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stzrgirl4norris · 2 months ago

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This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01

Max Verstappen x Reader

summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.

word count: 7k

(this is a smau and story at the same time)

thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!

tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

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"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

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user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 smau #max verstappen smau #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fic #max verstappen fanfic #f1 #f1 writing #max verstappen x reader smau

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3hks · 4 months ago

Text

How to Write a Character with THAT *Sad Aura*

Have you ever stumbled upon a character, who, despite radiating wholesome, positive energy, also has a subtle undertone of sadness? It's kind of intriguing, isn't it? If you've ever wanted to write a perhaps more complex character or explore writing emotions, why not check this out?

What am I talking about?

Let's do a quick introduction as to what I mean. I've said this a couple times already, but to the reader, this character feels despondent even though they act nothing like it. This doesn't mean they have to act happy all the time (like my first example); they might act cold, or apathetic, but the point is they don't act visibly sad.

This faint melancholic mood provides a charming, or even nostalgic feel to the audience through ONE character! Isn't that kind of fun?

Eye Expressions

This character will not show sadness on their face--that contradicts the idea of "sad aura". But you know what they say, right? Eyes are the windows to the soul; they do not lie!

When trying to highlight some of this unhappiness, write about their eyes. Talk about how their eyes look oddly dim sometimes when they smile, or how they don't meet their friend's eyes when they laugh. These cues are simple but powerful.

Adverbs

You always have to be mindful of adverbs, but here especially, adverbs (and adjectives) unconsciously influence how your audience views the character.

For example, avoid saying too much of "smiled brightly" or "talked excitedly". If these are the adverbs you purposefully want to use to portray your character, then by all means! However, these adverbs add a happier connotation, which you must be aware of. If you want something more neutral (which I recommend for the most part), consider using lighter adverbs/adjectives, such as "smiled softly", or "offered lightly".

Reasons

A reason is normally needed for almost everything. Here, you want genuine reasons to back up why your character doesn't ask for help, thus forcing them to work through their unhappiness alone.

This could be because they think other people can't solve the problem, they don't want to bother others, they don't think their issue is a big deal, or they simply believe there's no solution.

Physical Hints

And if all this isn't enough, then drop some physical hints! Perhaps your character gets distracted often, tends to hesitate before speaking, deflects concerned comments with jokes, or has a hard time acknowledging reassurances, even when it's unrelated to their personal troubles. These habits suggest the idea your character has more than meets the eye.

Mood Changes

When people are upset, their mood tends to fluctuate. For most of us, we're typically upset for a short period, so we cycle through emotions such as anger, sadness, and even joy during these moments.

However, if your character is consistently sad, not just for a day or two, their mood might shift on different days. Maybe they're really tired one day, hardly speaking. Maybe the next, they are more frustrated, snapping at people or ignoring them. Maybe the day after that, they are overly energetic, bouncing everywhere and talking all the time, providing a bit of whiplash.

Purpose

Similar to having a reason for their reluctance of reaching out, you also want to ensure that they have a purpose for fighting. Why haven't they given up yet? This is especially crucial when considering the real world, where feeling upset leads to a lack of motivation.

So, what keeps them going, then? Do they want to fix their regrets? Do they want to change?

Backstory and Actions

To be honest, I wouldn't consider a backstory an absolute necessity, but I highly suggest creating one. Why? Because you can accurately identify the reason for your character's guilt, regret, and sorrows from the past with an actual backstory.

The events of your character's past always influence their future actions.

For example, if they were a part of a severe car accident in the past, perhaps they only feel comfortable when they are the driver in the future because that means they can control the car.

Conclusion

This character is not especially different from any other character, besides the fact that they are neither obvious nor overly secretive of their genuine feelings.

With that being said, focus on embodying their eye expressions, be careful about which adverbs and adjectives you choose to use--I recommend choosing ones with more neutral connotations for a sense of melancholy, explain why your character keeps their sadness to themselves and why they keep fighting despite it, show mood fluctuations, drop physical hints, such as actions and/or specific personality traits, and make sure to connect their past to their present!

Happy writing~

3hks ^^

#writeblr #writing #writerscommunity #creative writing #writing inspo #writing tips #writing advice #writers on tumblr #writing a sad character #character writing #writing a character #how to write a sad character #how to write a character with a sad aura

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le-fruit-de-la-passion · 7 months ago

Text

At the Emperor’s Word -Viktor x Reader x Jayce

Summary: Sneaking around the academy after hours sounds like a good idea right up until you get caught; then, it becomes a great idea.

Pairing: Dom!Viktor x Sub!Reader x Switch! Jayce

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Explicit (PwP)

Tags: Threesome, Kissing, Handjob, Voyeurism, Obedience Kink, Praise Kink, Slight Cuckolding, Edging, Degradation, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Masturbation, Voice Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Lap Sex, Light Punishment Kink, Big Dick Viktor, Pet Names, Begging, Slight Choking, Vaginal Sex, Teasing, Rough Sex

Notes: A little fashionably late, but here is my absolutely filthy piece in celebration of Viktor’s birthday 🎉!! Viktor, my dearest, thank you for being my beloved husband and the devoted father of our many children. Glorious ovulation everyone ✌️💕.

You try to stifle a chuckle.

“Jayce, we can't-”

He's warm, so warm. You always feel yourself melt under his touch.

“C'mon, just a minute…” he insists.

You can't help but giggle breathlessly as he brings your hand into his pants, a large hand wrapping your fingers around his already half-hard cock. His body presses yours against the workbench, the firm wood digging into your lower back. His other hand slides against the fabric of your skirt, cushioning the strain, and not so subtly placing his palm over your ass.

He nuzzles his face against the top of your head, letting out a pleased groan when your fist starts moving. You suppress another laugh, trying your best to remain quiet, but you're positively enamoured of those sounds he makes when you touch him. Without even seeing his face, you know the content smile hasn't left his lips; he's so easy to please.

He's twitching under your grip, gripping your cheeks to the rhythm of the strokes. You quicken the pace, and he lets out a low moan that echoes through the empty lab.

This wing of the academy is always empty at this time of night, but there's something exciting about having to stay quiet. You can feel how close he's getting, the slight rutting of his hips a now familiar sign. His breath hitches, he's almost there, just a little more-

“I hope I am not interrupting anything.”

You yelp in surprise, pulling out your hand from Jayce's pants so fast your arm hits the wooden desk behind you. Jayce lets out a confused, frustrated shout at the sudden loss of friction as you wince in pain.

There, at the entrance of the lab, stands a looming figure, holding one of the large doors partially open. The light from the corridor obscures his face from the darkness of the lab; but there is no mistaking who this silhouette belongs to.

Viktor makes a single step forward, the metallic sound of his crutch against the tiled floor making you wince, as he lets the door close behind him. The room falls into obscurity again, the pale glow of the moon and the distant city lights only faintly shining through the windows.

“Ah, Viktor!” Jayce almost bellows in an overly cheery tone, walking backwards to put some distance between the two of you. “I- We were waiting for you! Got a bunch of interesting notes about today's experiments to show you !”

Viktor's face is blank, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in cold annoyance. He is neither amused nor does he seem the believe Jayce's jovial act. He nods curtly at the other man's pants, which are obviously, painfully unbuttoned. Jayce cringes as he quickly stumbles to reattach them, sliding the buttons in the wrong slits. You're frozen in place, eyes wide in fear, incapable of looking away from Viktor's frigid expression. But his focus is not on you; it's on Jayce.

“So,” he starts loudly, not bothering with whispers, “You barely spend any time working in the lab anymore. You have not even checked any of the upgrades I have suggested for the hexgates in the last month.” His voice is apathetic and dry, and his eyes narrow when he says the next words:

“And this is what you've been up to?”

Jayce opens his mouth like he's ready to argue, but the glare from his work partner seems to change his mind. He lowers his head silently, like a puppy being scolded. Viktor's golden pupils slide to you, and you now understand exactly why Jayce prefers looking at the floor.

“From Jayce I could expect,” Viktor remarks, the weight of his stare making you shrink, “but from you? I'll admit I'm disappointed.”

You bow your head in embarrassment. Your cheeks are burning, and you know there's no way to pretend like this is only a misunderstanding. You wish you could vanish on the spot.

Jayce, always the hero, comes to your defence quickly: “Viktor, it wasn't her idea-”

“I'm so sorry sir,” you interrupt him, stepping forward. You know Viktor well enough to recognize he's not a fan of poor excuses or avoiding accountability. “I swear this internship means the world to me. I know how many other students dream of working on hextech. It won't ever happen again.”

He seems pleased by your answer, although his expression stays perfectly stoic.

“That's good to hear,” he hums, walking closer to the both of you. He stops a few feet away, a ray of moonlight passing through a coloured beaker catching in his auburn hair. It illuminates him in an eerie, reddish glow, like he's not quite human, almost a phantom. “Well then, do not let me stop the both of you. Keep going, as you were.”

You have to assume he's joking, even if his tone sounds anything but, and you let out a confused, nervous giggle. But he isn't laughing, and neither is Jayce.

“Viktor…” there's uncertainty in the taller man's voice. It's not fear, or alarm, but he's apprehensive about something.

Viktor lets out a small sigh of lassitude, discontent evident. He looks at you again, with these amber eyes that make you feel like the world around you vanishes. Like there's nothing but him, and the words about to leave his lips.

“It would appear my partner is suddenly hard of hearing. Were my instructions unclear to you as well?”

You swallow. Your lips feel dry. Jayce is still unmoving next to you, still as a board, watching your interaction with his lab partner with an uneasy look.

“…No sir,” you mutter, just loudly enough for both men to hear. Viktor gives you the shadow of a smile.

“C'mon Viktor, you've humiliated her enough,” Jayce argues softly, raising his hand in a gesture of peace. But the other man has clearly decided Jayce hasn't gained his favour for the night, barely sparing him an icy glare.

“I do not believe I was talking to you,” he states matter-of-factly. The man of progress makes a strangled sound of protest, clearly insulted, but Viktor seems to have all but forgotten about him, now. It's back to only you and him, and the teasing smile dancing on his lips.

“He's always like this. Begging for attention,” Viktor tells you in a tone of confidence, like the topic of the conversation isn't standing less than a foot away from you with a baffled look on his face. “One has to wonder if he is compensating for something, but I figure you are in a good position to tell, right?”

You can’t prevent the corners of your mouth from lifting at the underhanded jab; Viktor seems emboldened by your reaction, voice louder when he continues:

“I certainly hope he's been more of a gentleman to you than this. Or does he only bend you over in our lab like an animal?”

The comment is enough to pull Jayce out of his stupor, and he raises his arms in protest.

“Hey, I'm not that-” he starts heatedly.

“Jayce.”

It's just his name; nothing else. You've said it to him hundreds of times. But there's something different in the way Viktor says it, the slow pronunciation of the syllables, the hardness of the accent, the deepness of the voice. Whatever it is, Jayce is compelled by it just as much as an order. He stops right in his tracks, his arms falling uselessly back to his side, like a dog listening to a command.

Viktor hums in approval, but his stare is no less punishing.

“I was not talking to you. When it is your turn to speak, you will know.”

Jayce's mouth is slightly agape, his eyes wide, an expression you can't quite read on his face; but he obeys. He stands there like a puppet, unmoving, drinking Viktor's words. You can't help but notice the still present strain in his badly buttoned pants.

The thinner man's gaze softens once more as it falls on you. He makes another step forward; close enough that you could reach him with your hand if you tried. He looks at you encouragingly: “Answer the question, sweet thing.”

The room feels like it's shrunk to barely a tenth of its size. Your breath has become shallow without you noticing. But isn't quite from fear anymore.

“T-twice in the lab before,” you stutter, the embarrassment of recounting your adventures to your direct supervisor burning your cheeks. The arousal in the air is undeniable now, and he's visibly aware of it. “And in the library. Once in my bedroom.”

Viktor hums pensively, studying your answer. It almost feels like you're passing some kind of final exam; the world's most sexually charged exam, undoubtedly.

“So he is aware of the basic notion of privacy behind closed doors, then,” Viktor concludes, the thin smirk now fully on display. “Who would have thought.”

He doesn't look away from your eyes when he finally speaks to the other man again.

“Jayce. How close are you?”

You glance at the taller engineer; he's started palming himself through his pants, his breathing irregular. His hair is dishevelled from your previous activities, and his cheeks are a bright crimson against his caramel skin. He's usually so dominating, on top of things, handling you like a chiffon doll up and down his dick with that cocky smile of his. You've never seen him like this; flustered, desperate, seeming so small despite all of his stature.

“Pretty close,” Jayce almost moans out, voice raspy for exertion. He's biting his own bottom lip so tightly it might start bleeding. “Just a little more.”

Viktor finally gives him a slight smile, though it's dripping with self-satisfaction. He's close enough to you that you can smell him now, that you could brush away the wayward strands of hair on his forehead. His face has been marked by the passage of time and countless hours of work, heavy bags under his eyes, cheeks almost gaudy. And yet, there is no sign of him ever losing control of this moment. Nothing could change the hypnotic power of his eyes, the controlling tone of his voice, or the subjugating effect of his slightly crooked smile.

“I suppose we should oblige,” he suggests lightly, his free hand brushing your cheek. His fingers are thin and lithe, cold against your skin, and you lean into the touch. He gives you a moment to pull away, if you want to; but you don't.

The kiss is slow at first, gentle, just the way little girls dream their prince charming might one day give them. He lets you decide when to pick up the speed, and you initiate after a few seconds by slipping your tongue in his mouth. It's messier, now, teeth clashing every now and then, saliva pooling where your lips meet. He tastes nothing like Jayce, his flavour of dark coffee and fresh mint; Viktor is sweet, like milk and honey, like a slice of lemon cake in the summer heat.

When he pulls away for air, you feel like time has started to move once again, as if you've just emerged from a dream. He's smirking confidently, still, but not entirely unfazed; his pale cheeks have turned pink, his breathing is slightly laboured, and there are traces of smudged saliva on the corners of his mouth.

A foreign whine makes you both turn towards Jayce, who is clearly on the edge of orgasm. He's abandoned any pretence of innocence, his cock fully pulled out of his pants as he rubs it furiously, eyes locked on the two of you.

“Stop,” Viktor only says.

Jayce groans in frantic frustration, slowing his rhythm but incapable of removing his hand. He's harder than you've ever seen him, his tip almost a painful red.

“No, no, c'mon V, don't do this. Please keep going,” he begs, looking at you with pitiful eyes, pleading silently. You want to touch him, to let him touch himself. But you know it's not your decision; it's Viktor's. And he's made his ruling, so you're not about to get on your research director's bad side again.

The head engineer offers a proud smile at your lack of answer to Jayce, the kind he usually reserves for reports submitted in advance or ingenious schematics. You recognize him more like this, strict, but never unappreciative of your efforts. He never forgets to slip a word of encouragement when you're stuck, never hesitates to reread your notes with you when the math isn't quite adding up. The cold anger seems to have fully passed, and now only the teasing, taunting satisfaction remains.

“I believe you may have forgotten that as per her contract, she is my assistant. Meaning she is under my direct command.”

He's looking at Jayce now, whose hand is still wrapped around his length, but unmoving. His cock is twitching in his grasp, desperate as the rest of him. His whole body shifts to the rhythm of his respiration, large shoulders slumped in defeat. Viktor doesn't turn to you when he asks you the following question, choosing instead to stare deeply into Jayce's citrine eyes.

“Is that not correct?”

You don't hesitate with your answer this time.

“Yes sir.”

His focus is still on the other man, but he strokes your cheek again with his left hand. He rests his weight comfortably on his crutch, like he doesn't have a single worry in the world in this moment.

“Good girl.”

You feel yourself tighten at that. That voice could tell you to find a way to harness the power of the goddamn stars before figuring out the hexcore, and you would comply.

“Jayce, could you bring the chair over here? The larger one.”

Viktor points with his chin towards a wooden chair with a flat backing, in a corner of the lab. Jayce looks back and forth between the chair and his partner, like he's unsure if he's joking or testing him. When no additional directions come from Viktor, he sighs in discomfort, clearly disgruntled, unceremoniously shoving himself back in his pants to go fetch the chair. The thinner man hums in appreciation when he brings it back and places it next to him.

“Thank you, Jayce.”

He sits, using his crutch for balance as he shifts slightly to find a comfortable position. His hand leaves the burgundy handgrip, instead settling on the metallic upper section. He looks like the king of a forgotten kingdom, resting on his wooden throne, sceptre in hand. You and Jayce, his obedient consorts, can't do anything but await his next command.

It comes in the form of a simple motion of his hand, beckoning you closer. You only stop when your legs bump against his, standing above him. His fingers caress the fabric of your skirt studyingly, like he's committing the feel to memory. They eventually catch on the waistband, tugging it questioningly. His golden eyes look up at you, the colour of the sunrise etched in his pupils. You nod earnestly in approval, and he lowers the skirt down until it reaches your knees, letting it fall to the floor. You're suddenly very thankful you dressed up this morning knowing you would see Jayce.

The design is simple, a line of flowery lace hugging your hips, and curving to the shape of your ass. It's the kind of thing Jayce loves; he'll even make you keep your panties on sometimes as he fucks you, just pushing the bottom of the fabric to the side to fit himself inside you. It's the lace he can’t resist, you think, the way it barely covers anything and rests against your skin like a present for him to unwrap.

It doesn’t seem to have the same effect on Viktor, but you can tell he’s still appreciative, cold hand sneaking under the lace to squeeze a cheek firmly.

“This is fucking torture,” Jayce groans in complaint, standing still just barely a few feet away. He's obviously aware he's not supposed to interfere with the two of you, or to touch himself for relief, but the glistening sweat on his forehead and down the prominent vein on his neck indicates how difficult this is for him.

“And you should know better than to have sex next to a table covered in explosive materials and one-of-a-kind prototypes,” Viktor retorts, sparing him a slightly displeased glance. “What if you had broken something irreplaceable?”

Jayce seems genuinely embarrassed by that; he may not show it as often these days with how busy he is, but you know he still cares about the academy's research and the state of hextech.

“I'm sorry Viktor. I wasn't thinking…”

“I am aware you were not thinking. And that is exactly the issue. You forget how much of our profession relies on thinking, not talking.”

It's crystal clear that's going to be the end of the conversation, for now. Viktor's fingers slide to your hip, following the shape of the panties until your inner thigh. A small tap with a single digit tells him everything he needs to know.

“Look at this,” he smiles, taunting but affectionate, “Already so wet just from a kiss. Or was it the sound of my voice that did it, I wonder.”

Both, it's both, and every single thing that has happened in this lab since he entered it. You tremble when his finger moves slowly against the damp fabric, not quite oversensitive, but a little on edge.

“I, um-” Jayce hesitantly speaks up from the side. “I fingered her a bit earlier. I… think she should be alright?”

This time, Viktor doesn't reprimand him for talking; he seems surprisingly pleased, eyes boring into yours for confirmation.

“Is that so?” he exhales softly.

You nod breathlessly. Why is it always so difficult to talk when he's studying you like this?

The teasing finger slips under the fabric, gently making its way into you. You let out an involuntary sound of eagerness as he verifies if you've been loosened up, analyzing you with the precision of a machine. He removes the digit with a crooked grin when he judges you've passed, and you whine at the loss; it was barely anything in the first place, but it soothed the feeling of total emptiness in your core.

“Color me impressed,” Viktor declares, half genuine, half mocking. “I do not think I have ever seen Jayce do his work in advance.”

Said man groans in defeated complaint:

“You're turning her against me.”

Viktor lets out a wry snort:

“You do that well enough on your own. You touched her without even making her cum?”

He pats your pussy comfortingly, and you almost sing to the feeling. Your panties get lowered swiftly, and you discard them with little decorum. Viktor's assertive expression has softened enough that you feel emboldened enough to try to join in the banter:

“Jayce thinks foreplay is watching him get undressed. He's not exactly an expert.”

Viktor laughs at that, a charming and genuine sound, and you feel yourself glow with pride. The topic of mockery doesn't seem as pleased, his cheeks red, his lips thin:

“See? Told you. You've already worked your fucking magic on her.”

Viktor starts unbuttoning his pants, the teasing smile still etched on his angular features. His fingers work nimbly, swiftly, with the precision only the best engineer in Runeterra could muster in such circumstances.

“It is not magic, Jayce. Simply talent and practice.”

He does quick work of lowering his pants, just enough to expose his underwear. The confirmation that he is indeed not as unbothered as he still may seem is poking through the fabric. Judging by the defined outline and the sizeable tent, you can instantly confirm a hypothesis you've had since the start of your internship: the Assistant to the Dean of the Academy is packing.

He's not unaware of it either; his golden eyes follow the movement of your own, playfully examining your reaction. It's different from Jayce's endearing ego and constant need for praise; Viktor knows his worth, but he revels in the admiration, the stares filled with awe and devotion.

If Jayce needs to feel worthy, then Viktor needs to feel wanted.

He finally frees his cock from the restrive fabric, letting the member bob slightly. He's not even fully hard, and he's huge, the length imposing, the bulbous tip a pleasant shade of pink. The skin is as pale as the rest of him, blueish veins marking it like porcelain; only a few well-trimmed auburn curls at the base remind you he's not sculpted from actual marble.

Jayce lets out a low, tentatively playful whistle as the other man’s slender fingers wrap around the shaft.

“Flattery will not get you far, Jayce,” Viktor comments absentmindedly. “You and I both know this is nothing you have not seen before.”

He moves his hand in an open, loose fist, evidently without any real intent to finish himself off; not with the way he's made you stand right above him, not with how he's looking right at you. You swallow with difficulty, licking your lips for moisture. The energy between the two of you is tangible, electric, as he keeps working himself tantalizingly slow.

“Darling. Sweet thing. Do you want this?”

You nod vigorously, the words stuck in your throat again.

“Tell me, then. Please. Tell me how much you want this,” he requests, and it's hard to tell whether that's an order or a plea with the way his voice lowers, just barely louder than a whisper.

You feel like you're high, your mind a jumbled mess of adrenaline and lust. There are no sentences that could possibly express how he's got you under his spell. How many times have you imagined a scene like this, in only a year of being his assistant? The stolen glances, the passing touches, you had no reason to believe they were anything more than figments of your lustful imagination. The very idea that he could be the one doubting your interest in him is laughable, and yet his gaze is probing you for a response, his lips parted with bated breath.

“I want this. I want you,” you swear to him, staring back so deeply into the amber irises there could not be a single question left. “Please, sir.”

You bring a hand to the crook of his neck; the coolness of the skin under your palm, the sharpness of his collarbone against your fingertips, the beating of his heart below your thumb. He has to know this is real.

Viktor smiles slightly, the little mole above his lips shifting alongside his dimples.

“I would ask you to be weary of my right leg, then. It is not quite as strong as it used to be, although that is not saying much.”

You've never seen the emotion that crosses Viktor's face in that moment, gone in under a second. It's so subtle one might have missed it; bitterness, regret, defeat. The tragedy of a man brilliant enough to change the whole world, but who wouldn't live long enough to see it. If Janna truly watches over the lost children of Zaun, then she is turning a blind eye to the brightest of them all.

You could say something, try and comfort him, but you choose not to. There's nothing that can be said to change things; there’s only the present, and there are only actions.

You sink down on him slowly, the both of you moaning in unison. You can't help the array of whines escaping your pinched lips. The heat from where your bodies meet is overwhelming, the stretch delightful and filling. He's not fully inside you and you're already wondering how much more you can take. It's dizzying, the pain making you grit your teeth, but you persist, fingers clenching on the back of the chair. When you've fully bottomed out, you let out a shaky breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Viktor soothingly pats your back, and you hang on to him for dear life, wrapping both arms around his back.

“Are you alright?” he whispers softly, worry evident in his voice. You want to answer, but you're quite certain if you open your mouth you'll only get confused gibberish out, because fuck, he's filling you so much it's hard to even think. You shift your grip to his shoulder blades, trying to anchor yourself, absentmindedly noticing the cool feeling of metal under his uniform. You trace the intricate patterns with your fingers to ground yourself, recognizing the shapes of bolts and screws, as you feel your breathing slowly even out

“I’m ok,” you eventually manage to exhale. “I just- need a second“

Viktor makes an understanding hum, his hand caressing the valley of your back like you're doing with his, his strokes mellow. He moves his head slightly to look at Jayce behind you, throwing him an irritated glare.

“So much for your preparations,” he points out with irony.

Without needing to see him, you know exactly the kind of disgruntled face Jayce is making: “She only needs three to fit me, you're just stupid big.”

“I can move,” you interrupt them, the pain now only a vague tingle; all that remains is the yearning for him.

You place both hands on the back of the chair to balance your weight, being careful of Viktor's weaker leg. You bring yourself up slowly, tantalizingly, before letting yourself fall back on his length. There's no other way to describe the broken moan you release than dirty.

“Eh,” Viktor remarks slyly, groaning when you start moving again. “S-she does not seem to think it’s stupid.”

You fuck yourself on him with abandon, fast, rough, not caring of how debauched you may look. If anything, Jayce seems very appreciative if his moans and curses are any indication.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants somewhere behind you, too far to feel his warmth, but close enough to hear he's pumping himself to the same rhythm you're riding Viktor. “You're doing such a good job taking him, princess…”

He's truly begging when he calls the other man's name again, delirious from the unending edging:

“V, please, make her turn to my side, I have to see her face.”

Viktor's hooded eyes bare into yours, his raspy pants echoing through your head as you thrust up and down his length.

“Do you think he is truly sorry, now?” he asks, the ever-teasing glimmer in his pupils shining despite the clear physical effort from his body.

You can't even remember what Jayce has to be sorry for; you whimper a positive ‘huh-uh’. Viktor nuzzles his head in the crook of your neck for a moment, gently bitting the sweaty skin in a surprising hint of possessiveness, but he does finally agree to free Jayce of his torture.

“I will trust your good judgment. You can come here, Jayce.”

You yelp in surprise when two strong but familiar hands suddenly grab you at the waist and turn you around, almost pulling you off Viktor's cock and into a messy kiss. The slight tickle of Jayce's stubble is pleasantly itchy, his tongue desperately searching for more of your taste. You moan wantonly against his mouth when you feel Viktor twitch inside you, but the man under you doesn't seem fully pleased: a thinner but firm hand brings you back against his chest, and he throws Jayce an irritated glare.

“I give you an inch and you take a mile. Typical,” the older man accuses him with a bitter tone, his accent more pronounced, rigid. “You do not get to touch, and you are only allowed to cum on her.”

His lips come to your ear in the ghost of a kiss, velvety smooth:

“Would that be agreeable to you, sweet thing?”

You just know you want to keep going, really; so you do exactly that as a reply.

This position is harder for movement, since without the support of the chair’s back, you would have to rely on putting pressure on Viktor's knees. Thankfully, with Jayce’s proximity, you can use his muscled chest for balance. He certainly doesn't mind being used like this if the expression he’s wearing is any sign: his entire face is crimson, his eyes heavy, laboured breaths escaping his abused lips. He's still following your pace, pumping up and down every time your ass meets Viktor's hip bones. It has to be painful by now, with the way he's been rubbing himself raw for so long without release, but he's either too entranced to care or getting off the burning friction

“So obedient,” Viktor praises you, his free hand moving to your lower stomach, long fingers digging gently into your skin; you wonder if he’s trying to feel himself move inside you. “We might still be able to make a top student out of you. What do you think, Jayce?”

Much like yourself, Jayce seems beyond the capacity for words. He's looking at you like he wants to devour you, like he wants to take you off Viktor's lap and fuck you right on the floor. But you both know he wouldn't do that without Viktor's approval, at the risk of getting on the other man’s bad side again.

Viktor's cock hits a peculiarly sensitive spot inside you and you cry out from the sudden shock, loling out your tongue involuntarily. Jayc makes a strangled sound at the sight, and it visibly takes all his self-control to not shove himself into the warmth of your throat.

“For once, I cannot get you to talk when I actually want you to,” Viktor tsks in disapproval, but it's clear he's not frustrated; rather, he seems to enjoy the trance-like silence Jayce has been reduced to.

“F-fuck, I think this is the hottest thing I've ever seen,” the younger man sputters, delirious, his fist moving with a frenzied pace. “I can see your cock in and out of her every time she bounces like that. Her tits look so good…”

You recognize that slight pitch in his voice, the rumbling in his throat; he's close again.

“What else?” Viktor hums, not letting him have a moment of respite. You can hear ragged gasps next to your ear, parts of heaved curses indicating he too is nearing his end, but he's still firmly insistent on being the one in control of it all.

Jayce whines in struggle, but it's hard to hear with how loud the sound of your own moans echo in the room. You've been using Viktor's cock to hit that one spot over and over, chasing your high without restraint, the familiar clenching of your walls maddening.

“She looks all fucked out. Like she -fuck- like she's so close to cumming around you…”

The other man seems pleased by that if the way you feel him twitch inside you is evidence. “Good observations,” he replies in playful irony. “Perhaps there is still a scientist in there.”

The hand on your stomach leaves its comfortable position to wrap around your neck, the pressure light, just barely restricting airflow.

“Sweet thing,” he calls out to you once more. “You can pick up the pace a little. I want you to never look away from Mr Talis's eyes.”

It's a hard request to fulfill considering how badly you want to squint your eyes shut in the agonizing pleasure; but you try your very best, unshed tears of exhaustion starting to pool and blurying your vision.

The sight of you so desperately trying to obey Viktor's order to focus on nothing but him is what finally undoes Jayce, who lets out one final loud curse:

“Shit-!”

He cums all over your academy blouse with a shout, little droplets reaching as high as your chin. It barely takes three more thrusts against Viktor for you to join him, crying tears of relief as an intense wave of bliss rocks your entire body. With your limbs reduced to nothing but putty, your head falls forward in exhaustion, thankfully stopped by Jayce's strong torso; the fabric of his dress shirt feels like satin against your face, burying your sobs.

Viktor takes a moment longer to reach his peak, fucking into your exhausted body with concentration, thick eyebrows furrowed. It's too much, too rough, and you throw your head back to whine against his neck pitifully. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath before he finally unloads into you with a long groan.

“Shh, good girl,” he compliments you soothingly as his warmth settles into your core, kissing your neck leisurely in praise. “You have done so well.”

He bends your head back slightly more to catch your mouth in an open-mouth kiss, slow and tired, sloppy from your mutual exhaustion. Jayce groans, his hand somehow still on his softened cock, pumping it lazily; his stamina is utterly unbelievable.

“Okay, actually, this might be the hottest thing I've ever seen,” he comments hoarsely, absorbing the way your tongue dances with Viktor's with every inch of his capacities.

Viktor concludes the wet kiss with a small peck on your lips, smiling as your head falls back on his shoulder in fatigue, your eyes shut close.

“Because you managed to get yourself all over her?” he throws back at Jayce, as calm and confident as if he hadn't just made you go through the most intense orgasm of your life. “Your ego will never cease to impress me.”

The stars behind your eyelids are still spinning; you weakly try to move an arm, finding it almost completely unresponsive.

“Sir?” you ask, and you almost don't recognize your voice with how rough and broken it resonates in the empty lab.

“I think we have reached the point where you are allowed to call me by my name in private,” Viktor amusedly hums close to you.

“Viktor, I…”

You want to open your eyes, to look into his golden eyes again and see the way he looks right after sex, but they're sealed shut from how worn out you are. “…I don't think I can move right away.”

That earns you a content chuckle from one man and a disbelieving laugh from the other.

“Jayce,” Viktor asks, now with a tone of request rather than command, “be a gentleman for once and carry her to her bedroom. The poor thing is exhausted.”

Jayce snorts, for once tonight the one hitting back with irony:

“And whose fault is that?”

Viktor’s fingers, still loosely wrapped around your throat as lightly as feathers, slide down to massage the tender muscles at the base of your nape. You moan brokenly into the touch. You couldn't move even if you wanted to.

“Undeniably yours. I am not the one sneaking around in the academy for nefarious purposes,” Viktor retorts playfully, tiredness noticeable but skillfully hidden in his voice. “But if you were to have a bad idea like this once more… I believe I can offer you my services as her supervisor. For both your sakes.”

#CAN I GET A YEEHAW #this was so much fun to write ashgfff #arcane #viktor arcane #jayce talis #viktor x reader #viktor x reader x jayce #jayce x reader #arcane smut #viktor smut #jayce smut #jayce x viktor #happy birthday viktor

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nereidprinc3ss · 2 months ago

Text

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked.

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart.

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static.

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months.

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good.

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way.

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not.

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present.

This is the right thing.

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses.

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair.

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared.

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making.

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth.

He’s warm. He keeps you safe.

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes.

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32.

The ringing silence is killing you.

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts.

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying.

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be.

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him.

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint.

You feel your throat closing as he stands.

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me.

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone.

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand.

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes.

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily.

“So you’ve told me.”

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink.

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days.

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things.

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend.

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks.

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no.

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin.

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple.

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t.

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone.

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?”

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it.

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence.

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing.

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing.

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh.

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow.

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn.

More buzzing silence.

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton.

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist.

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back.

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered.

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey.

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?”

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face.

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon.

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree.

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be.

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?”

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers.

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can.

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains.

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably.

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming.

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep.

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice.

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat.

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed.

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine.

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble.

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence.

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear.

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity.

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much.

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen.

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right.

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased.

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in.

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun.

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die.

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood.

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that.

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper.

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you.

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well.

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch.

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room.

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him.

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp.

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief.

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too.

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state.

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt.

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you.

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines.

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth.

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries.

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection.

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter.

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand.

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad.

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag.

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet.

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall.

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!”

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders.

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again.

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper.

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway.

He simply lets you go.

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent.

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says.

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best.

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into.

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival.

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in.

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you.

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant.

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed.

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity.

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release.

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin.

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds.

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment.

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want.

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue.

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth.

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully.

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him.

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you.

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want.

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done.

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry.

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He��s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait.

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again.

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it.

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end.

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck.

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer.

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision.

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name.

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would.

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best.

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you.

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life.

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck.

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay.

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids.

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom.

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you.

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room.

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet.

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles.

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face.

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction.

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression.

That only pisses you off worse.

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox.

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are.

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke.

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it.

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied.

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross.

Spencer comes out a few minutes later.

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him.

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff.

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart?

Pointed?

Surely not.

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across.

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him.

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth.

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you.

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works.

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again.

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar.

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could.

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded.

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know.

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment.

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters.

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls.

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery.

Now, he’s asleep.

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek.

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love.

God does not answer.

August 19th

Something is off.

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield.

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV.

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window.

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong.

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck.

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you.

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize.

That is a sobering thought.

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ.

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest.

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this.

He loves me.

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong.

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails.

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much.

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic.

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined.

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell.

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner.

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course.

Spencer.

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart.

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal.

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole.

For a few minutes, it works.

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working.

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below.

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers.

You tap lightly at his door.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect.

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens.

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer.

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink.

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth.

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him.

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled.

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on.

“What triggered it?” He asks.

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine.

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for.

“Yeah,” is all you say.

A pause.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist.

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting.

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV.

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me.

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things.

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin.

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation.

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention.

“I’ll call room service,” he decides.

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle.

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking.

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you.

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink.

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all.

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while.

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you.

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums.

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step.

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair.

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you.

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go.

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home.

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards.

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment.

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to.

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter.

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that.

Fuck.

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him.

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood.

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them.

Which means you need to backtrack.

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same.

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face.

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between.

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks.

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat.

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way.

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way.

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted.

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach.

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears.

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is.

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years.

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again.

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave.

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself.

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision.

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders.

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable.

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out.

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs.

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything.

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you.

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next.

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit.

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now.

You blow across the silent black ether.

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight.

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process.

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor.

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you.

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin.

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you.

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins.

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself.

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen.

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water.

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen.

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while.

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold.

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat.

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying.

You watch it wash over him.

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic.

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air.

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left.

But he’s going to.

This is it.

The unforgivable thing.

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room.

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them.

“What did you say?”

His tone bites.

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not.

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath.

“When?”

You try to inhale and choke on it.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it.

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh.

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs.

You only shake your head.

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave.

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull.

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember.

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters.

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows.

No solution.

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come.

So he gets up.

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch.

But it gets him to turn around.

He looks exhausted.

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly.

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good?

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles.

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to.

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat.

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time.

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so.

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem.

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking.

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance.

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can.

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes.

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches.

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent.

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning.

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist.

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it.

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him.

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything.

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it.

All this, with one please.

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again.

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin.

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile.

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers.

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore.

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it.

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss.

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh.

Your mind is screaming, deafening static.

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here.

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down.

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance.

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands.

Because he knows. He knew the whole time.

He’s not sticking around.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer.

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve.

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs.

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more.

Humiliated. Like usual.

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment.

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be.

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet.

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts.

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing.

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you.

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper.

No response. Back and forth.

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it.

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation.

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist.

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach.

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life.

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would.

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter.

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him.

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this.

You shudder a cry.

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing.

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap.

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter.

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up.

“What about you?” Penelope asks.

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat.

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals.

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug.

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long.

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected.

She’s… looking at your feet.

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem.

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you.

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late.

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair.

Before you can, she speaks.

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside.

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny?

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process.

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you.

Heat blooms in your cheeks.

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go.

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on.

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully.

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good.

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama.

It’s sort of a relief.

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends.

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins.

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch.

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers.

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia.

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale.

A moment that is just too long.

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way.

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back.

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own.

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room.

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips.

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago.

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you.

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan.

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you.

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen.

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh.

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you.

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you.

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw.

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling.

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile.

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours.

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe.

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive.

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater.

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book.

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended.

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath.

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile.

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive.

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums.

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails.

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another.

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins.

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer.

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder.

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat.

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans.

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose.

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe.

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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