearing! shy! librarian! fem!Reader

Synopsis] Spencer talks to the sweet librarian at his new library and slowly Sundays become his favorite day of the week.

Warnings] Cursing, creepy guy, misunderstandings (but its cute I promise), written from Spencer's POV

Word Count] 8.9k

Author's Note] This is my first fic here! I'm planning on doing a few more parts to this, so this is only the beginning 🙃

The first time Spencer saw you, the encounter wasn’t anything special. 

If he wasn’t working, he was reading, and because he can read 20,000 thousand words per minute, he needed new books often. Not even his FBI salary could afford the amount of books he consumed in a month and his cozy apartment certainly couldn’t contain them all. Already his bookcases were spilling out onto nearby surfaces. So to quench his constant need for new books, Spencer borrowed books from the library. However, since the one near his apartment closed just a week ago, he had to find a new one. That led him to drive to the library ten minutes away. 

It was larger than the one down the street from his apartment—it had a full three floors. Beyond the double doors, he followed two velvet rope barriers onto the main floor of the library, wandering past a grand front desk to his left to where the room divided into two sections and the barriers ended. In the left section, beside the desk, there were a couple computers set up, as well as two printers and a side wall dedicated to DVDs. In the other section there were tables and chairs set up for quiet studying, as well as more comfortable lounges for reading. Behind those two sections started the book shelves, nearly ceiling high and organized via genre and then further alphabetized. When he ascended the staircase at the back of the main floor, he found the upper levels were fully dedicated to rows of shelving containing books, interspersed with a few tables and lounges for reading. 

 He spent approximately 45 minutes getting the layout of the library, as large as it was, and finding the books he wanted to read. Of course, he got a range of books. Two books on psychology, a mathematical textbook, and another two books based in the sciences. A bit of light reading, really, just to occupy his time at home during a busy caseload week. 

He balanced the heavy books awkwardly in his arms as he made his way to the front desk, practically dropping them onto the counter. His lips twisted up in embarrassment, glancing around to see if anyone was disturbed by the loud clatter. When his eyes turned back to the desk, they met the bespeckled ones of you, the librarian, seated behind the counter. They were wide behind the frames, doe-like and startled by the noise. He winced and stuttered out an apology.

Too often he embarrassed himself due to his clumsiness. Over the years, Spencer got a lot better at the shooting range, but he still couldn’t run a mile without tripping a few times, or be able to participate in sports, and he didn’t even want to think about his driving. JJ often compared the experience of being in his passenger seat to riding shotgun with her senile grandmother. No matter what he did, the awkwardness crept in and all he could do was apologize. He didn’t mean to startle the nice librarian who he would seeing every week for the foreseeable future. 

“It’s fine,” your voice was a gentle whisper, perfect for the quiet of the library. You closed the book on your lap and placed it out of sight under the counter, standing up to help him. That’s when he could take you in completely, with your long flowy skirt and oversized sweater. Perhaps a shy attempt to battle the chill running through the library, or maybe a purposeful effort to hide yourself away from prying eyes. He could tell—despite your attire—that you were his age or maybe a little younger. You lacked the wrinkles, grays, and even the weathered dullness associated with age. Your hair was done up messily, effortlessly, and his eyes tracked your chewed up fingernails as you tucked a few strands behind your ears, out of the way of your eyesight. 

He thought you were plain and shy. The soft pastels and neutrals that colored your clothes and the fact the garments covered you so entirely, made you blend into the background. Had he not needed to speak to you directly, he might not have noticed you tucked behind the desk, folded up in your chair with your nose deep in a book. 

“Can I check these out for you?” You asked him, and he almost missed it due to both his staring and your airy cadence. 

“Oh, uh, yes,” he said, then quickly added. “And a library card, please. I’m new to this library.”

“I’ll just need an ID then,” you held out your hand while he rummaged through his wallet for his state ID, and when he placed it into your palm he was careful not to touch your hand. It was less about you as a person as it was his disdain for germs. 

You went about clicking and typing at the computer to the side of the desk, face plain as if whatever you were doing you had done a thousand times. Your nimble fingers only stuttered when you glanced back at him, catching his eyes as he watched you before he darted them away from your face, caught. Quickly, you grabbed the mouse, clicking only three more times before handing back his ID. He was careful not to touch your hand or meet your eyes as he took it back. 

He didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with his staring, he had a habit of it, always trying to profile. But you were just a meek librarian, and there was no reason to take note of your behavior. You went about printing out a physical copy of his new library card, and he opened one of his books to occupy himself as you did so. 

When you turned back to him, you scanned a plastic card before offering it to him with a small smile. “Thank you,” he mumbled as you went about scanning the books on the counter with the same barcode reader. You were on the fourth book when your brows creased and you looked back up at him. 

“Are you studying?” You asked, the words sudden as if you couldn’t hold the thought off your lips. 

“No, this is just some light reading,” he answered politely, because it was. Though he forgot that was maybe not normal, because you giggled at his reply. 

The sound brought his eyes to your lips, the way they parted to let the breathy noise out. It was a unique giggle, though he supposed everyone’s is, but something about it suited you so completely. It was soft, and when he glanced around the library to see that no one else had heard it, he thought it was also just for him. There was no taunting, just joy that you emitted in the most delicate of sounds. If only he could understand what he did to extract it from you. 

“Right,” You said jokingly, and then he thought maybe you didn’t believe him, but he didn’t get a chance to assure you he was being truthful before you finished checking out the books. “Here you go, have a nice day, Spencer.”

He hesitated, thrown off by your use of his name, but cleared his throat and collected his books nonetheless. He thanked you and mumbled a brief goodbye as he did so, not looking back as he rushed out of the library. When he got to his car, he used a pack of disinfectant wipes on the books and set them up in his passenger seat, thoughts of the little librarian withering away to the casework waiting for him at work tomorrow.

—

He finished the books quickly, in only two days actually, but thankfully most of his time was taken up by his work. In his remaining free hours, he resorted to rereading a few books on his shelves. On Sunday, he collected his library books and drove the ten minutes back to his new library, exactly one week since his last visit. 

The inside was chilly and smelled like old paper and leather. There weren't many people he could see on the main floor, a few of what looked like college students spread out studying and some preteens huddled on the computers, whispering snarks and giggles. He walked up to the front desk, following the rug and the velvet rope barriers that led right to it from the entrance. This time he didn’t pass by the desk, but stopped at it to place down his books—quietly.

Your familiar framed eyes looked up at him, just as doe-like as surprise crossed them right before a smile took hold. Again, you closed the book in your lap, though this time Spencer caught a glimpse of its orange and yellow cover before you hid it from sight. He couldn’t make out the title. “Back so soon?”

It had been exactly a week since he’d seen you, and though he had not thought of you much since then, Spencer was incapable of forgetting a face. You looked just as you did last week—messy updo, baggy clothes, bare face. It seemed that was your natural state, or at least what you wore to work, but what Spencer wore to work was pretty much his normal wardrobe and he worked in the FBI, not a library.

“Yes, I need to return these books,” he told you, returning your smile with a quirk of his lips and placing his library card on top of the stack of books. 

When your eyes roamed back down from his to the five books, your brows furrowed. “Give up on studying then?” You asked, scanning the books back into the system. 

For a moment, Spencer was confused, then he recalled every word of your last interaction, and realized you still thought he checked the books out to study them, likely for some graduate classes, given his age. “No, I wasn’t studying them. I just needed a few books for casual reading after work.”

You paused once you turned to the computer, looking at him down your glasses. “Casual reading?” Your eyes went back between the thick books and his face, a smirk of disbelief growing. “You read all these books in a week?”

“Yes.” He shrugged. 

“For fun?” You had a skeptical eyebrow quirked.

“That’s what casual reading normally implies.” Spencer furrowed his brows at your line of questioning. Maybe most people wouldn’t read such topics simply for fun, but why would he lie about that? 

At that, you giggled again, a bird’s song, and resumed clicking at your computer. Your gentle laugh tickled something deep in his chest. Again, there was no malice or ill intent to it, not any that he could see behind your genuine eyes and smile. You simply thought he was a funny guy, and no one ever thought that of Spencer. He was too awkward, or too serious, or even too annoying to be fun. 

You took the stack of books in your arms, the pile reaching right up to your chin, and walked them to a cart behind you. When you turned back, you were still smiling sweetly at him. “Your light reading has been checked back in.” You slid his library card across the counter.

He plucked the card back off it with a thanks, tucking it into the pocket of his sweater vest. For a moment, he debated telling you about his PhDs, his eidetic memory, and maybe even his genius IQ because Spencer always felt the need to prove himself—to state facts—because he wasn’t the funny guy. He was very serious and all the things he was telling you weren’t just silly jokes. Then he worried he might wipe the smile right off your face, and he couldn’t let himself do that. So instead he gave you a stiff nod and continued into the library.

. . . Only to spin right back around, fist awkwardly pressed against his lips. “Oh, also, what is the maximum amount of books I could have checked out at once?”

You had just cracked the spine of your book again when you looked back up at him, a swirling look of confusion on your face. “Ten books, but you don’t have any out so I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

Spencer gave another nod, spinning back around on his heels and taking himself right up to the second floor of the library. He spent approximately 37 minutes collecting books from around the library, setting them aside at tables as he weaved through the rows of bookcases for the different genres. A wealth of knowledge in all areas was useful for his job, and also just for him personally. He found great pride in knowing many things, as annoying as others might find his incessant info-dumping. 

When he finished, he took a stack of books from the table and carried them down from the second floor, slowly stepping down the stairs and craning his neck around the stack to watch his steps. He could be uncoordinated at his best, so there was no need to tempt fate into sending him tumbling down the staircase by not paying attention. 

After successfully making it down, he took long strides to the main desk and set the stack down on the counter. Of course, you looked up at him again, however skipped surprise and jumped into an inviting smile. You closed your book and stood up, taking in the books he set in front of you. “Another five to check out then?”

“No, actually, I’ll be right back.” He turned away so fast he almost missed the way your smile faded and you leaned over the counter to watch him ascending the stairs again, spindly legs taking them two at a time.

He grabbed hold of the second tower of books, nearly dropping the top one in his haste to get back to you. After that he continued to take the stairs carefully even as he felt your eyes on him. Maybe especially because he felt your eyes on him, because if you watched him fall down the stairs he’d have to drive an additional ten minutes away to find another new library, because he certainly wouldn’t be able to look you in the eyes anymore. 

Beside the first stack on the counter, he set the second, then placed his library card between them. “This is it, I promise.”

Again, you glanced between him and the books, eyes bugging behind their glass shelter. After a moment or so, as if you were making sure he was serious (he was), you began scanning his card and the books. Despite the larger quantity of books, you were slower as you ran the barcodes on the back, taking the time to read the titles and authors. 

“Are you a graduate student?” You asked, looking at a book on human genealogy. 

Spencer twiddled his thumbs. “No, I’m finished with school for now, but I might go back for another PhD in the future when I have more time,” he answered honestly, the words flowing out quickly, even though he wasn’t sure why he was telling you that. Only about two percent of the U.S. population has a PhD, and an even slimmer percent had more than one. So it was an unusual thing to say.

He thought you might laugh again, or even question him, but you simply hummed and moved onto the next book, chewing your lip. “I’m in a graduate program for poetry,” your voice was quiet, as required by the library environment, but more so than usual, like you seemed embarrassed to share that information. 

It made sense you were a graduate student working in a library while earning your MA in writing. He wondered if you had plans for your degree beyond getting a slight pay increase as a librarian. There was a career as an author, or maybe you wanted to be a teacher or a professor, he could see you doing that, standing in front of a class in your skirts and sweaters pointing at a chalkboard with a ruler, though that image was outdated. More likely you’d be in front of a white board or presenting from a projector. 

“That’s interesting. I find myself reading a lot of nonfiction recently—it helps more with my job, though I also just enjoy facts and statistics—but I’ll always have a special appreciation for fiction. I’m fond of poetry in particular because it’s created for multifaceted analysis,” even in his own whisper, the words were breathy and fast. He had to catch his tongue between his teeth when he caught your eyes trailing back up to him. “What do you plan on doing with your degree?”

“Write poetry hopefully,” the words came out in a gust of wind and your eyebrows quirked up, as if you didn’t believe even your own dream. “Maybe you can analyze it one day.” You finished scanning out the books, putting them back into two neat piles as you did. You went about clicking at your computer, making sure the books were grayed out in the system, avoiding his eyes.

So you did want to be a writer then. He could easily see that as well. Though he got the sense you didn’t believe your aspiration was attainable, and it likely wasn’t due to lack of skill. He told himself he wouldn’t profile you, but he did it practically subconsciously. Your lowered gaze, modest clothes, shy smile, and even chewed nails all pointed to a lack of confidence in yourself. He wasn’t sure why. You were pretty in your own right, and were clearly intelligent and hard working if your pursuit of a masters degree said anything. If you needed a little encouragement, the least he could do was give it to you.  “I look forward to it,” he said, and he was just as sincere as he always had been. 

It only seemed to increase your embarrassment, causing your face to shy further away from his gaze. “Thank you, Spencer.” Even if you couldn’t look at him, your tone was of genuine appreciation, and if he tilted his head just right, he could see the wisp of a smile on your face.

He nodded with a tight lipped smile, staring at you while he waited for the conversation to continue, only to realize you’d finished with his books and it was over. His hands stuttered to gather up the first heap of books, muttering about how he’d be back. However he only got a few paces when he heard you say his name again, feet stopping dead.

“Would you like me to help you carry these out?” You were already trying to get a hold on the books.

Quickly, he shook his head. “No,” the words came out abrupt and firm, louder than he’d ever spoken before in the library, and you flinched. 

“You shouldn’t be following anyone out of here to their cars. This library has a disturbing lack of cameras and an abduction, even in a public area, can happen in less than ten seconds. It’s safest for you to remain in the library and follow the good practice of having someone walk you to your car after your shifts.” Spencer felt obligated to warn you strictly, because your distinct quietness and sweetness made you the perfect prey for the killers he hunted daily. 

Though he almost regretted it as he watched the way your hands retreated from the books, crossing around yourself, and the gentle smile became forced. “Oh. I–I guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Spencer nodded and hesitated, but didn’t linger much longer before exiting the library and heading back to his car. He was quick to toss the books into his car, your tangled smile stuck in his mind. Was it an odd thing to say? He was only trying to warn you, to keep you safe. But the look on your face, you didn’t seem at all grateful for the advice. Spencer took brisk strides back to the library entrance. You were standing there behind the front desk, arms still crossed, a distant look on your face. When you heard him approaching the counter taking in breath just a little faster from boardline jogging back, you barely spared him a glance. He scared you a bit, he realized, and he didn’t want to leave you like that. 

He paused beside his leftover books, wetting his lips.  “I didn’t mean to scare you with what I said before.” He finally caught your eyes and you seemed to hear him out. “I work in law enforcement, for the FBI actually, and all too often I see cases of nice girls like you who go missing just because you want to help people. Unfortunately it’s a pretty common ruse. So, I—I didn’t tell you all that to make you worry, but because I want you to be safe,” he admitted, and your face softened again, your hands falling back to the counter. It brought a smile to his own face to see you relax your guard again. “It’d also be awful if my librarian went missing. Who will check out the heap of books I keep bringing you?” 

You giggled, your lips pulling into a toothy smile. “It’d definitely suck, but I’d hope you’d put those FBI skills of yours into finding me.”

Spencer chuckled, ducking his head into his chest to quiet the sound as he pulled his books into his arms. “Of course I would, and I wouldn’t stop until I did.” He was good at his job, he never stopped until he found their victim, their unsub. 

You bowed your own head, hand holding your glasses to keep them from slipping down your nose. “Goodbye, Spencer.” You gave him a small wave with the other hand, ending the conversation with averted eyes, but he still noticed the growing color in your cheeks. 

He fumbled with his own wave under the stack of books, really just an outward flash of the fingers he could manage to peel away for a second, and he was glad you weren’t looking at him with how awkward it was. He turned on his heel, pink growing in his own cheeks, and exited the library again for the final time today. The gears in his head grinded the whole way to the car and continued as he grappled to get into it and wiped the books with disinfectant. 

You lingered in his mind longer than a librarian should have. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to warn you, to explain himself to you, or even comfort you. There was something about you, as meek and bashful as you were, that he found charming. Perhaps he saw himself in you, the insecurity. Or maybe it was how different you were from his job, where he was met with the most wicked minds and evil acts. You in comparison were the very image of innocence and life, in your pastel purples and yellows, lively eyes magnified behind glass, and your—your laugh. He liked your giggle. Even though he suspected at times it meant you didn’t fully believe him, he let you find him unserious, just so he could continue to hear that sweet sound tickle his ears in a way that scratched an itch inside him.

He was sitting in the parking lot staring out the windshield lost in his thoughts of you. When someone walked by, he found himself clearing his throat and finally putting his car in drive. You dissipated from his mind as he pulled out of the parking space because his Sunday at the library was over. 

—

It took five days for him to finish the ten books from the library. The team was in California from Tuesday through Thursday, but he took four books with him to read during his down time and while on the jet. He still ended up with spare time that he spent shopping with Penelope and babysitting Henry for JJ and Will’s date night. It was for this reason he was glad to be back in the library on Sunday.

Inside he was hit with the familiar crisp air and the vague smell of paper and coffee. The tables to the left had quite a few more students than usual, though there were not very many to start with previously. He wondered if a bout of exams were coming up. As Spencer neared the front desk, he could smell something else, a faint vanilla scent maybe.

You were there as always, standing this time, and almost leaning over the counter to see the door. You smiled when you saw him and he realized that you must be wearing perfume, because around you the vanilla air became thicker.

“Sunday at 11am. You're more reliable than my alarm clock,” you hummed cheekily.

Spencer set the books he held in his hands on the counter, his messenger bag following them up. “Having a routine is actually really good for you. It’s been proven to reduce anxiety and stress and also helps people to cope with certain mental illnesses,” he told you, pulling the rest of his books out of his bag.

If you were thrown off by his fact telling, you didn’t show it. “That makes sense. I like having a routine, but I’m pretty sure my friends think it makes me boring.”

Spencer dug around in his vest pocket for his library card, brows furrowing. “Why would you think that?”

You plucked it from his fingers, bringing it to the barcode reader without breaking your eye contact. “Because they say it to me all the time.”

“Oh,” Spencer snorted a little and clutched the strap of his bag closer. There’s something different about you today. You’re much more talkative and playful, but it’s also in your appearance too. Your glasses are still perched on your nose and your face is bare as it always is, but your updo is more put together, less stands fall away into your face. You wear another long skirt, but it's tighter, less flowy, and he can nearly make out the shape of your legs through it. You’re wrapped in a cardigan too, but where one side falls open he can see your tank top underneath and the sight of your skin has him clearing his throat and bringing his eyes back to your face. 

“And how was your recreational reading?” You’ve started to scan the books back into the system. “You must have been pretty entertained with ten books in seven days.” You state it like a fact, but your tone has a whimsical disbelief to it.

“Actually I finished them in five days,” he corrected with an incline of his head. 

You reply quickly, like the words were primed in your mind. “Then you should have come back sooner.” Under the teasing, you sound serious, looking up from the books at him, lashes fluttering against their glass encasement. 

“I would, but I’ve been pretty busy at work.” He was too. He would spend hours in the library reading if working at the BAU didn’t take up so much of his time. He loved his job of course, and he wouldn’t have it any other way, but what is someone with his talents to do but hole himself up gorging every book he can get his hands on. Spencer had a thirst for knowledge, that’s why he wanted to be in the library so much. 

“Well, that’s too bad then. What do you do for work?” Your head tilts with interest and he almost mirrors the movement, brows furrowed. 

 “I told you—I work for the FBI. Specifically, I’m an agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” He has an eidetic memory which means he can remember every word you’ve said to him and every word he’s ever said to you, so he knows he’s told you this before. Of course he knows people forget things, but they also normally remember when he tells them he’s in the FBI.

Your face falls a bit and you chew your bottom lip, brows creasing. “Oh. . . right.” You finish scanning the last book quickly, gathering a couple into a pile to carry to a cart behind you. 

Spencer’s not exactly sure what he’s done to upset you, but his fingers twitch with the itch to fix it. Unfortunately, he’s got the idea his job is what makes you so uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be the first time someone was unsettled by the fact he carried a badge and gun, or that he had the authority to arrest people. But you had joked about it last week, possibly were soothed by the fact he was a cop after his blunt and maybe eerie warning. So why were you suddenly so upset with him? 

The thought occurred to him then that  maybe it was because you didn’t completely believe the things he was saying. Not only that, but you were no longer finding whatever game you think he’s playing by telling you those things to be funny. As you carry the rest of the books back to the cart, he fidgets with his fingers, wondering if it was time to show you proof of what he’s been saying. Or did you really even care? Maybe he was wrong and you would be even more frightened by him presenting you with his badge. Was it odd to flash his FBI credentials at his librarian? That was all you were after all. He didn’t even know your name.

You were back to clicking at the computer when you glanced at him. “They’re all checked in.”

Spencer froze as you pulled him out of his thoughts, his hands locking in the joints before dropping to his sides into fists. That was your cue for him to leave. “Right, thank you.” He went to walk away, but his feet were stuck. “. . .thank you, um, I just realized I don’t know your name.”

You didn’t have to tell him, you could have brushed it off. You were just the librarian and one didn’t need to know the librarian's name, but you looked back at him again, eyes studying his face. Then, you murmured your name so softly he almost leaned in to hear it louder. Soundlessly, he let your name ghost over his lips.

He used it as he thanked you one last time, certainly overkill but it seemed like the only correct way to exit. Although he only got a few feet before he heard you call his name.

“Spencer, wait!” You didn’t yell, he’s never heard you yell, but your voice was the loudest he’s ever heard it. You always spoke in a whisper or a hushed tone, but your voice was nearly normal when you called him back. The urgency of it had him back in front of you in just two strides.

You dipped beneath the counter and when you came back up you placed a basket on it. “When I used to go on picnics to read in the park, I used this basket. Well, I haven’t gone in a long time actually, but I thought maybe you could use it for all the books you check out,” you were bashful, tilting your head down and only sparingly meeting his eyes. Spencer was in shock, all he could think about was how this was one of the nicest things someone’s ever done for him. You gave him whiplash with how quickly you seemed to forgive whatever trespass he committed against you. He wondered even if he exaggerated the interaction in his head. 

The basket was woven, made from wicker, and had two handles at the top. It was rectangular in shape, pretty deep, and large for a picnic basket, he thought, big enough for fruits, pastries, sandwiches, and maybe more. It was a very nice basket, and the thought that you were giving it to him made his heart ache the most. You’d considered him, truly sat down and thought about him and then decided you were going to gift him a solution to his awkward problem. Not often did people solve his problems, it was always the other way around.

“Wow,” his finger grazed the side, considering the cost such a nice piece must be. “Are you sure? I really couldn’t take your basket it’s—”

“I don’t use it anymore,” you interrupted him for the first time. He realized that you never cut him off, you had always listened to him. “You can have it. . .” Your face was kind, then suddenly dropped into a panic. “Only if you want it of course! You don’t have to take it. I guess it’s kind of silly, carrying a picnic basket in a library. . .” You started to pick your nails, not meeting his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s silly,” he assured you quickly, leaning just a bit closer so he could catch your eyes again. “Thank you so much. Now I don’t have to worry about falling down the stairs or taking two trips to my car.” 

Your smile returned with a breathy chuckle. “Yeah, you kind of made me nervous going down the stairs like that with all those books. You don’t strike me as very. . . coordinated.”

“Ouch,” Spencer said, though he smiled back at you. You’d read him there, he was not very coordinated at all. Knowing physics was one thing, existing smoothly and with grace on the physical plane was another. 

“Sorry,” you shrugged half heartedly.

“No, you’re right. Thank you for the basket and uh, I’ll be back,” he waved you goodbye as he walked toward the stairs and you fluttered your fingers back at him. 

Spencer took exactly 52 minutes and 34 seconds adding books to his new basket. He got a few stares and side glances as he toted it around, mainly from a group of teenagers huddled at a miniature table and chair set in the children’s section. They snickered as they peeked up from their circle at him, but it wasn’t anything Spencer wasn’t used to. All his life people had laughed at him for a variety of reasons—he was too scrawny, too small, too bumbling, too nerdy—the list was miles long. All he could do was grow thicker skin, and he had. So he didn’t let it bother him as he wandered the library, adding books to his basket. 

No, the reason Spencer took so long to pick books was because each time he slipped one into a wicker embrace, he thought of you. He blinked and saw your face like a phantom burned into his retinas. The way the corners of your mouth twisted in your smile when you were so excited to give him the basket flashed and faded in his vision. Sometimes he cursed his eidetic memory because he’d memorized your face in its entirety with all its most miniscule details and peculiarities—and he didn’t even mean to. He would find himself staring into the empty space in the basket and have to drag his brain clawing back into reality.

His watch had ticked past 12 when he made his way back down the stairs to the main floor, lugging his basket in his right hand. It was heavy, weighed by two textbooks and eight other decently thick books, but the woven willow held strong. 

At the landing he could see across the library that you were already checking someone out. He meant to add himself to the queue, but pivoted to a lounge chair between two bookcases just as he got close enough to hear your voice. Immediately he felt wrong, a churning disgust with himself in the pit of his stomach. It was weird, wasn’t it? To watch you from afar just to gauge your behavior? But he had to know, it burdened his brain to wonder if you were just so saccharine it spilled out to everyone around you or if particularly you poured your sugar onto him.

You didn’t see him duck between the shelves to the lounge chair, not in any way that he could tell. With a tranquil neutral face you scanned the book that the college girl at the counter placed in front of you. The interaction was done in comfortable silence, even when you finished the transaction and she said her thank yous, you merely mumbled a “you’re welcome.”

It was different from how you interacted with him, he realized. You were much more playful and chatty with him, but he wasn’t sure what exactly inspired it in you. You were clearly shy, maybe anxious, but in some moments it faded when you talked to him. He didn’t think he said anything particularly special, but thinking you saw something in him that made you so comfortable, so cheerful, made his stomach flip in a way he couldn’t understand.

The next man in the queue placed his book on the counter. He was the only other person waiting. You asked him absent-mindedly for his library card. He was older than you and Spencer, mid to late 40s if Spencer had to guess, but it gave him an idea about how you interacted with men as well. Which was just as bland as your interaction with the college girl before you. Spencer had a fleeting thought that maybe—just maybe—you liked him. Why else would you be so inclined to laugh with him? To be so shy sometimes you couldn’t meet his eyes? He’d read books, watched movies, and he knew the signs. He was just not used to spotting them in women interacting with him.

He cleared his throat as if to shake off the idea. It was vain, and in all likelihood an arrogant over analysis of the little interaction he’s had with you. He was about to get up and put himself in line behind the man when he heard his lurid voice croak out.

“How about you give me a smile, pretty?”

Spencer froze in place, white knuckle grip engraving the grooves of the entwined handle into his palm. Something like anger flared in his chest. It grew hotter as he saw the way you bowed your head even further from the man's sight, pulling your cardigan closer around your body.

“Um, yeah, could I just get your library card?” You squirmed under his leering gaze, lips faintly curling into the most awkward half-smile you could muster. 

Despite the way you clearly showed you were in duress, the man leaned closer over the counter. “My name’s Todd.” He slid his book across the counter to you like that tidbit of information helped any. “I’ll take this book and your number, baby.” Spencer’s jaw clenched.

His body tingled with the readiness to step in, to tell this Todd fucker to leave you be because obviously you weren’t interested. But his mind, the logical side of him, stopped him because Spencer also respected you and your autonomy. He was not an expert on women, but he knew quite a few strong women in the BAU who would be offended if he stepped in to defend them when they were capable of doing it themselves. He definitely didn’t want to offend you if you were able to brush off Todd on your own.

The uncomfortable smile dropped to a grimace. “If I could get your library card. . .” Your hand hesitantly reached for the book only for Todd to grasp your wrist in a tight hand.

“Stop asking for the damn card,” his voice dropped into a growl. “Baby, I’m just trying to talk to you.”

Your arm fought to pull your hand back behind the counter, but Todd’s grip tightened and pulled back to keep you close. “Sir!” Your voice pitched higher, eyes widening almost too big for their frames. “Sir, please let go—”

Todd huffed, face screwing up in frustration. “Why’re you being so difficult?”

“Sir, you’re hurting her and you need to let go now.” Spencer practically flew over to the front desk. It was his instincts as an FBI agent kicking in. The need to de-escalate and protect was driving him. This man was now hurting you and he was not going to allow it to go any further.

Todd’s scowl looked Spencer up and down, assessing whether or not he could take him. He must have come to the conclusion Spencer was not a threat because he puffed up his chest and continued gripping your wrist. However, he was so distracted by Spencer, you were able to yank your arm away, rubbing at your wrist with your free hand. Todd shot you a similar glare before leveling his even angrier gaze back on Spencer.

“We’re just having a conversation here, asshole. So why don’t you get back to your books,” Todd barked at him so loud they had now attracted all the eyes in the library. But Spencer was only looking over at yours—your creased brow and the watery worry the glass highlighted. 

“Spencer, it’s—” You didn’t get to finish as Todd whirled his head between you and Spencer. 

“Spencer? No fucking way this wimp is your boyfriend.” Behind the rage, Todd looked almost smug.

But Spencer wasn’t. He hit his own boiling point and was passed asking politely. He pulled his credentials from his pocket and flipped them open in Todd’s face. “No, I’m the FBI agent who is going to arrest you for harassment, assault, and public disturbance if you don’t get out of this library right now.”

Todd’s head reeled back at the badge in his face, eyes squinting between the lettering and Spencer’s face. Realization of how much shit he was in passed briefly over Todd’s face before reverting to his glower. He must not have wanted trouble with the FBI though, because he started taking steps backwards toward the exit. But he couldn’t leave with a completely bruised ego.

“Whatever man. If you want the uppity bitch so bad you can have her!” Todd slammed open and closed the door as he made his grand exit. The entire library watched it, listening to him as he got his last dig in and fleeing before Spencer could make him eat his words. He didn’t have his cuffs or gun on him, but he’d dealt with enough unsubs to know he didn’t need them to handle Todd. 

When all the eyes slowly went back to their business, sure that Todd wasn’t coming back into the library, Spencer’s gaze returned to you. Your eyes were dinner plates, mouth agape, still clutching your wrist.

Spencer frowned, whispering your name. “Are you okay?”

“You’re an FBI agent. . .” The words slipped out of you in one shocked exhale. His brows furrowed. He just rescued you from an arrogant asshole and that was what you were stuck on, something he’d told you several times.

“Yes? But I told you—” 

“You were serious?” Your head bobbed forward in disbelief. So you really hadn’t been believing what he was saying. 

“Of course, why would I lie about that?” Spencer was confused and deep down a little hurt. It was such an odd thing to lie about to a stranger, he didn’t understand why you thought he wasn’t truthful. 

“I–I don’t know,” your eyes bounced around in a panic. “I thought you were just trying to impress me. I mean—you don’t really look like an FBI agent you’re. . . young? I don’t know, I thought you were flirting with me so I—” Your hand clasped over your mouth. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, sir—agent—”

“Spencer.”

“What?”

“Call me Spencer,” he gave you a tight lipped smile, a near look of pity on his face. Your complete panic reassured him you were just as embarrassed over the miscommunication as he was. “Technically it would be Doctor, since I have three PhDs—but you can just call me Spencer.”

“But—But I didn’t. . . you were being serious the whole time and I. . .” You stuttered, shaking your head in confusion. “I was so unprofessional. . .”

Spencer chuckled, unable to hold it back. “Unprofessional? Just because I’m an FBI doesn’t mean I can’t like to talk to people. And I like talking to you, you don’t have to be embarrassed about it.” His disappointment dissipated quickly. Your shyness and embarrassment was so genuine and charming he couldn’t find the space to be upset with you beside all his amusement. 

You crossed your arms, somehow becoming even more bashful. “You’re sure it's okay?”

“Of course it's okay.” Spencer grinned.

A small sigh of relief breezed past your lips. “Okay. . . I should—I should definitely apologize for not believing you.” You meet his eyes then with such profound remorse. “Because I am really sorry. It’s just. . . your accomplishments seemed so amazing they were kind of hard to believe, especially for someone so young.”

It was Spencer’s turn to become bashful. His head ducked and he laughed quietly. “I guess they can be hard to believe. Especially when you aren’t meeting me at work. I just thought maybe all the books helped prove it.”

You let out a shaky laugh, eyes wandering back down to the countertop. “I kinda thought that was also to impress me. I didn’t really think you were reading all of them.”

“Well. . . I do.” He shrugged, figuring you had to believe him now. As you smiled at him, he realized he left his basket and books back at the chair. “Speaking of reading, I’ll be right back.”

You eyed him as he retrieved the basket and set it on the counter in front of you along with his library card. “Oh, were you sitting over there?” You looked curious. Certainly you hadn’t seen him sitting there today or anytime before.

Spencer coughed into his fist. “Um, just for a second.” He moved on quickly, removing the books from the basket. “Thank you for this again, by the way, it’s so much easier to carry all the books.”

You hummed, eyebrows jumping up. “Yeah. . . I’m having trouble believing I really gave an FBI agent a picnic basket to carry books in.” You started swiping the books over the barcode scanner, adding them back into the basket once they appeared on the computer screen next to you.

He cracked a half smile. “I think you watch too many movies. We’re not as serious as you think we are.” Hotch’s face flashed in his eyes and he thought maybe they were pretty serious, but not off duty. Hotch could also be serious enough for the whole team sometimes, so maybe he wasn’t a very good example. “And I like the basket. It was nice of you to think about me.”

Your eyes caught on his for a moment, glazed over in thought, so deep you bumped the basket as you went to set the book you held into it. It snapped you back into reality and you watched your hand as you tucked away the book, clearing your throat. “You’re sure it’s not weird?”

Spencer’s head tilted to the left, considering you. He didn’t know what he could do to pull you back from this rut of self-consciousness. He was starting to regret ever pulling out his badge because now you seem standoffish in a way you never were with him before. He wanted to go back to when you laughed and smiled at him and didn’t find him intimidating. “Of course it’s not,” he paused a moment, wetting his lips. “And this isn’t weird either, y’know? Me being in the FBI? I’m still Spencer.”

You looked back at him again, eyes searching his face. “I know that. I’m. . .” You stared at him a second longer, taking in a deep breath and releasing it with a smile. “I’m letting it sink in.” You continued scanning the books quietly, not meeting Spencer’s eyes as he absentmindedly picked at a loose string in his pocket.

His thumb brushed against his FBI credentials and the encounter just before this revelation came flooding back. He glanced over at the double doors as if to make sure Todd had not come back, though Spencer already knew he didn’t. 

“Are you okay?” You met his eyes, brows pulled together. “About before—with that guy?”

“Oh.” You shrugged, rolling your wrist unconsciously. “Yeah, I’m fine. We get one of them every now and again. Normally they’re pretty harmless.” A glimmer of realization passed over your face. “Um, thank you! I should have said that before. Not everyone would have done that.”

Spencer shook his head, waving off your thanks. “Of course. I’m sorry you have to deal with that.” He was again reminded of the fact he was not a woman, and even though his job was to put away serial killers—monsters, creeps, pervs—he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be in your shoes. You shook it off well, but he didn’t doubt you were scared in the moment. Probably wondering how far he would take it, whether your reaction was appropriate, if your employer would be angry at you. He was just glad he was there to step in.

Slowly, you finished scanning all the books, tucking them neatly into the basket in an organized order he thoroughly appreciated. Heaviest books sat at the bottom and lighter books were stacked on top of them. You paused, flipping through the last book in your hand, a biography of Max Born, a German-British physicist. 

“So. . . you really do read 20,000 words per minute?” You had a cheeky grin as you peeked up at him from beneath those frames, and suddenly you were back. Spencer smiled.

“Yup. I also have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal.

You giggled, nodding along. “Right. Well then I guess this isn’t even enough books for you.” A finger waved over at the basket.

“It depends on work, actually. I’m usually busy, but I often have to travel too and then I become really busy so I don’t have time to read,” he explained. When he did sit down to read, he could get through one to three books, depending on their volume. “But yeah, ten books in a week is kind of light.”

You tapped the book in your hand with your thumbs, thinking. “Okay.” Suddenly you dropped the book into the basket, dipping below the desk to set another book in front of him. Examining it, he realized by its orange and yellow coloring it was the same book you had been reading the last time he was in the library. It was The Poetry of Pablo Neruda and from the look of its creased spine and faded orange cover, it was well loved. “You should read this too then.”

Spencer turned the book over in his hands, looking at you with a twisted face of confusion. “But the check out limit is ten books?”

You shook your head, gesturing for him to add it to the basket. “It’s not a library book,” when he still looked puzzled, you continued. “It’s my book. You can borrow it from me.”

Your kindness and generosity was both shocking and overwhelming. Spencer wasn’t sure how he was to thank you for being so gracious to him. He could only think of one thing. So he quickly fumbled his wallet up onto the countertop. “You have to let me give you something for this—”

“Spencer,” as you said his name, your hand covered his as he dug for bills to give you. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He shook his head, bewildered. Not only was your kindness startling, but so was the feeling of your hand on his. He had to stop his body from flinching at the contact. He was mostly uncomfortable at the thought of people touching him, but your palm was warm, soft, and offered the most comfort he’d felt in a while. “The basket and the book? It’s too much. I mean. . . you’re too nice.”

Your lips spread into a bright smile, flashing him your teeth. “Just bring me back your analysis. I’d love to hear what an IQ of 187 can cook up. Deal?”

Spencer laughed, ducking his head as he nodded in agreement. “Deal.”

When the laughter faded and his head came back up, he looked at you for a while longer, just feeling the paperback cover underneath his fingertips. You met his eyes just for a few moments, twiddling your own fingers. “So um, see you next Sunday?” You asked. He dared to see hope in your eyes.

“See you next Sunday,” Spencer agreed again. He hesitated putting the book in his new basket then finally left the front desk, waving you goodbye as he did. He watched over his shoulder you return his wave as he exited through the double doors. 

Spencer walked back to his car practically swinging the basket, so in his head he didn’t even realize he still had a smile on his face. He set The Poetry of Pablo Neruda aside as he disinfected his books and wondered what he would do the rest of his day off. What he was sure of, deep in his chest, was that he was excited for next Sunday. 

-

Part Two

[ladymochimochi]

✦♡✦ Crawl Home To Her ✦♡✦

Katakuri x Fem!Reader [AO3 Link] Description: Katakuri has had a long, terrible day but when he comes home to you still awake and waiting for him, nothing else matters. Tags: Cuddling, Smut, Making Out, Dry Humping, Oral Sex (F!Receiving, with & without panties on), Multiple Orgasms, Mating Press, Katakuri & Reader are married, Reader is sized up to better fit Katakuri, 18+ MDNI Words: 2.1k ₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

It had been a day. 

The kind of day where it was better to just go to bed and sleep it all away. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day – a fresh slate. 

As Katakuri trudged to his shared bedroom with you, he let out a disgruntled sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Since it was late into the night, he knew you’d be long asleep by now and all he wanted was to crawl into bed beside you.  

Katakuri opened the door and was surprised to find you sitting crossed legged with a book in your lap on top of the large bed the two of you shared.  

And only wearing one of his old shirts. 

The sight almost made him fall to his knees. 

He’d go through a thousand days like today to be able to come home to you like this – safe and sound in the low lighting of your bedroom, cozy on the bed and wearing something of his.  

You lifted your head at the sound of him entering the room and Katakuri could read in your eyes that you could see the exhaustion on his face. 

Without a word, you placed your book aside and opened your arms out to him. A silent invitation that only furthered his love for you. He quickly stripped down to just his underwear and then crawled across the bed into your arms. You laid back onto the pile of pillows at the head of the bed and he carefully laid his large body over you. As he buried his face into your neck, you began to gently run your fingers through his hair.  

Katakuri immediately let out a deep sigh and his body slowly untensed from your gentle affection. This was what it was all for. To be able to be here with you and just breathe. No need to put on a mask, no need to be “perfect”. 

The two of you stayed like that for a while, cuddled together as one.  

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

You broke his snuggly stupor when you softly kissed his temple, and Katakuri grumbled something into your neck. 

“What, my love?” You asked him and he lifted himself from you, now hovering above you and looking down at you, his expression tired but still loving. 

“You should’ve been long asleep by now.” He rumbled out and one of his hands lightly cupped your face, thumb caressing your cheek. Even though he could lay like this with you forever – and truly he could, forever – sleep was still something both of you needed.  

You gave him a small smile and shrugged, averting his gaze. 

“I couldn’t sleep earlier.” You muttered and he knew you weren’t being fully honest. Katakuri had always told you that if he was out late busy with his work, that you didn’t have to wait up for him. It was important to him that you stayed well rested. Sometimes you did as he said, and sometimes – like tonight – you purposefully stayed up to greet him when he came home. 

Normally he’d say something around the lines of a light, unserious reprimand but tonight Katakuri was grateful that you had decided to stay up and could be here with him like this. So, he gave you an amused smirk and a small hum in response. 

To get a little more comfortable, he shifted his hips, bringing your thighs up around them even more in the process. The movement made you let out a small gasp and Katakuri stopped dead in his tracks, his cock immediately beginning to harden. 

Okay, maybe the two of you didn’t need to sleep right this second. 

And maybe he could do with letting off a little bit of steam. 

Katakuri leaned down to give you a soft kiss, earning him a happy little moan from you. Your arms hooked around his neck to bring him even closer, deepening the kiss. As the two of you made out, you pushed your hips forward to press your clothed core against his now fully hardened cock. Katakuri started to rock his hips in response and your moan was muffled around his large tongue currently invading your mouth. Still thrusting himself against you, Katakuri broke the kiss to gently kiss your cheek down to your neck, his large teeth brushing against your skin.  

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked between kisses, both of you knowing where this would go if he didn’t stop and have you go to sleep right now. 

“Never.” You replied breathlessly and Katakuri growled, nipping at your neck and getting another light moan from you. 

Using one hand, he pulled the hem of your shirt – his shirt really but he wouldn’t care if you kept it now – up from where it had pooled at your hips all the way up to your collarbone, exposing your bare breasts to him. He craved access to your body but didn’t want you removing this piece of him. To pleasure and fuck you while you were in something of his was so sexy he almost couldn’t take it. 

Katakuri kissed his way down from your neck to one of your breasts, stopping to lap at and suck on your nipple. A loud, choked cry came from you as you writhed beneath him, gripping his hair tightly. After giving some attention to your other nipple, Katakuri continued his descent down your body. He kissed his way from your stomach to your still clothed pussy. 

Over the fabric, he kissed and mouthed at your clit, and it sent you into a frenzy. Your moans filled the room, and your toes curled as he went to town on you. It drove you crazy for him to go down on you like this and Katakuri thrived off it, grinding himself against the bed. 

The look of you with your head thrown back against the pillows, mouth open and panting, back arched and your breasts heaving with every breath made him close to finishing right there. 

You were his goddess, his love, his life. 

Nothing from the day mattered when he had you like this. 

As he applied more pressure to your clit, one of his hands came back up to paw at your breast. His rough hand squeezed the soft flesh as his thumb rubbed at your nipple. He could tell by the way your thighs braced around his head and how high pitched your moans were becoming that any second now you’d be riding the waves of an orgasm. Katakuri didn’t let up until you cried his name and were a panting mess, your body untensing and becoming almost like jelly.  

After your panties had become absolutely soaked from both yourself and his unrelenting mouth, Katakuri slowly removed them and casted them off to a corner of the bedroom. You had barely caught your breath when his mouth returned to your dripping pussy. As he began to lap at you, your fingers returned to his hair, and he growled in return.  

Your grip only tightened once his tongue went from lightly licking at your clit to dipping into your entrance. Another cry burst from you as he started to fuck you with his tongue.  

It was like ecstasy for Katakuri.  

You were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, and he could feast on you for hours. Add your beautiful moans to mix and it was all over for him. The idea of sleep at this point was completely wiped from his mind, his body invigorated at the way your own pleasurably writhed under his touch. 

He now had one hand on your hip and the other on the outer side of your thigh, pinning you down to the bed. All you could do was moan and attempt to shift your hips, trying to get your pussy as close as it could get to his face while he continued to tongue-fuck you. His fingers dug into your thigh as he watched your eyes roll back, moan after moan just spilling from your lips. 

You were getting close again and Katakuri moved his hand from your hip more inward to start pressing against your clit in circles with his thumb.  

“Oh my god!” You cried out, hands now helplessly grabbing at the sheets and pillows of your bed while your head thrashed side to side. Katakuri didn’t stop his onslaught of pleasure until he felt that tensing of your body again, yet another cry of his name – something he’d never, ever tire of – and then that slow relaxation of all your limbs.  

As he pulled his tongue out of you, he lapped at your pussy a few more times, earning breathless whines from you. Slowly, Katakuri rose up from his position and retook his previous one while slipping off his own underwear. You gave him a sleepy smile and looked at him with half-lidded eyes while he hovered over you again.  

With gentle hands, he grabbed your legs and lifted them to start pressing them against your chest, making your eyes go wide. 

“Are you still okay to keep going?” He asked you, voice husky and near breathless. You replied with a soft yes and biting your lip, eyes now filled with lust, and he continued with positioning you.  

With your knees now pressed against your chest and your lower body angled slightly upwards, Katakuri positioned himself on his knees and caged his huge form around you. Giving you a gentle kiss, he started to enter you slowly and you gasped against his lips. Your walls clenched tightly around his cock before relaxing slightly, allowing him to enter you further. With enough practice over the course of your marriage, your body was now used to taking his huge cock for the most part.  

Soon he was fully seated inside you, his thighs pressing against your own upper thighs where they met your ass. At this angle, he was so deep inside you that you could barely speak, the pleasure immeasurable.  

Katakuri looked down at you, waiting for your signal that you were okay for him to start moving. After giving him a small nod, he began thrusting into you.  

It felt too good. 

In this position, it didn’t take long for you to become a babbling, moaning mess again and Katakuri groaned deeply, his thrusts getting harder. The sound of skin against skin slapping together filled the room.  

One of Katakuri’s large hands was laced together with one of yours, pressing down against the bed, while the other came to grip around your calf.  

“Yes, yes, fuck me!” You wailed as he somehow went even deeper into you. His grip on you tightened as his thrusts became shallower and quicker, leaving you breathless. Your free hand clawed at his arm that was holding onto your calf, trying to find a way to anchor yourself.  

Katakuri loved seeing you like this; eyes desperate, eyebrows furrowed, sweat glistening on your body, your mouth slightly hung open with your tongue sweeping out periodically. What a way to forget all about the stress of the day when he had you pinned under his body like this, clenching around his cock and moaning for it. 

“Cum for me, baby.” He whispered to you between groans. “I need it. I need to feel you cum around my cock.”  

It didn’t take long for you to fulfill his request, squeezing your walls around his cock and whipping your head back, near hoarse moans ripping up from your throat. It sent a ripple of pleasure down his own spine, and he could feel his balls tightening. He’d be ready to go at any moment now. 

You lolled your head to the side and looked up at him with those half-lidded eyes again.  

“Please. Cum in me.” You near whispered and Katakuri lost it. Pupils dilated in a feral like state, he thrusted faster into you and the sound of skin slapping together became even louder. That sound mixed with your high-pitched moans and the way you had asked him to cum inside you made Katakuri go flying over the edge. 

With a deep moan, he spilled his seed into you, and it filled you so much you could both feel it beginning to drip out of you. That made him release another growl and you whined lightly under him. If it wasn’t so late and the two of you weren’t so exhausted – especially now – that would’ve been enough to kick start another round. With a shuddering breath, Katakuri released his hold on you and slowly pulled back.  

It had been an awful, terrible day.  

But now he had you, safe in his arms, thoroughly pleasured and smiling up at him with that sexed out look on your face. 

And it was all that mattered. 

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which she never forgets

You never really liked the sound of your own voice until you heard it through someone else’s ears.

Specifically, through Paige Bueckers’ ears.

But that came later—after countless open mic nights, endless rewriting of choruses, and one very particular Thursday where she stood over your shoulder in the corner of the UConn student union and asked, with casual curiosity, “Is that you singing?”

You looked up from your screen, half-thinking it was a classmate. Your fingers were still hovering over your laptop keyboard, GarageBand open with an instrumental looping softly. You'd been tweaking a chorus for over an hour. Your earbuds dangled around your neck. You hadn’t even realized she could hear it.

There she was. The Paige Bueckers. Hoodie up. Smoothie in hand. The girl who practically carried UConn’s women’s basketball on her back and still had the nerve to look soft around the edges, like she didn’t even realize she was famous.

“Uh... yeah,” you answered, cautiously.

“It’s really good,” she said, sliding into the seat across from you like you’d invited her. “Kinda like something you’d hear in an indie film. But not corny. Honest. Real.”

You blinked.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my voice.”

She smiled, and you were ruined.

You were a junior at UConn. Major: English. Minor: late-night songwriting sessions and existential spirals. Your social media had maybe 2,000 followers, most of whom followed you for clips of you singing in your dorm or behind coffee shop pianos. You weren’t famous. You didn’t want to be—not really. You just needed a place to put all the feelings you didn’t have room for in your chest.

Music helped with that.

And somehow, so did Paige.

You started running into her more often after that day. At the same dining hall. In the library café. Once at a random volleyball game where you were covering for a friend on student media duty. Every time, she’d walk right up to you like you were the only person she wanted to talk to.

Eventually, you started texting.

Then hanging out.

Paige wasn’t like other people. Not in the obvious way—the accolades, the cameras, the constant pressure—but in the quiet ways. She never talked about herself unless you asked. She asked you questions with that soft tilt of her head, genuinely curious. Like she cared about your favorite chord progression, your mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls, or how you came up with metaphors for heartbreak like you’d been through it a thousand times, even if you hadn’t.

One night, you were sprawled out on the grass, heads close, stargazing because your dorms were too stuffy and neither of you wanted to say goodbye yet. The grass was a little damp, but she didn’t complain. She wore the same hoodie she always did—oversized and worn at the cuffs.

You glanced at her. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

She turned to you. “What is?”

“This. Us. Hanging out. You’re... well, you. And I’m just some girl who writes songs that barely hit 3,000 plays on SoundCloud.”

She smiled at the sky. “Yeah, but you’re also the girl who says stuff like ‘my lyrics sound like bruises under a microscope.’ That stuck with me.”

Your heart did a little somersault.

It was after one of those nights—one of those perfect, incomplete nights where you thought maybe she’d kiss you but she didn’t—that the song began to write itself.

You sat cross-legged in your room, guitar across your lap, the taste of Paige’s laugh still fresh in your mouth. You strummed a lazy chord progression and started singing without thinking.

Let’s fall in love for the night And forget in the morning

Because that’s what it felt like. Being with her was like suspending reality for a little while. Like pretending that labels and timelines and futures didn’t matter.

You remembered her telling you about the pressure of being perfect. About fans expecting her to be a leader even when she was scared. About how lonely it got, being seen as a brand more than a person.

Play me a song that you like You can bet I’ll know every line

You had this unspoken thing where you’d trade playlists. She loved old-school Drake. You had a soft spot for Hozier and Arctic Monkeys. One night, she sang part of your original song back to you—off-key, badly timed, completely sincere—and your heart nearly imploded.

I’m the girl that your girl hoped that you would avoid Don’t waste your eyes on jealous guys Fuck that noise

You remembered the frat party where some guy tried to chat you up and Paige appeared like a shadow at your side, arm slipping easily around your waist. She didn’t say much, just stared the guy down until he left.

She never claimed you. Not out loud.

But sometimes her fingers lingered a little too long on your wrist. Her gaze dropped to your lips mid-sentence. She called you “trouble” like it was her favorite compliment.

I know better than to call you mine

That line was the hardest to write.

Because it was the truest.

You performed “Let’s Fall in Love for the Night” at a lowkey open mic downtown. The coffee shop was half-full. You were wearing your favorite thrifted jacket, fingers trembling slightly on the guitar neck. You didn’t know if she’d come.

She did.

Stood in the back, hands in her hoodie pocket, eyes on you like you were the only one singing in the room.

Your voice steadied as you hit the bridge. She tilted her head, like she already knew it was about her.

And maybe she did.

After the set, she found you outside under the buzzing streetlight.

“You wrote that about me,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

You tried to play it cool. “Maybe.”

She stepped closer, blue eyes searching yours.

“‘I know better than to call you mine’... that’s the part that hurts.”

You swallowed. “I just didn’t think... I mean, you’re Paige Bueckers. You’ve got the world in your hands. You probably don’t need me complicating things.”

“I don’t want perfect,” she said. “I want real. I want you.”

The silence between you stretched long and electric.

“I want you too,” you said.

She reached out, tentative, like she was afraid you'd disappear. Her fingers brushed your cheek. Then her lips were on yours—soft, steady, certain. Like a verse you’d been humming for weeks but finally got right.

You didn’t expect anything from the video. Not really.

You posted it on a Tuesday night, around 11:47 PM — the sweet spot between vulnerability and impulse. You hadn’t even planned to upload it, but Paige had been curled up next to you on your dorm bed, hoodie sleeves covering her hands as she watched you scroll through takes.

“You should post it,” she murmured, voice low and close, her chin resting on your shoulder.

You glanced at her. “It’s not perfect. I messed up the bridge a little.”

Paige shrugged. “That’s what makes it you. It’s raw. Honest. Besides…” She tapped the screen to pause the video where your lips were slightly parted, eyes closed mid-verse. “You look like you mean every word.”

You did.

You really, really did.

So you posted it.

let’s fall in love for the night and hopefully we never forget (original)

At first, it was just your usual: classmates, a few mutuals, supportive friends in the music department. The likes trickled in. Comments followed — a few emojis, a couple of “who hurt you” replies.

But by the next morning, it had over 20,000 views.

Then 40,000 by lunch.

Then 75,000 by dinner.

You were halfway through writing a midterm essay on “tragic romantic archetypes in modern poetry” (which, ironically, felt very on brand), when your phone started blowing up.

Not from strangers. From people you knew. Teammates of Paige’s. A few students from your songwriting workshop. Even your high school choir teacher messaged you.

But it wasn’t until Paige commented that the floodgates really opened.

Her profile — with its little blue check and almost a million followers — slid into your notifications like thunder in the middle of a quiet room.

“i know better now.”

And that was it.

No name. No tag. But if people had been speculating before, now they were spiraling.

You looked over at Paige, who was lying back against the pillows, scrolling through her own phone like nothing had happened.

“…You know better now?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

She glanced at you, playful. “I do.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She sat up, tucking one leg under her. “I know better than to just sit back and act like this is temporary.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Paige…”

She took your hand, warm and calloused from years of basketball, and ran her thumb along your knuckles. “I know we never talked about, like, what this is. But I’ve been thinking. I don’t want to be someone who you write songs about and then pretend it didn’t mean anything. I want to be the one who shows up to every one of your open mics. I want to be the reason your next love song doesn’t have a sad ending.”

You blinked, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

“I didn’t mean for it to get so big,” you said softly. “The video. The lyrics. I just… I wanted to remember what it felt like.”

“I’m glad you did.” She leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “Because now everyone knows what I already knew.”

You swallowed hard. “What’s that?”

“That I’m yours. And you’re mine. If you want to be.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I want to be.”

Her lips were on yours in the next second — slow, reverent, sweet. Like punctuation on the end of a sentence you’d been too scared to say out loud.

That weekend, Paige posted a story of the two of you sitting at a keyboard in your dorm. Your hand was guiding hers over the keys. You were both laughing. There was no caption. Just a soft filter and the subtle sound of your song playing faintly in the background.

You didn’t need to define it. Not right away. But people started to connect the dots.

IS THIS PAIGE’S GIRLFRIEND?!? She wrote that song. She WROTE THAT SONG ABOUT HER. I’m gonna cry in the corner brb. Wuhluhwuh??

And you?

You weren’t just some girl with a guitar anymore.

You were her girl with a guitar. Still making late-night demos and scribbling lyrics in the margins of your notes. Still performing for small rooms with too much heart.

Only now, when you sang that chorus—

Let’s fall in love for the night And forget in the morning

—you knew you never really had to forget.

Because Paige stayed.

And in the mornings, she was there — hoodie-wrapped, sleepy-eyed, fingers tracing idle chords along your spine.

You still wrote about her. Only now, your love songs had softer endings. Warmer ones.

Ones that stayed.

[paulyenvol6]

Let It Out

Based on this lovely request! This is my first time writing for Aegon, so please don't be too hard on me. Enjoy :)

Contains: smut, oral (m receiving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, lots of praise, comfort, fluff, slight dom!Aegon vibes but he's very sweet, Aegon being a little unhinged, established relationship

Wordcount: 3,038

Masterlist

You twitched at the loud noise, looking over your shoulder and frowned when you saw Aegon rush through the door, heading towards the table in the middle of the room.

"My love," you said loudly, a worried crease appearing between your brows when you saw your husband reach for the wine bottle.

"Aegon."

You quickly climbed off the bed, approaching him and hugging him from behind, your arms wrapping around his waist.

"My love, are you alright?"

He shrugged his shoulders, scoffing quietly while you firmly held on to him, hands drawing patterns over the fabric of his shirt.

"Yes?" he whispered but it sounded like a question.

"What happened? You are upset."

He sighed loudly and then turned around to look into your eyes, a defiant pout on his lip that you were more than familiar with. Of course he wasn't alright and if he stormed into a your chambers like that it was either because of his brother or his mother.

"Just a little fight," Aegon said, lifting his left eyebrow. It was clear that he was trying to talk it down, appearing to be unbothered but after almost 5 years of marriage you were able to see right through him.

"Aegon…," you whispered and cradled his face, his eyes softening at the warmth your hand radiated. "Come here."

You pulled him in for a hug, hands combing through his hair and softly smiling at the way he kissed your shoulder.

"It's alright… I'm here… You can tell me what happened."

Aegon's large hands held on to your waist, squeezing it a few times before pulling back and watching you under his lashes.

"My mother. She acted like a… like a fucking maniac."

Your husband grabbed your hand guiding you with him to the bed and pulling you to sit on his lap. His hand reached for your waist again, massaging your flesh softly while he dropped his head to rest against your chest.

"She's calling me irresponsible… and reckless and… I don't know... I heard it all a thousand times but you know her. Always using Aemond as an example for the perfect son."

You exhaled deeply, running your hands through his silver hand and kissing his forehead.

"I know. But was there a reason? Did something happen?"

You felt him shrug, hands traveling to your arse to trail your skin through the fabric of your dress.

"I guess, yeah… I told Cole to hang a guy."

"What guy?"

Aegon let out a frustrated moan and then threw his head back, looking at you through lazy eyes.

"Some guy. Some guy bothering me in a tavern. Seven hells, it's not a big deal. But my mother… She acted like I put one of the seven kingdoms at risk!"

You nodded understandingly and then brushed over his cheek, trailing his cheekbone which made him sigh out.

"I'm sorry, Aegon. But I'm sure the two of you will reconcile soon. Your mother calms down as quickly as she gets angry."

"Mhmm, yes. Sure," Aegon hummed, his eyes closed as he gave himself to your hand that was softly caressing his skin. You weren't certain whether your husband was in the mood to talk to you right now or if he simply wanted the comfort of your touch so you thought about it for a moment before opening your mouth again.

"Maybe your mother had a bad day… and she was already upset." Sad big eyes darted up to you and your chest tightened at the pout on his lips.

"You think so?" he whispered, snuggling his head against your nape again.

"Yes, my love," you answered equally gentle and then had to giggle when Aegon's grip on your back became more firm.

"I want you, my sweet darling," his hot breath brushed over your neck and you pressed your thighs together, trying to defeat the throbbing heat in your center but of course you didn't stand a chance. Aegon was the only person that could really make it go away.

"Are you sure, Aegon? Are you sure you're in the mood – oh fuck!"

He had slid a hand under your skirts, cupping your sex and pressing his palm against your pulsating pearl.

"No words now," he breathed. "Just enjoy it."

A chuckle escaped from your mouth that made him smirk as well and you took his head in both of your hands, pressing your forehead against his and closing your eyes while he began peeling off your underwear, leaving you bare for his hands.

"Aegon," you panted, searching for his eyes but they were fixed on your rapidly heaving chest.

"Shh, sweetheart. I want you to enjoy this. All you have to do is enjoy it…"

Your hands tightly held on to him as you felt two fingers at your clit, circling it before dipping them inside of you to collect some of your arousal.

"She's always waiting for me, isn't she?" Aegon whispered against your lips and then smeared your wetness over your pearl to use it as lubrication.

"Yes, Aegon," you moaned, squeezing your eyes shut when he rubbed your pearl in slow gentle circles that had nothing soothing about them.

"Huh. Fuck, yes."

He grabbed the side of your neck, pulled you in for a kiss, and then used his index and middle fingers to encircle your pearl, creating an intoxicating friction.

"My sweet perfect girl…," he chuckled at the way you started to rock your hips according to his movements slapping your cunt once which made you jolt.

"Mhmm, I know, I know," Aegon growled pulling you back towards his chest and pushing your head down so he could press a kiss to your brow. "Just let me have some fun with you, huh? Have to take my fucking frustration out on something."

You nodded although you were't sure whether your husband had noticed it but he continued nevertheless, toying with your clit until you were a brainless mess on top of him. After a few minutes Aegon eased two of his thick fingers inside of your hole, making you shiver at the stretch but the soothing touch on your clit that was as light as a feather quickly put your thoughts elsewhere and you got lost in the way the rough, yet soft skin of his thumb took care of your throbbing pearl.

"Come on, babygirl. I wanna hear you. I know you wanna let it out and you can. Let me hear how fucking good I make you feel."

Your trembling hands came down to rest on his shoulders and Aegon could swear he heard you pur like a sweet little cat as he curled the fingers inside of you, hitting that spongy spot that never failed to squeeze out your beautiful whines.

"Aegon. Fuck, right there. Please."

"I know, sweetling. You wanna soak my hand? Come all over me and make a mess?"

You could only whimper in response, nails buried in his shoulders which surely must sting but Aegon didn't even flinch. It felt so good that you almost didn't wish to come and instead savour the way his fingers made you feel for all time but the knot in your stomach that threatened to explode was seducing as well and so when pleasure started to spread in your body you didn't fight it.

"Fuck, I'm coming," you pressed, your face nudging against his nape while you let out sharp breaths. "Oh fuck… Aegon, oh gods be good."

In the way his body vibrated you sensed that he was chuckling, holding you through it, his hand making no attempt to stop touching you.

"There you go… That's a good girl right there," he praised you, smirking down at you when you lifted your head a little to meet with his gaze.

"Oh Aegon," you whispered, stroking his arms and trailing a line down to his toned stomach.

"Yeah? You liked that?"

You nodded, dropping your gaze and then biting your lip at the tent in his pants.

"I think we should do something about that, love," you said quietly, twitching as his hand gripped your chin because you hadn't seen it coming.

"Mhmm I like the way your brain works," he said, returning the wide grin you gave him. "You wanna get on your pretty knees for me?" he asked and you were already seated on the floor as he spoke out the last syllable.

He watched you, his face glowing with a mixture of pride and awe and then carefully pushed two fingers past your lips.

"Go on. Show me what you would do if it was my cock."

Your eyes flickered up to him, fixed on his slighty open mouth, and your tongue twirling around the pats of his fingers as you sucked on them like it was the most delicious thing you had ever tasted. Then you kissed your way up and down his digits, licking the salt off and feeling your heart flutter at his soft praise.

"You're so amazing, you know that? I fucking love you, y/n. So perfect for me…"

You felt him brush over your hair and just as you snuggled against his hand he suddenly yanked you off his fingers to swiftly open his pants and breeches while panting rapidly.

"Keep your mouth open," Aegon demanded, a muscle in the corner of his mouth twitchting, his eyes still on you who sat patiently, hands folded in your lap. Once he had freed his cock he pumped it a few times giving you time to stare at his impressive length and the angry red tip that glistened with precum. It looked delicious, the familiar scent of his arousal filling your nose and you greedily licked over your lips and then offered him your tongue.

"Fuck, darling. That's right, open your mouth wide."

You moaned when he finally slid his cock in your mouth, throwing his head back in ecastasy and grabbing a fistful of your hair.

"Fucking hells..."

Although he had closed his eyes you kept your gaze on him, your pussy uncomfortably clenching around nothing at the way he hectically panted and his teeth relentlessly sank down onto his bottom lip until it was bloody. He was all the way in your throat now and to make sure you would be able to take it all you forced yourself to breathe through your nose instead of focusing on the way his tip kissed the back of your throat every time he thrusted back in. Aegon didn't grant you a lot of comfortability tonight but it was worth it. The gentle strokes on your head, his words of praise, the sweet growls… His reactions were addicting and made you crave more.

You let your tongue swirl around his tip, ignoring the ache in your jaw and swallowing all of him. Precum mixed with your saliva and you felt it drool from the corner of your mouth but Aegon immediately reached to your cheek giving it a gentle squeeze while his eyes now glanced at your fucked out face.

"You're doing so incredible for me, you know that? Let it all go, yes… I want it to be messy. Just keep those pretty eyes on me and just… continue exactly this way," he moaned his grip on your hair getting more firm.

You coughed and held on to his thighs, blinking a few times while fighting your retching reflexes. Then you exhaled deeply, his cock painfully grazing your bruised throat but you wanted to do this for Aegon. You lived and breathed for his love and the look of pure affection and pride on his face was all it took for you to keep going.

But it didn't last much longer anyway because soon Aegon pulled you off his cock, a surprised frown passing over your face but he was quick to lean down and kiss you, shutting you up before you could even express your confusion. His mouth crashed against you but there was nothing careful or exploring about it; he devoured your lips, taking and demanding more and you were happy to let him feast on you. You could see, no feel how honry he actually was, hands relentlessly pulling you closer to him and his head shoving you backwards until you lay on your back right next to the comfortable feather bed.

"Aegon," you giggled against his mouth and bit your lip as his rough hands pulled down your gown. "We have a wonderful bed right there just for us."

"Mhm no…," he mumbled, his forehead pressed to yours. "Takes too long."

Aegon's skillfull hands undressed you until you were bare from your waist up and immediately kneaded your breasts, paying a special amount of attention to your nipples that he circled and enclosed with his fingers. You were ready to relax in his arms and simply enjoy the treatment but you should have known that he was far too horny to wait long before finally thrusting his dick into you so you weren't surprised when, after a few minutes, his hands fumbled with the hem of your dress.

"You're ready to take it, mhm?" he asked aligning himself with your drenched cunt, his left hand squeezing your waist while his right guided his tip through your slit to evoke more of these little pleas in you.

"Always," you whispered and pulled his head down to capture his lips in another heated kiss.

"I know you are," Aegon chuckled and then the both of you gasped as he eased himself inside of you, your hands tightening around his face, your knuckles turning white from the pressure of burying your fingers in his flesh.

"Always so fucking needy, huh? All day and night this cunt's all soaked for me, isn't that right? Only waiting for me to fuck you."

You whimpered as he went so deep with his first thrust that you felt his balls slap against your cunt.

"Yes, Aegon, gods… Please go hard…"

His lips twisted in a mischievous smirk at your words and then you felt him bottom out and start fucking you at a steady pace. He had really listened to your words because he pushed into you with such a roughness, it made your legs tremble.

"Aegon," you moaned, lashed fluttering and toes curling at the way his cock touched you right where it itched. This spot deep inside of you that yearned for him.

He exhaled loudly, his hair tingling you at your chin as he pounded your cunt like he hadn't done it countless times already. That was one thing you loved about your husband. He never failed to make every time you had sex feel special. After all these years, he still went feral seeing you naked underneath him, praised and complimented you like he was still in awe of you.

"So fucking good, fuck… Stay right there, yes… You're gonna make me spill into that perfect little cunt of yours. You're close?"

You nodded, biting down on his shoulder, a pain that Aegon welcomed with a sharp gasp.

"Just need…"

You weren't even able to finish the sentence and request additional stimulation on your pearl because he had instantly glid his hand between your legs and connected it with your bundle of nerves, rubbing you clock-wise just the way he knew you liked it.

It was all it took to drive you over the edge and after a few seconds your insides clenched as you buckled from the hard ground, legs possessively wrapping around his waist.

"I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come, Aegon, fuck!"

He held on to your neck, kissing along your jaw and then let out a deep growl and pushed deep inside of you one last time to empty himself in you.

"Oh gods be fucking good," he pressed, his eyes shut and his body crashing against you as he just couldn't prop himself on his elbows any longer. He dropped his head and waited a few seconds to collect himself before watching you under his lashes, a smirk creeping up on his face.

"That was fucking amazing," he chuckled and pulled his flaccid cock out of you in one motion. You fell back, ignoring the hardness of the ground beneath you and pressed a hand on your chest that was still rising and falling rapidly.

"Yes. It was," you answered and then darted up to him.

He was already up, rubbing over his sweat-covered brow and putting on his shirt which made you narrow your eyes.

"What are you doing? We're not in a rush, are we?"

"Actually we kind of are," Aegon answered, his lips forming a pout. "At least I am."

You moaned in disappointment and rolled on your stomach to rest on your elbows.

"Why," you sighed, furrowing your forehead when your husband leaned down to kiss your hair.

"Because I have a small council meeting," he whispered and you pinched his calf in response.

"Of course. Because no one in this castle wants me to have a relaxing afternoon with my husband."

He chuckled and then put on the rest of his clothings before kneeling in front of your still lying body.

"I'll be back soon. And then we can have supper together. Just the two of us. And afterwards we can fuck again."

Now you couldn't hide your amusement and grinned as he cradled your head in his hand.

"Just think of me while I'm gone. Think of all my amazing traits… my beauty… my charm and my cock. Then time will fly."

"I will," you whispered and pressed a kiss to his chin.

"And think about what I'm going to do to you later. Because I haven't had a taste of your pretty cunt today. I'll make it up to you later, I promise."

Your heart fluttered at the prospect and the smile remained on your face even when he rose from the floor to head to the door.

"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," he shouted as he rushed out and you couldn't help but chuckle to yourself even long after the door was shut.

[holylulusworld]

Seven Days

Summary: Alpine misses you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, mentions of a fight/argument, a lil fluff

It’s been seven days - one hundred sixty-eight hours - ten thousand and eighty minutes.

She steps inside the empty room and sits down on the ground. For a few moments, she sits there, looking left and right to find any trace of you.

“Alpine,” Bucky’s heart aches even more watching his cat sit in the empty room. “She’s gone, punk.”

Alpine stubbornly sits in the room. She lies down and meows loudly.

“Alpine…” Bucky tries to get his cat to leave the room. He places a bowl with Alpine’s favorite food next to his cat. “You need to eat something.”

His cat ignores Bucky. The white furball lies on the ground, still meowing.

“She won’t come back,” Bucky murmurs as he slowly sits beside his cat. He pats Alpine’s head, feeling even sorrier for his cat. “It’s all my fault.”

It was a moment of anger driving you away. He doesn’t remember how the fight began, only the end of it.

“If you are unhappy, maybe you should leave and never return. I didn’t ask you to love me or take care of me. You knew that I’m damaged goods.”

He sighs deeply making Alpine meow even louder. The cat jumps back up to nuzzle Bucky’s hand. It’s like Alpine can feel Bucky’s pain.

“I don’t deserve her, never deserved her. I should’ve stayed away from her. I knew that sooner than later she’d find out that I was not the man she wanted. If only I wasn’t so ruined.”

The cat sits next to Bucky, curling in his side to get more pats. “Did you ever believe that I was good enough for her?” He drops his head, shaking it slightly. “I guess not. Everyone told her to not fall for me. I heard her friends talk about me more than once. She was too nice to tell me the truth.”

Bucky buries his face in his hands. He chokes out a sob as the words he threw in your direction echo in his mind.

“I can’t give you what you want, and I don’t want to. Why drag things out? Let’s just face reality.”

He sniffles silently. “She will find someone better, Alpine. It’s better this way, believe me, punk. We shouldn’t have asked her to move in with us.”

Alpine lifts her head, she looks at her owner and meows loudly before running out of the empty room.

���You too, Alpine?” Bucky huffs. “Of course, you’d love to live with her. I’d be the same if I was you. She always bought the best snacks and toys for you.”

He looks over his shoulder when Alpine begins to meow louder. Bucky slowly gets back up. He doesn’t want Alpine to suffer only because he fucked things up between the two of you.

“Punk, what’s wrong?” He calls for his cat. Bucky wipes his wet eyes to look around the apartment. “Alpine?”

He can hear his cat in the bedroom. Alpine purrs low in her throat, a sound Bucky only ever heard when you patted his cat. The white cat is a little bratty and believes she’s a queen most of the time, but he loves her.

“Alpine?” Bucky tiptoes inside the bedroom. He stares at the bed, eyes wetting with fresh tears.

“Aw, your fur is less shiny, baby kitten,” you coo while patting Alpine. The cat is currently curled in your lap and purrs loudly. “Did he forget to brush you daily? I bet he did.” You conclude. “I’m away for seven days and your fur looks awful.”

“I brushed her daily,” Bucky murmurs. He steps closer to the bed to watch you groom his cat. He smiles because you placed a bag filled with new toys and snacks for the cat on the bed. “She’s a little sassy lately.”

You look at the cat, not Bucky as he steps closer, and closer. “I was looking for a new apartment, a place to call home.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“I went from one end of town to the other, searching for a perfect place but,” you shake your head and sniffle, “my home is where you and Alpine are and…” You get something out of the bag, pressing it to your heart. “I don’t know if you wanted to know or not but…”

Bucky sits on the bed. He holds out his hand for whatever you want to show him. He inhales sharply when you place a pregnancy test in his hand. “I…I thought…they said I can’t… they said I’m sterile…”

“Obviously, you can give me what I want,” you dip your head to glance at Bucky. “I just don’t know if you want to be part of this wonder.”

He chokes on his tears while pressing the test to his heart. Bucky got so mad because he believed that he couldn’t give you a baby. Now everything changed and he doesn’t know if you will forgive him.

“You’re my wonder,” he sniffles. Bucky moves closer to take your hand in his hand. “Always were.”

“So…can we turn the room into a nursery?” You look at him, tears in your eyes. “If you don’t—”

He cups your face with both hands to kiss you softly. “I want to. More than anything…”

Tags in reblog.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: Through My Eyes

The glow of your phone screen was the only thing illuminating the bedroom as you sat curled up against the headboard, scrolling through the endless comments.

"She’s so plain."

"What does he even see in her?"

"She looks sickly—someone get her a sandwich."

"Boring as hell. No wonder he’s always writing about heartbreak."

Your stomach twisted, fingers tightening around your phone as the words burned into your brain. You knew better than to read the comments. You’d told yourself a thousand times not to look. But curiosity always won out, and now, here you were, letting strangers pick apart every inch of you like you weren’t a real person—just an attachment to him.

You didn’t even hear Marshall come in until the bed dipped beside you.

"Y’good, baby?" His voice was rough with sleep, laced with concern.

You inhaled sharply, locking your phone and setting it face-down on your lap. "Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep."

Marshall’s tired blue eyes flickered to your phone, then back to your face. He wasn’t stupid. He could see the way your body was curled in on itself, the way you wouldn’t quite meet his gaze.

He reached out, running a gentle hand down your arm. "What’d they say this time?"

Your throat tightened. "It’s nothing, really—"

"Bullshit," he cut in, his jaw ticking. "You only get like this when some dumbass on the internet gets in your head."

You exhaled, looking away. "It’s just the usual stuff. That I’m boring, too thin, too plain… That you could do better."

Silence.

Then, Marshall grabbed your phone, unlocking it easily—he knew your passcode—and scrolling through your notifications. His grip tightened as he scanned the comments.

"Fuckin’ ridiculous," he muttered, shaking his head. Then, before you could react, he tossed your phone across the room. It landed somewhere on the carpet with a soft thud.

"Marshall—"

"Nah," he cut you off, shifting to face you fully. His hands found your legs, tugging you forward until you were straddling his lap. His big, warm hands settled on your waist, holding you firm. "Look at me."

You hesitated, but his fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes met his.

"You really believe that shit?" he asked, voice low but intense. "That you’re not enough for me?"

You swallowed hard. "It’s not that I believe it, but—"

"But nothin’," he interrupted, shaking his head. His hands slid from your waist to your arms, then back again, like he needed to remind himself that you were real, that you were his. "Lemme tell you somethin’, baby. You think I want some overdone, plastic, attention-hungry chick who don’t know the first thing about me? You think I’d trade this—" He squeezed your hips, his eyes dark and serious. "You—for some Instagram model who don’t know how to hold a real conversation?"

You let out a shaky breath. "I just… I don’t want people thinking you deserve better."

Marshall’s face softened, but his grip on you didn’t. "Ain’t nobody in this world better than you, sweetheart." His fingers skimmed under the hem of your shirt, sliding along your bare skin. "You think I give a fuck if you’re ‘plain’? You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Inside and out. I don’t need flashy, or fake, or whatever the hell these people think I should have. I need this. I need you."

Tears pricked at your eyes, and Marshall sighed, pulling you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you completely. His lips pressed against your temple, lingering.

"They don’t see what I see," he murmured. "But they don’t fuckin’ matter."

You melted into him, breathing in his scent, his warmth, his love.

"Don’t let ‘em take up space in that pretty little head of yours, alright?" He pulled back just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. "Only opinion that matters is mine. And I think you’re fuckin’ perfect."

A small smile finally found its way to your lips, and Marshall smirked, brushing a knuckle under your chin.

"There’s that smile," he murmured. "Now, c’mere, lemme remind you exactly how much I see you."

And as he pulled you back down to him, hands roaming, lips claiming, the noise of the outside world faded away. Because in his eyes, you were everything.

Marshall didn’t let you go. Not even for a second.

He held you like he was afraid you’d slip away, like he needed to erase every cruel word from your mind with his touch alone. His hands roamed your back, your sides, gripping, kneading—reminding you that you were his.

"You hear me?" he murmured against your lips, his breath warm, his voice rough. "Ain’t nobody’s opinion matter but mine. And I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my fuckin’ eyes on."

You let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting into his hoodie. "Marshall—"

"Nah," he interrupted, shaking his head, his hands sliding under your shirt, palms warm against your skin. "You don’t get to brush this off. Not after I just watched you shrink in on yourself over some dumb shit some jealous motherfuckers said on the internet."

Your throat tightened, the vulnerability creeping in again, but Marshall wasn’t having it. He leaned in, brushing his lips across your jaw, trailing soft, lingering kisses down your neck.

"You’re mine," he murmured, his voice dark and full of promise. "Every inch of you. Ain’t nobody else’s opinion matter."

You let out a soft whimper as his teeth grazed your pulse point, your fingers clenching against his chest. He was overwhelming in the best way, drowning out every insecurity with the sheer force of his love, his need to make you understand.

His lips found your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "You think you’re too thin? I love your body, baby. Every soft, sweet, perfect inch of it." His hands slid down, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. "You think you’re boring? Then why the fuck am I so addicted to you? Why can’t I go a day without wantin’ to hear your voice, see your face, touch you?"

Tears welled in your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from hurt. They were from the sheer weight of his love, of how fiercely he saw you.

Marshall pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his gaze burning into yours. "I’m in love with you," he said, voice firm, raw. "Not who people think I should be with. Not some fantasy. You. And I don’t ever wanna hear you doubt that again."

You swallowed thickly, nodding, unable to find words.

His expression softened, his hands cradling your face, thumbs brushing away the wetness on your cheeks. "C’mere," he whispered before pressing his lips to yours—slow, deep, reverent.

You melted into him, letting him pour every unspoken word, every reassurance, every ounce of love into you. And as he laid you down, taking his time, worshipping every part of you, you finally started to see yourself the way he did.

Perfect. Beautiful. His.

---

The morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the bedroom. You stirred slightly, feeling warm, safe—wrapped up in him.

Marshall’s arms were snug around you, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other lazily tangled in your hair. He was still asleep, his breathing slow and steady against the top of your head, but even in sleep, his grip on you was firm, possessive—like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, taking in the peaceful expression on his face. The hardened, world-weary man everyone else saw was nowhere to be found. Here, with you, he was just Marshall. Just the man who held you together when the world tried to tear you down.

Your heart clenched as the sting of last night’s comments threatened to creep back in, but then—his arms tightened around you, like he knew where your mind was headed, even in his sleep.

"You ain’t thinkin’ about that shit again, are you?"

His voice was rough with sleep, but there was still that edge to it—the same one he had when he was protecting something his.

You sighed, resting your chin on his chest. "No," you murmured.

His eyes cracked open just enough to scan your face. "Liar," he muttered before pulling you back against him, shifting so you were practically on him now.

You let out a soft laugh, but it quickly faded when he ran his hands up your back, slow and deliberate. "I meant what I said last night," he murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead. "Ain’t nobody’s opinion matter but mine."

You bit your lip, tucking your face into his neck. "I know."

Marshall hummed, not convinced. His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Do you?"

You hesitated, and that was all the answer he needed.

He exhaled, shaking his head before flipping the two of you so he was hovering over you now, caging you in with his arms. "Then lemme say it again," he rasped. "You’re mine. Every part of you. I don’t give a fuck what people think, baby. I don’t want anybody else. I don’t even see anybody else."

His lips brushed against yours, barely there, but his eyes—intense, unwavering—told you he meant every word.

"I don’t wake up every day next to them," he murmured. "I wake up next to you. And that’s the only thing that fuckin’ matters."

You swallowed hard, nodding, because how could you not believe him when he looked at you like that? Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

He smirked at your silence, finally closing the gap and kissing you—slow, deep, reassuring. Like he was sealing his words into your skin.

When he pulled back, he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "Now, what do you say we go get some breakfast, Mrs. Mathers? Maybe post a cute lil’ selfie so people know exactly who I’m wrapped up with every night?"

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile forming on your lips. "You’re impossible."

Marshall grinned, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "Yeah, yeah. But I’m your impossible."

And just like that, the noise of the outside world didn’t matter anymore.

---------

A/N: based on a real life conversation I overheard at a lil get together with my husband's friends last night. His best friend's sister is apparently very much not impressed by my husband's choice of wife.

[fancyfeathers]

Rain and Dirt (Yandere Rex Lapis/Zhongli x Goddesses!Reader) Chapter One, Rite of Descension Sequel to The Moon Will Sing and Time Alone Summary: Stories are told of Rex Lapis the God of Contracts and his darling the Goddess of the Moonlight, but what people do not know is the truth of what their relationship really is. People think at Rex Lapis’s death that his wife would be the first to weep, but what if she is the first to smile.

You were allowed to be on your own during the Rite of Descension festivities, with the condition that you would be in Yujing Terrace during the event proper. Your husband had you dressed up this morning before he left, the dress was all too familiar to you, it was the same dress you were wearing when you were taken by him thousands of years ago, he kept it, and perhaps had someone restore it, Cloud Retainer perhaps. The dress was practically the same except there were skin tight sleeves added underneath the billowing sleeves of the dress. They were there to cover the markings on your body, a gift from your husband that matched him and that bound you to him, like those physical chains did all those centuries ago.

“You look as beautiful as you did all those centuries ago, my pearl.” Your husband spoke, but you can’t respond due to a brush running over your lips as your husband applies your lipstick. 

“Thank you, but Zhongli, you know I am able to do my own makeup.” You said as Zhongli set the brush down and picked up a cloth to wipe the bits of lipstick from the corner of your mouth. He chuckled as he pushed the cloth against your skin.

“I know, I know my love, but it’s an important day and I want you to look perfect.” He set down the cloth and walked across the bedroom to the dresser, letting you look in the mirror and you did look beautiful, like the same you did all those years ago. You watched as Zhongli grabbed a box off the dresser and brought it over to you. He leaned over and kissed your forehead, while setting the box on your lap. “I have to leave now, I will see you soon. I love you so, my dear.”

“Goodbye Zhongli.”

You never said I love you back, because that would be lying…

You watched as Zhongli left the room, and you heard his footsteps going down the stairs, then the door opening and closing, but no lock. Looks like he kept his word, like he always did.

You look down at the box on your lap and reached down to the note on top of it.

This reminded me of the night we first met, I hope you like it.

Of course it wasn’t signed, it didn’t need to be. You pulled off the lid and you saw laying on velvet, a hair pin with glass glaze lilies being the statement piece of it. Seems like Zhongli wanted you to look perfect if you wanted to be in the harbor during the Rite of Descension.

—————————

You walked the streets of Liyue, going from booth to booth, seeing for the first time how much the people of the city celebrated this occasion. Everything felt so alive to the time you would normally spend with the adepti around this time of year which was always so depressing and lonely. 

You stopped at the booth of a small jewelry business, you were surely not short of pocket change with who your husband was. You were looking through different necklaces and chatting with the shop owner when you heard a high pitched voice call out from behind you.

“Excuse me ma’am?”

“Hm?” You turned to see a small floating girl behind you and a blond woman who wore clothes that you did not quite recognize. “May I help you two?”

“Oh yes, we were wondering where the Rite of Descension was taking place, neither of us are from here and it’s our first time witnessing it.” The floating companion explains and you smile and nod.

“It’s my first time attending the Rite as well.” You laughed a bit nervously as you answered, which made them look disappointed. “Don’t worry though, I have resided in Liyue Harbor for quite some time, I can show you where it will take place and perhaps show you around the harbor.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do all that, ma’am-“

“No, no, it’s not a problem whatsoever, I actually quite enjoy helping people, especially when it comes to helping the people of Liyue and travelers who wish to know more. Just let me finish up here.” You smile and turn back to the shopkeeper and make an exchange for a necklace and the mora you carry. You tuck the necklace in your bag before turning back to the traveler and her companion down the street.

“So what’s your deal, miss… actually I don’t think we ever got your name.” The floating companion spoke, making you realize you never introduced yourself.

“I am (Name), and honestly I just like to meet new people, I do not often get to discuss much with others besides my husband and a few old friends.”

“Oh so you’re not a miss at all but a missus since you’re a married woman.”

“That is correct, but you may just call me (Name), no formality needed.” You nodded and smiled as you spoke. “But what may I call you?”

“My name is Lumine and this is…” she gestured over to her floating companion with a playful smirk coming across her face. “Is my emergency food.”

“Paimon is not emergency food!” 

Both you and Lumine chuckled at that, look that cleared up the name problem. As you led the traveler and Paimon up the stairs, through Yujing Terrace Lumine finally asked you a question.

“(Name), do you know anything about Rex Lapis, apparently the people here quite adore him, what do you think of him?”

What do you think of him? How were you supposed to honestly answer that question, what I’m all of Teyvat would be your answer? Lie and make yourself look like another citizen of Liyue, or be honest and give this traveler a clear picture of who this land’s archon actually is. One felt wrong to you morally, the other could get you into quite a bit of trouble with your husband or even the people of Liyue if they heard you say such things about their beloved archon…

“I… I do not know if I am the right person to ask that question, but perhaps in due time I may be able to answer it.”

What else were you to say? The truth? Lies? Either way it felt you were trapped, at least this answer gave you time to think…

And thought you did…

You thought as you showed Lumine and Paimon where the Rite was taking place…

You thought as people made offerings to the Adepti and Rex Lapis…

You thought as Ninggaung started the proceedings…

But your mind went blank as you saw a draconic body fall to the ground with a crash. Everyone was in shock as the dust settled. You quickly realized that this was the draconic form of your husband, the one who had forced you to marry him, the one who tore you away from the Liyue you knew, and the one you thought about.

You could only watch as Lady Ninggaung approached the body and kneeled down next to it, looking it over. It felt like you could not breathe, like your heart had stopped when she finally stood up…

“Rex Lapis has been killed! Seal the exits!”

The panic of the crowd only covered up your shock and relief when you heard those words…

You were finally free…

After over two thousand years, you were free.

Chapter Two

[tikosblogg]

Good to be home.

Summary: Noah has been away on tour, and you miss him like crazy. So you’re more than happy to come home to his beautiful face.

A/n: pretty short. Porn with barely any plot. this is an old imagine from my old Wattpad account. It was about someone else, but I changed the character, and revamped it a little. Hope you enjoy!

Warning: smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, spit kink?, oral (f receiving) let me know if I missed anything.

Finally arriving home, from a long ass day at work I was ready to crawl into my bed and call it day. Days like these are when I miss Noah the most. They’re finishing up the rest of their tour, set to be home in a couple of days. 6 months…that’s how long we’ve been a part from each other. We’ve been together for two years now, this is the first, and longest time we have been without each other. I kicked my shoes off in huff, throwing my purse onto the kitchen counter, making my way to mine and Noah’s room. I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight in front of me…please tell me I’m not hallucinating. “Noah?” I was in complete disbelief. My voice just above a whisper.

He wasn’t supposed to home until next weekend. He never failed to take my breath away with his beauty. He was perched against the head board of the bed, clad in only his sweatpants. His hair was a tousled mess, like he had been wallowing around on it all day..still looking perfect as ever nonetheless. My eyes raked over his tattooed body like I’ve done a thousand times before, but never got tired of seeing. “Hi baby.” His soft deep voice, broke my trance. My eyes shooting to his face wearing the biggest brightest smile. “How- I thought- you?” I couldn’t form a single coherent sentence to save my life.

He laughed that beautiful laugh of his. Tears welling up in my eyes, I finally moved toward him, jumping onto the bed. Straddling his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck, I shoved my face into it sniffling. He wrapped his arms around tightly. I couldn’t help the emotions coming out of me. I missed him so much. “We finished early…I got the first flight back.” I finally pulled back, pulling him into a heated kiss. “I missed you so fucking much Noah.” He pull me back to him, instantly deepening the kiss. “I missed you too angel.” He shoved his face into my neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks all down it.

Both hands groped my ass, grinding his already stiffening dick against my core. “Fuck Noah please…I need you.” I whined. He pushed down onto my back between his legs, before crawling on top of me. “I’ve got you baby.” He gave me one last kiss, before yanking my shirt and bra off attacking both of my nipples. “Oohhh fuck” I groaned, running my fingers through his hair gently tugging at the strands. “You’re so sensitive baby.” I whined nodding in agreement.

It’s been so fucking long, I’ve been dying to feel him again. He kissed his way down my stomach, to the top of my jeans before removing them as well. “You’re so fucking beautiful angel, I missed this fucking pussy.” I gasped as he roughly pulled my thighs apart, diving right in. As soon as his lips wrapped around my swollen clit, I was in shambles. “Oh fuck Noah..yes yes yes..” he flicked his tongue over it a few more times before shoving his tongue into my dripping hole, groaning at the taste of me.

He licked back up sucking my clit into his mouth, then pressing two long fingers into my throbbing pussy, making cry out again. “I missed the way taste..” after a few more licks from his tongue, and a few more pumps of his fingers, I was finishing quick. “Noahhh” he pulled away, grabbing my jaw. Without a second thought I stuck my tongue out, as he spit my release onto it. “You taste so fucking sweet don’t you baby?” He rasped, against my lips.

All I could do was whine, and nod in agreement. To lost in pleaser to form any words. He kicked off his sweats, positioning himself between my legs right up against my dripping entrance. He slowly pushed all the way in, making us both gasp and groan. “I missed the way this pretty pussy squeezes me. You feel so fucking good baby.” He took no time pounding into me. He ran his hand up between my tits, and around the front of my throat. His eyes were wild, and full of lust. “Tell me whose pussy this is.” He demanded, his thrusts quickening.

“Fuck Noah..yours! It’s yours!.” I cried, feeling my orgasm coming for the second time. “That’s right baby..mine. All fucking mine.” He grunted against my ear, never missing a beat. I could feel twitch getting closer to his release. “Noah…fuck..cum inside me please.” He groaned, snaking his hand between us rubbing at my already sensitive clit. I was seeing stars, my orgasm finally tipping over the edge.

“FUCK” I yelled, clamping down on his dick covering him in my release. “Fuck y/n good fucking girl…” after a few more thrusts, he finished releasing every drop inside of me. He collapsed on top of me, kissing my lips slowly and rolling over beside me…”it’s good to be home.” I giggled, as he wrapped his arms around me pulling me into his chest. It is good to be home…

[pomegranatecrab]

Rhodey/Tony/Steve, anyone?

Steve buys an apartment with his back pay.

It’s small, but it has two bedrooms. He converts one into a studio, and he should be comforted by the peeling paint and faded colour, covered in thousands of little fallacies, so very akin to the room he shared with his mother, where he would count each mark and stain while he was in bed, struggling to breath. Instead, the memories that the walls incite are sour.

There’s nothing stopping him from moving the minimal furniture out into the hallway, and sanding back the walls by hand. The man at the store had suggested an electric one, a round device that he had politely turned down. When he strips down the walls, Steve is still at a loss. No colour feels right for the room. There’s two windows where Steve is considering putting a house plant between, yet, no inspiration strikes. A spattering of dust floats in the air, a thick smell permeating the room. Steve opens a window, and frowns when someone knocks on the door.

He’s never met the man on the other side before. Tall, dark skin and carrying himself strongly. A wry smile paints his lips.

“Steve Rogers?” He offers a hand, the other hooked in the tag of a six pack of beers. “I’m James Rhodes. Tony’s talked a lot about you.”

Steve blinks.

“Tony Stark?”

James nods, peering shamelessly past Steve and into the living room. “Still moving in?”

Steve steps aside, nodding stiffly. The beers are from a brand he doesn’t recognise, and James is dressed casually, but his rigid posture gives him away.

“Army?”

“Airforce,” James says, peeling off his shoes and leaving them neatly by the door. “No work talk, I’m off duty.” He eyes the lack of TV critically.

“Do you have any board games?”

Steve would have felt like a killjoy, if not for the gleam in James’ eye, casual and easy-going. Like a wave could crash in and he’d simply ride it to shore.

“I have a pair of dice,” Steve says.

It’s one of the only things, along with his shield, that they let him take from his own belongings. A nice wooden pair that Bucky had carved for him, right down to the uneven dots adorning each side.

“Perfect,” James says.

He steps into the connecting kitchen, running an admiring hand over the arched doorway, a coil of rich timber that reminds Steve of the sprawling houses that he’d seen in movies at the theatre.

“Have you considered removing this cupboard? It’d make good space for a breakfast nook.” He peers around the back of it, considering. “Built in, but it wouldn’t take too much rewiring. Tony and I can help you out.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve replies, eyeing the unit critically. It would be nice to have the place feel less crowded, unique, even. It’s probably the last thing he needs, but a construction project might keep his mind occupied, at least. There were only so many times that he could think about drawing instead of picking up a pencil, and only so many laps he could take around the park.

James nods, and swipes a cup from the dish rack, rinsing it once beneath the tap before placing it in the middle of the counter. Steve watches as he takes a beer, expertly popping it open with a spoon.

“How’d you do that?”

“My sister taught me,” James says, sliding a beer over to Steve, “it’s simple physics. You just hold your hand slightly over the cap, and voilà.”

Steve tips his head, impressed.

“Now, you roll the dice,” James demonstrates, “and whatever number I get, in this case six, I have to get this cap in the glass six times in a row. If I don’t, I drink. If I do, you drink.”

“You know I can’t get drunk, right?” Steve asks.

He’s also certain he won’t miss, no matter how high he rolls.

“Yeah, but it’s friday and I can,” James replies, almost cheekily, though his face is deceptively grave.

“You can laugh,” James says after a beat, composure finally cracking.

“At funny things,” Steve retorts, relaxing, the tension held in his shoulders eased by the friendliness, the firm hold of comradely, on offer to him.

“Call me Jim, or Rhodey.”

They spend a good couple of hours playing, until Steve swallows the last of his beer, and Rhodey checks his watch.

Steve’s heart sinks. His day no longer felt droll and empty with Rhodey’s visit. It had been nice, at least, while it lasted.

“What’s your phone number?” Rhodey asks, pulling out a sleek little rectangle with a smooth surface. It alights at his touch, and Steve spots a vaguely familiar face, belatedly realising that it was Tony Stark, beaming up at the ceiling.

“I don’t have a phone.”

He had been given one when he woke up, but left it on a park bench when it hadn’t stopped incessantly ringing.

And he had no idea what a data plan was, or why he was supposed to get one.

Rhodey smiles.

“I’m sure Tony will help you out there. Here’s my address. You should stop by on Sunday. We’re having a barbecue.”

He’s out the door with another kind smile and firm handshake, leaving the faint smell of expensive cologne behind him.

—-

By the time Sunday rolls around, he still hasn’t decided on a colour for his studio, or if he really does want a breakfast nook in his kitchen.

What he has decided, after a great deal of going back and forth with himself, is that he will attend the barbecue that Rhodey invited him to. Steve refuses to think about Bucky, or his mother; dead for decades while he experiences the future. He doesn’t think of quiet dinners with his mother, or sitting in dense forests with Bucky, his small fingers expertly carving the skin from a rabbit, roasting it over the fire, a fond suspire caught in Steve’s throat as Bucky complained about boredom, wishing for Nazi’s to gut or superior officers to prank. Mostly, he remembers the smell of bodies. The nauseating amount of blood had been like drowning in a sea of pennies, a thick, overwhelming metallic smell, a horrible collision with urine and excrement.

He thinks of Bucky, who didn’t even make it to sixteen.

He pulls on his shoes, and thinks of how he had to warn Bucky about keeping his feet as dry as possible in his boots, to never assume that it was mud, or something wet in his socks. He had heard too many stories from the first war about flesh peeling off, rotting and grotesque.

Steve ignores the military uniform hanging neatly in his closet and opts for jeans and a white t-shirt, pulls the punnet of strawberries from the fridge that he was sure were going to be laughed at, before beginning the long walk to Rhodey’s residence.

Rhodey lives in an incredibly beautiful two-story house, with a sprawling property that Steve figured would cost more than he would ever see in his lifetime. There’s a small porch at the front, adorned with plants hanging from the ceiling, a mat at the door and a small, ornate table with a package of bird feed on it.

He knocks on the door, and is surprised when it’s opened almost instantly.

Rhodey grins at him, wiping his hands on a yellow apron.

“Steve! Glad you could make it. Are those for the barbecue? Perfect, they’ll go perfectly with the charcuterie board.”

Relieved, Steve hands off the strawberries, peeling off his shoes and placing them in the neat little shelf by the door, already filled with a variety of joggers, leather shoes and a strange pair with holes throughout them.

The air smells like steak, sausages and something spicy.

Rhodey leads him briskly through a wide hallway with gleaming wooden floors into a large kitchen, where Tony Stark stands, arms akimbo.

“I thought flambéing would be easier than it looked,” Tony says, with a winning smile.

It’s not the wet, dormant smile of a greedy businessman; his blue eyes are warm, and he’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows, a faint flush working his way up to his neck. He looks very normal.

“Just do us all a favour and stick to chopping, a severed finger would be better than cleaning the gunk in that pan,” Rhodey replies.

Tony shrugs, and turns to face Steve properly.

“Hi, Steve. Nice to properly meet you,” Tony says, offering a hand.

His palm is calloused and warm, with long, bony fingers that his mother would say are perfect for the piano.

“I hear you’re in the midst of a construction project.” Tony opens the punnet of strawberries, and opens a cupboard beneath the bench, pulling out a beautiful wooden board, covered in rich oils that paint the surface into a bubbling ocean. Rhodey passes him a package of brie and a small knife, which all get neatly organised on the board.

“Maybe,” Steve says, scratching at the back of his neck.

There’s a cool breeze trailing in from the deck, the huge doors thrown open, curtains flapping gently.

A British voice, possibly belonging to the pale set of legs lounging half out of sight on a chaise longue, rings out.

“Master Anthony! I’m sure somewhere along the way I drilled some manners into that head of yours.”

“Are you sure?” Tony says, whisking the small platter out the door. “I don’t recall.”

Steve follows, assured by Rhodey’s benign smile as he inches around the barbeque. Rhodey lifts the lid, smoke escaping the confines and filling the air, and pokes at the sausages sizzling away alongside a row of vegetables.

“I enjoy my days off, but I don’t enjoy watching your abysmal attempt at cooking,” the older gentleman says, arranging his feet on a small table.

“Jarvis,” Rhodey replies, “stop flirting.”

Jarvis sniffs.

“Anthony, I wasn’t joking about your manners.”

Tony claps a hand over his shoulder, grinning. “Jarvis, this is Steve. Steve, this is Jarvis. He’s known me since I was in diapers.”

“You were just as stubborn about those as you are about bread,” Jarvis demurred.

“I’m not a snob for not eating white bread,” Tony defends immediately, handing a cracker piled with olives, tomatoes and cheese over to Steve.

The cheese had an interesting layer of crust, a creamy, white texture underneath.

“Are too,” Rhodey says, “you couldn’t see the looks of disgust sent my way when I dared to grill cheese on white bread.”

“There’s a perfect way to make grilled cheese, Rhodey,” Tony says, “it’s a sacred art.”

Steve’s lips twitch, and Tony grins widely at him, nodding towards the cracker.

“That’s brie. It’s okay if you don’t like it, it can be a bit rich.”

He eats it in one bite, the rich flavours exploding across his tongue immediately. Steve had been used to stale, thin waifs for crackers, and in the army, hardtack, eaten in the dark to remain ignorant about the presence of weevils. These crackers were crumbly, with hints of thyme and garlic, and complimented the tangy tomato and olives, the interesting taste of the brie eluding his palate until the last minute.

“I don’t mind it,” Steve says.

“Have you had a chance to try any other new food, Steve?” Rhodey asks, smiling charmingly, one hand pressing warmly against the small of Tony’s back as he shuffles past, offering another loaded cracker to Jarvis, before holding the other to Rhodey’s lips.

“Not really.” Steve scratches his head, darting his eyes between the three of them, no judgement in their eyes, merely curiosity. “I don’t really know where to start.”

Tony clicks his fingers. “We can remedy that, Steve. Can’t have you going to any old Cantonese restaurant. I know a place. Tiny, no signage, just a window filled with roasted duck. Best you’ll get in the city.”

Rhodey wipes his hands on his apron, a dab of oil on his lip from the olives, wiped daintily off by Tony’s gentle finger. He sucks the remnants off, and turns to gaze at Steve inquiringly.

“It’s a date, right?”

Rhodey nods, before Steve can even open his mouth.

“We’ll pick you up Wednesday night. That work for you?”

Steve, who so far had a grand total of zero friends in the future, nods reluctantly. It sounded better than sitting alone, firmly telling himself he doesn’t need company, or someone to write letters to, or listen to music with, or go to a baseball game with.

“I’ll be there,” Steve says, forcing what he hopes is a personable smile on his face.

Tony and Rhodey angle identical grins at him, exchanging a silent, pleased glance.

Steve blames the blazing sun for the prick of heat that spreads rapidly down his neck.

[m4dm4yhem]

Hii

Could you do a miles ( idc wich one ) x fem reader , where miles comforts reader cuz her roblox acc got hacked 😔

OK SO LOL IK THE COMFORT THING IS SILLY BUT IT WAS SO BAD 💀 .( little rant : Like i just wanted to play rh I was lvl 500 and my bloxburg house was so pretty BUT NO I GOT FREAKING HACKED ?!?!?!?!?!?!?? LIKE I NEVER SHARED MY PASSWORD ! ALSO ON TOH I HAD LIKE 11800 THINGYS 😔💀😭 ) ok sorry lol

So only if you want too cuz ik this is a bit silly lol .

(ಡ‸ಡ) DISTRACTION

PAIRING: M.MORALES X FEM READER

SUMMARY: MILES COMFORTS YOU AFTER YOU GOT HACKED ON ROBLOX

A/N: nooo it’s not silly 😭😭 hun don’t worry I’d be upset too

___________________________________________________

LOUD SOBS WAS THE FIRST THING MILES HEARD

when he opened the door to his girlfriend’s apartment, with his spare key. he blinked one time, frozen because a thousand thoughts ran through his head before he sprang into action. running as fast as his lanky legs could take him before he stopped in her doorway, to catch his breath.. he was in shape.. but he just full blown sprint to her.. it was a lot out of him.

his brown eyes looked into her room, looking for any sign of danger, but all he saw was her, hunched over her desk crying in front of a ‘ incorrect password’ screen.. miles pushed himself off her door frame, as he had caught his breath already, “ hey, princess-“ he cringed as that left his mouth, the two had only recently started dating and he was trying to test out new nicknames.

“ uh.. [name] what happened..” he zipped up his jacket, concealing his spiderman suit from [name], as she turned around; eyes puffy with tears. “ I got hacked.” the poor girl’s voice barely above a whisper, bottom lip poking out in a pout. “ hacked like.. all your information is gone?” his eyes widened, “ don’t worry, honey-“ he cringed again, “ don’t worry.. [name] i promise I’ll try and find who did this.” he turned to leave, but the shaking of her head stopped him.

“ no.. on roblox.” the mention of the website where she lost everything made her break down in tears again, it confused miles at first, but then he remembered he never spent any money on the game; his girlfriend on the other hand did.. he only played with [name], but she played a good portion of her free time, she loved it.

“ oh.. [name].. my love, I’m sorry..” he walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her body; pulling her into his chest. her face was hidden there, his jacket wet with her tears, “ i can.. always ask my dad for a couple extra bucks.. so we can get you started on a new account.” he offered, the start of having to start over made her start sobbing again. “ I don’t wanna start over.. I was level five hundred in royal high! my house on bloxburg was perfect! i want you to use your spiderman connections and get my account back!” she demanded, her eyebrows furrowed. he sighed, and patted her back. “ you know I can’t do that..”

“ then ask ganke!” her voice came out louder than she intended it to, miles took zero offense to it. he knew she was just mad, distraught that her roblox account had gotten hacked and stolen right under her fingers. he knew she was very safe when it came to her information, and her password wasn’t easy to guess either. “ I’ll text him, okay?” his voice calm, in an attempt to make her tears at least come to a temporary stop.

they didn’t, she was still sobbing her eyes out. so miles tried something else, shutting her computer. he figured that [name] staring at the screen would drive her mad, and make her more upset. he sat down on her bed, and held his arms out.. inviting her to sit in his lap.

“ I don’t want to.” was her first response, she just wanted to be mad, but miles wasn’t gonna give up so easily, he reached forward and looped his finger through one of the .. loops in her jeans pulling her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her waist. “ look.. look at what I’m doing.” his voice soft, he was trying to get her to look at him, but she didn’t at first.. not until the sound of him typing on his phone piqued her curiosity. “ see..? im texting ganke now… asking him to hack into your account and change your password to something else.. okay? if he can’t do it.. im sure I can help you get everything back to normal..” he said, he sent the message; and pulled [name] onto his lap

“ i know it’s not fair.. especially because you worked really hard on that account.. but this new one.. I’ll help you whenever I’m free. I’ll even do all the stuff for you until you get the motivation to redo everything.” the fact he realized that this loss would so unmotivating made her crack a small smile; his help and his words were enough alone though. “ huh? my girl smiling now.. ?” a giggle made it’s why out of her mouth, as he called her ‘ his girl’ “ ah? she giggling.” his hands gripped on your waist; his fingers tickling her sides, a full blown laugh leaving her mouth.

her laughter was contagious, before long miles was laughing as well, “ stop.. stop! im gonna pee!” [name] cried out, which made her boyfriend automatically stop tickling her, as well as giving her a moment to catch her breath.

“ look.. how about.. we hang out at my place for a bit?” he offered, “ get your mind off the whole roblox thing for a minute?”

[name] nodded her head, “ yeah.. that sounds nice.. thank you.”

“ anytime.. im sorry i can’t really do much.. im trying to understand the whole affect it has on you, and I think I got it now.. because I’d lose my mind if something I worked so hard for was just gone…hacking on roblox should be a crime.” his last sentence made her nod her head in pure agreement

“ right! when I find out who hacked me I’m suing for emotional distress!” her voice had cracked, gotten a little higher when she said ‘ emotional distress’ made miles smile. “ well.. until then.. we can cuddle.. and I can kiss you to make you feel better.” he said as he kicked his jordans off, and scooting back onto the bed, his girlfriend’s warm body still against his as he laid down on the pillow, letting out a soft sigh.

“ I’ll try to be okay.”

“ that’s all I’m asking.. for you to try.” he spoke softly; giving [name] a kiss on the forehead, she held her head up, looking at him. the two making eye contact for a moment before she leaned in, capturing his lips with her own.

she needed the distraction .. the love, the comfort that miles brings.. distracting her from this tragedy she was facing, and she loved him for it.

[hearted-anon]

Tickletober Day 3: Giggles

Words: 1059 Note: THE SWEETIES AHHH T/w: Soft tickles, angst Ler: Felix Lee: Jeongin

It was rare that Felix ever had a mood like this, one where he had an insatiable urge to just wreck the first thing in sight. The hunger was practically eating him up inside, prowling through the halls in an attempt to find his first victim of the day, and to his dismay, he found no one. The usual bustling hallways with loud chatters and the occasional shriek was nowhere to be found, did the members hide from him or did they all really leave?

Just as he was about to give up on his fruitless search, he heard…weeping? Being the sunshine he was, the Aussie rushed over to the source of the noise; he couldn’t have any members sad on his watch. Pressing his ear against the door, he heard the sounds of quiet sniffles and hiccups that made his heart ache and sink into the pit of his stomach. Looking up, it was none other than the maknae’s room, and it just dampened his mood even more. Bringing up his fist, he knocked on the door gently, patiently waiting for a reply. 

“Who is it..?” It only hurt more to hear Jeongin’s soft, scared voice come from the other side of the door, and it took everything in Felix not to barge in and envelop the younger in a hug. Just imagining his red puffy face from Kingdom already shattered his heart, quietly asking if he even had permission to enter. Much to his wishes, the door creaked open slowly, before a head peered into the room, frowning at the sight of the maknae curled up on the bed all alone. 

“Oh baby…what happened to you?” Felix consoled, scooping up the snuffling fox into his lap before cradling his body back and forth like a parent would with his child. He didn’t need answers, shushing the younger when his lips parted, but no words came out. Jeongin only needed to be focusing on calming himself down, the older repeated in his mind, running a hand through the mushroom of black hair; smiling when he felt the tense lump under him soon relaxed into a puddle. 

“I-Is my laugh ugly? People said I don’t laugh loudly…and it’s not good..” Jeongin whimpered, making Felix hiss in empathy. Who dared to say that to his member? His laugh sounded very much perfect the way it is, be it his quiet cackles or his breathy giggles, it made thousands of hearts melt nonetheless. Even if the Aussie didn’t want the vocalist thinking this way, he doubts he’d be able to rid of the demon soaking his mind with dark, insecure thoughts. 

“No no jagi, it’s perfect. I love your cute giggles..” Felix hums, slowly trailing his fingers up and around the younger’s spine, earning the cutest little hiccup from below him. Those endearing giggles began to tumble from his lips, fisting the older’s shirt in an attempt to ground himself from the sensations that coursed through his body. The Aussie could already feel the smile against his shoulder, making his heart burst at the seams from how absolutely adorable it looked, he might as well dig his grave now. 

“Ehehe hyuhung! Thahat tickles!” The maknae whines into the older’s shoulder, kicking his feet as they hang limp on the sides of Felix’s thighs. He bucked his hips, shook his head and made the tormentor himself chuckle deeply from the black hair that sprawled all over him from the accidental nuzzles, anything but actually try to get away from the gentle tickles that spread all over his body. Even when his back arched, Felix just pressed a tiny butterfly kiss to his nape, earning a snort before he opened right back up. 

“Mmm, hear that laughter? So cute~ Don’t ever hide those giggles from me jagi..” Felix coos, pressing butterfly kisses all over the younger’s neck, making the fox internally curse his long eyelashes. Squeaks and more loud, yet breathless giggles escaping his pouty lips along with the soft fingers kneading along his sides instead of his spine now. It was so unfair, Felix had taken advantage of him in such a vulnerable state, totally not because he really liked it and refused to leave his embrace even with the unbearable sensations. 

“N-No! Nohohot cute!” The fox tries to protest, but is stopped with more tickles to his neck, one hand leaves his sides in favour of scribbling on his throat, stopping to scratch ever so tantalisingly on his Adam’s Apple in such a way that drives him crazy. His blush was already spreading all the way down to his neck in a cherry red colour, pounding on the Aussie’s back so hard it felt like he was being burped harshly by a parent. 

“Fine fine~ But you are still my cutie!” Felix lets up gradually, but not without kneading his exposed armpits for a few seconds to hear the shrill scream and booming cackles that escaped his mouth before letting the flustered fox go, snickering as the maknae leaped off his lap and dived for the comfort of his bed. Almost instantly he saw how the pillow covered his entire blushing face, the muffled residual giggles sending a relieved chill down the older’s spine. The usual stoic and cold maknae had been reduced to an adorable puddle of goo just with a few tingly tickles, it was so cute!

“T-Thank you…lixie hyung..” Jeongin whispers under his breath, barely moving his eyes out of the cover to meet the warm gaze, hesitating in a decision. After lots of pestering and nudging from the older to spill the beans in a so-called ‘concern’, the younger held his arms out slowly, like a stray cat trying to get used to the hand in its fur. Of course, Felix leaped at the opportunity, snuggling into the fox like he was the only heat source in the winter and inhaling the mint scent of his shampoo; he needed the secrets to that smell. Soon, with the deep rumbles and a lullaby, both of them fell asleep in the warmth of the maknae’s room, just as some rays of sunlight managed to get a small look at them through the cracks of the curtains. 

And of course the group took just about a million pictures when they came home from grocery shopping to see such a sight. 

[adainesjacket]

Hi!!!! Happy Friday <3 (and happy Valentines to you both!!!) For Seong & whoever jumps out at you, can I give you The Sun from the Tarot-Inspired Whump Prompts?

oh we ate WELL with this one. we went with 'forced to perform' for my bard boy! written with @lottiesnotebook for @dadrunkwriting m!trevelyan/dorian, pre-trespasser, angst. CWs for light body horror of the blood-magic-hypnotism kind. 1007 words.

Dorian isn't sure how long he's been running, or what exactly he's running towards. There is sweat on his brow and terror thrumming through his veins, louder than his exertion and the adrenaline coursing through him. He only knows he's lost something terribly important. Lost, or taken, perhaps, and Maker only knows what they're doing to it.

Not something. Someone. Someone important is missing.

Strains of beautiful, haunting music grab at his attention as he thunders through seemingly endless marble-dripped corridors. The song is note-perfect and executed marvellously, and something about it makes him feel as if he's been plunged into frigid water. Dorian skids to a stop in front of gilded double doors and catches his breath. A handsomely-masked attendant regards him. Behind the doors he can hear the music, louder than before, and - laughter, clinking of glasses. A party?

"They have been waiting for you, Magister Pavus," the attendant says.

"I'm not a magister," Dorian snaps. "Everyone in the South thinks-"

The attendant cuts him off. "We are not in the South, dominus. You do not recognise the Archon's Palace?"

Dorian does not, in fact, recognise the Archon's Palace, having never been invited there. But he's fairly sure the Archon doesn't decorate his marble walls with drips of thick, viscous blood.

“Your arrival is much anticipated,” the attendant informs him, “as the guest of honour. Please, allow me to announce you.”

He hears his titles reeled off, those he has always possessed, and a thousand unfamiliar, unwanted accolades, the kind they give conquerers and politicians with an ocean of blood on their hands, but they do not matter. Nothing matters but the room beyond the golden doors - the elegant dining room with its low couches, and, to one side, the cage. It’s more decorative than practical - lacy filigree, a symbol rather than an effective prison, but it is still enough to stop his heart, because within its bars is- Seong.

Not Inquisitor Trevelyan, not the witty, charming politician who captured his heart with three words and a smile. Just Seong, stripped of the fine clothes he so loves, skin gilded with paint, fingers plucking sweet music from the lute in his hands even as the blood drips from those elegant hands to the floor.

"A gift," the attendant murmurs into his ear. "From our master."

“This isn’t- you cannot-” The words are lost to him. Horror has stopped his tongue.

A slight frown creases the attendant’s brow. “The gift offends you? Of course, we can have it removed-”

"No!" Dorian tries to dash forward towards the birdcage, but his feet seem glued to the floor. Seong does not react, merely keeps plucking the haunting, beautiful tune. "What have you done to him?"

The attendant coughs politely as people start to stare. "You wanted the little bard for yourself, did you not? Here he is. See how prettily he plays. Such a lovely thing," he sighs. "Not useful, of course. Not powerful. But lovely."

He feels the floor sway beneath his feet, the world lurch around him, and suddenly he is seated on one of the couches, and still the music plays on, lovely and heartless and empty of everything that made it Seong’s.

“Perhaps,” a guest - Alexius? Aelia? A friend? An enemy? He cannot recall anymore - says, “our dear Magister Pavus would prefer a closer look at his gift before he deigns to accept. Little bird? Will you not come out and greet your new master?”

There is a warmth pressed close against him, then, a body in his lap, Seong’s wiry muscles pressing through the silk of his robes, his fingers smudging the gilding of his skin. "Magister," he croons, in a voice somehow familiar and utterly alien.

"This isn't you," Dorian growls, though he can't bring himself to move and let Seong fall. "They've done something to you, damn it, wake up!"

"This isn't what you wanted?" The same guest says, lips curling into a smirk. "We can change him into whatever you need. You know we can." The man's hand twirls into Seong's hair and for a moment, Seong's eyes go misty and red. "We can make him play for us forever. A funeral dirge, perhaps, for the so-called Inquisition who thought a strolling player could outmatch the glory of Tevinter reborn."

“This isn’t real,” he insists, he prays, because he cannot accept- he cannot believe-

Seong, in his lap, in his arms, feels as warm and solid and real as his own body. “You do not want me?” he says, with a puppeted coquettishness that is nothing like his warm charm, that is nothing like him. “Should I-?”

He moves to stand, and here is the worst part- Dorian feels his own treacherous hands tighten on his waist, on his hip. Even now, like this, he cannot bring himself to let him go.

"Dorian," Seong murmurs into his ear. "Dorian, Dorian…"

Dorian snaps awake and upright and with a strangled cry in his throat. The room is dimly lit by the green glow of the Inquisitor's hand. Stone and sconces and Skyhold tapestries. There is no blood on the walls.

"There you are. Mon coeur," Seong sighs, real and truly there with him in what has come to be their shared bed. "I thought I had the monopoly on screaming nightmares."

Seong moves as if to hold him, and Dorian can't bear it. He flings the sheet (sticky with his sweat) from his body and swings his legs out of the bed. "Give me a moment," he rasps, and Seong, blessedly, does. When Dorian feels able, he turns back around and takes Seong's hands. They are clean and manicured and free from blood.

How long will that be true, if he cannot dissuade Seong from following him to Tevinter?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Seong asks softly. "You were muttering in Tevene, so your secrets are safe. But I'm here." He squeezes Dorian's hand. "I'll always be here."

And it will kill you, Dorian thinks, and shakes his head.