#god I hate these two/affectionate | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nereidprinc3ss · 10 months ago

Text

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him.

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened?

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough.

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop.

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes.

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him.

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was.

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again.

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again.

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table.

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world.

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms.

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst

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vivimura · 6 months ago

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boyfriend!riki relieves your exam stress ♡

PAIRING ~ softdom!nrk x gf!reader

SUMMARY ~ your boyfriend riki finds you in a state of utter exhaustion and helps take your mind off of things.

GENRE ~ fluff, smut, soft sex, oral (receiving).

WORD COUNT ~ 3.645k

ᯓ★ listen to this! requested.

you swore that the gods had something else against you that day.

with the coffee you'd so blissfully managed to spill all over your handwritten notes, the lunch you'd mustered up the energy to cook for once but never even got a chance to taste from a trip over stairs, a silly argument with your mom over a call, and to top it off, the lack of your boyfriend's love and comfort. it was all driving you to the brink of your limit.

at about eleven in the night, your room was dark, except for the warm lamp that illuminated your desk and cascaded light over the thick textbooks you were studying from. the noises of pen clicks and highlighter scratching was all that could be heard from hours on end, at least as far as you could keep track of.

however, your little bubble of misery burst for good when you heard the door of your room click open. the familiar and beloved face of your boyfriend, riki, peaked in.

you mustered up all the energy you had and flashed a small but warm smile. your eyes, once so bright and sparkly, were dull and adorned by eye bags. your appearance was let put together than usual, and you weren't proud of it, but you still managed to look just as beautiful to him. “oh? i thought you were busy with work. what're you doing here, riki?” you called out, swiveling in his direction from your chair.

the faint bags under your eyes didn't go unnoticed by him, but he didn't say anything. he further stepped into your room, closing the door behind him, and closing the distance between you two. he reached out a hand to caress your cheek, running a thumb over your eyebags, and gave you a tired, but affectionate smile. riki looked like he needed this just as much as you did. "free time." he shortly replied, too occupied in examining the state you were in.

with a grunt, you stood up from your chair and balanced on your legs numb from having sat down in one position for a prolonged period of time. you immediately wrap your arms around riki's torso, your grip firm as you dig your face into his chest and let some of your weight rest on him. you were incredibly grateful that he didn’t comment, let alone even judge on any aspect of your appearance.

“god, i've missed you..” you sighed, tightening your grip around him.

he snaked his arms around your waist, holding you tight against him, taking in the familiar and reassuring sensations that came with your presence; your scent, your warmth. "you look tired." he let out a sigh, one that sounded both exhausted and sad, burying his face in your hair. he knew you were stressed out, but he hated seeing you like this. it worried and hurt him. it pissed him off.

some of the weight you earlier felt weighing down your shoulders disappeared as soon as you felt riki embrace you. there was something so soothing, so comforting about the way his larger frame held you, but it felt short to relieve every bit of stress you had bubbling in your spine.

you let out a soft chuckle, but it was only an attempt to soothe the worries you felt bubbling in his mind. “it’s not as bad as it looks, i swear.”

he exhaled through his nose and pulled away, just enough to look at you and gently cup your cheeks in his hands, making you look at him. riki's eyes were focused on you, observing and searching you, before his face twisted into a slight frown. "don't lie to me." he said in a soft voice, not stern, but the slight disappointment in his voice was evident.

the smile you’d mustered up for his sake dropped, a tiny, subconscious pout replacing it instead. you broke eye contact he’d forced openyou by cupping your cheeks, looking down blankly with unfocused eyes. “i’m fine.. just- stressed for finals, y’know?” you mumbled out, generously sugarcoating the conditions life was putting you through.

he sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. riki was well aware of your finals, he's heard you vent about your studies more times than he could count. that's normal stress. but the dark bags under your eyes, the way your words sounded. it was worse than that. "it's more than that, and you know it."

god.. why did he have to know you so well? an excuse to brush off his interrogation was right at the tip of your tongue. but the way he looked at you, his eyes so full of love and concern for you, you couldn’t bear to lie anymore. you leaned forward, hiding your face in his chest, not wanting to directly face him as you made your confession.

“look- it’s just… i had a fight with my mom. my insomnia’s acting up again. everytime i try to do something nice f’myself, it backfires. i’m just so.. frustrated.”

he felt his heart clench as you spoke, the way your voice wavered just a little at the end and the way you kept your face hidden against his chest. his arms wrapped around you tighter, as if he was almost trying to shield you from the things that upset you. riki moved a hand up and began gently stroking your hair, hoping the action could provide a tiny bit of comfort. "baby..." he sighed quietly to himself, and moved a hand under your chin, gently tilting your face up to look at him again.

“i’m so tired, riki.. i wanna get my mind off of things so badly. like a relief, for once.” you continued, your voice growing a bit shaky from the tears that had begun to well into your eyes. you were reluctant to make eye contact, knowing it’d only make you feel more emotional, but couldn’t resist doing so.

he could feel his heart break, seeing your eyes glossy and hearing how your voice trembled. riki didn't like seeing you this miserable. he didn't like the way your usual energetic sparkle was replaced with exhaustion. and he absolutely hated the fact that he couldn't make everything be okay for you. he let his thumb gently caress your cheek, as he continued stroking your hair with his other hand, before his mouth opened to speak. "i have an idea."

you nuzzled your face into the wide expanse of his warm hand, his comforting touch balming your worries little by little. his words brought a small but evident flicker of hope into your eyes. “what is it?” "come with me." he said simply, before moving his hands out from your hair, to your waist, and grabbing you, lifting you off the ground to be carried. riki didn't wait for a response and held you up against his body as he moved towards your bed.

you yelped at his sudden action, but held onto him, giving him a look of curiosity and maybe just a little anticipation. your tears had begun to subside already. he laid you down against the sheets of your bed, with him over you, but still between your legs, and placed his forearms on either side of your head, propping himself up.

he let his eyes trail over your face for a moment, taking in all the details he knew so dearly. those damn dark bags under your eyes, the weariness and tiredness on your face, your glossy eyes holding back unshed tears. "i'll help you take your mind off things." he whispered and leaned down, pressing his mouth against the side of your neck, giving you a small and gentle kiss to the skin there.

the look he gave you, the tone of his voice, his worshipping kisses were all the clues you needed to conclude what he was trying to do. you let out a shaky exhale, your head tilting up almost as a reflex to give him more access. his kisses made your heart squeeze in gratitude, anticipation, and maybe just a little guilt. “you... you don’t have to..."

"i want to." he mumbled against your skin, letting his lips linger on your neck for a moment. he moved to trail more kisses along your jawline, slowly making his way to your ear.

"let me take care of you."

you bit down on your lower lip, your chest heaving as a giveaway of your racing heart. you felt heat begin to pool in the pit of your stomach, hands forming fists of the sheets covering your bed beneath. you were stilled for a few seconds before mumbling in a voice barely above a whisper. “okay.”

the way you tensed up with your quiet response, the way he could feel your heart beat faster, the way he could see your chest rise and sink more rapidly- it all brought a small but content smile to his face. "don't hold back for me." he almost purred against your skin, as he planted more kisses on your neck, trailing more up and down the column of your throat, each one slowly growing more and more open-mouthed and hungry.

his words, paired with his soft ministrations were like a deadly spell. you were essentially hypnotized, your eyes fallen close, head tilted back into the pillow below your head, as if you were floating on a cloud.

everytime his lips found a spot on your skin more sensitive than another, you let out a soft gasp and whimper, one that was like a reward for riki. you hummed, grasping onto his hair lightly.

the gentle grasping at his hair only made riki work faster, trailing more urgent kisses along your neck and jawline, down your collarbone. he was trying to find all those spots he knew were sensitive, letting his tongue glide over your skin with each one in an attempt to tease you, to send sensations through your body.

a small chuckle almost slipped past his lips in a satisfied response, each sound of a low whimper or gentle gasp giving him more motivation and drive.

riki frowned at the interference and lack of accessibility your hoodie gave, not wasting time in reaching for the hem of it.

“off.” he muttered shortly, the corners of his lips twitching up when you immediately raised your hands up. he carefully pulled the hoodie along with the shirt you had on underneath in one motion and tossed the garments somewhere he was too focused on you to care about.

your skin felt like fire under his eyes trailing over the newly exposed skin of your bare upper body - the bare collarbones and throat he’d marked up, the soft skin of your stomach, your bra. he lout a soft groan of appreciation, ducking his head to resume his trail of kisses on the skin of your upper chest.

he continued this process for a bit, moving from one side to the other, down further onto the top of your chest, when he started to gently press his lips against your skin, moving ever so slightly closer to your breast. “you know..” he mumbled, between kisses, “i love you in anything..” he paused to give a gentle bite to the skin right above the start of your bra.

your breath hitched, back beginning to arch into his touch as he continued. “but my favorite look on you..” his voice grew huskier with each kiss and nip, “is when you’re wearing nothing but my hickeys.” with the last word, he moved his hand up to lightly brush his fingers over one of the clasps of your bra, giving a slight tug to the material.

you let out a shaky exhale to suppress a groan, holding onto his silky raven locks just a little tighter. you lift your weight up in assistance to rid yourself of the bra, letting out a soft exhale of relief when the cool air of your room hit your chest, the heat pooling in the pit of your stomach growing more intense by the second.

riki wasted no time in burying his face between your soft mounds, attacking one of your breasts with hot, wet kisses and gentle nips. he took your nipple into his mouth, eliciting a pretty gasp from you. he swirled his tongue around your bud, humming at the sensation of it hardening under his touch.

he switched to your neglected breast, repeating his actions with such consistent intensity and passion that had you moaning his name like a mantra in pleasure. you whimpered everytime his hair brushed by your bare skin, the sensation of it one like a feather. your stomach heaved from how raggedy your breathing had gotten thighs pressing together in undeniable arousal.

he continued leaving a trail of marks and pecks down your body, pausing occasionally to give special attention to certain areas. he stopped just above your naval, just over your belly button, only to press the flat of his tongue against the skin there. he looked up for a moment, his eyes meeting yours, still focused and hungry.

riki began to lower his body a little more between your legs, but stopped once he was hovering his head right over your waist. he lifted a hand to drag a finger over the edge of your pants, tugging on the material as he spoke in a low voice. "want these gone."

you bit your lower lip at the sight of how he was situated between your legs, your folds pulsating in desire to be stimulated by his touch. you lifted your hips as a silent gesture for him to undress you.

he moved to kneel, sitting back on his ankles for a moment, as he took in the sight of you, laying below him, completely at his mercy. he almost groaned just at that. he made quick work of the task, unbuttoning your pants and swiftly pulling them down, tossing them somewhere behind him. riki leaned back down, his hands immediately moving to your thighs.

you weren’t wearing the sexiest pair of underwear you owned, having assumed that such intimacies wouldn't go down that night. but, you were pleasantly surprised at how worked up riki seemed to get when he saw the thin pink cotton panties you’d worn, so wet from the crotch that they clung onto the outline of your pussy.

feeling conscious under his silent intense gaze, you began bringing your thighs together, but riki was quick to grab at your thighs and jerk them apart. the action was not too rough, but not soft enough for you to have the guts to repeat it.

he looked up at you from his position of being face-first with your panties, simply admiring your nearly bare form. he shifted closer, suddenly taking a hot, wet lick of your entrance from over your panties, tasting your slick of arousal.

you whimpered loudly at the sensation of it, your fingers once again holding onto riki’s hair tightly. you clenched around nothing in sheer need for stimulation as he continued kissing and licking your clothed pussy, his touch so intimate yet so teasing.

“please..” you mumbled out, your words a soft whine as your hips jerked into his face subconsciously, toes curling in from the lustful desires you tried containing.

he let out a short chuckle, the sound sending vibrations that you felt deep into your core. "mm?.. please what?" he mumbled against your folds, his tongue moving in a slow and torturous lick over the shape of your pussy, still only ever through the cotton covering it. it was like the taste of you was something he wanted to savor for as long as possible, instead of indulging the impatient need that his actions were causing himself as well.

“take it off..." you mumbled out between whimpers and pants, your heart pounding in your chest and hands itching to just take the last piece of cloth blocking his pleasure off yourself.

your needy voice had its desired effect, as riki took a moment to move back and hook two of his fingers under the elastic of your panties, pulling them down with a swift motion and tossing them in the same direction your pants had ended up in. he leaned back down, resuming the space he’d previously taken between your legs and looking at your naked, already leaking, pussy with hungry eyes.

you exhaled a small sigh at the feeling of your heat meeting the cool atmosphere of the room. your head tipped back, legs spread open so deliciously, like an invitation for a feast riki would devour.

and devour it he did. riki practically lunged forward, hooking his hands under your thighs to hold them apart. his hair trickled against your stomach the way he practically buried his face between your legs, his tongue lapping your bare, slick folds.

“riki..” you mewled out his name, hips jerking forward at how he suddenly began eating you out with such intensity. you gripped onto his hair, panting as your thighs instinctively bucked together, despite riki's hold on them.

he growled, his long hands finding your knees and hooking them over his shoulders as he continued sucking on your folds. he hummed in satisfaction at the uninterrupted access the position brought him, bringing one of his hands to slide his middle finger into your pussy, his tongue lapping around its outsides.

the intrusion had you clenching around him, your lower lip nearly bruised from how hard you were biting down on it. you gasped when riki slid in another finger, his tongue beginning to suck against your erect clit.

he gently thrust his middle and ring finger into you at a soft, but deep pace, his throat creating hums that shot pleasures of vibrations up your spine. the thick and long calloused fingers of his hand reached spots into you that seemed to show you utter heaven. the lewd squelching sound of his fingers penetrating your wet hole, paired with his hums and loud sucking had you rolling your eyes to the back of your skull.

your hips jerked forward, almost grinding your them against his face. you moaned at the feeling of a knot beginning to form in the pit of your stomach, legs trembling at the way he pleasured you so slow and soft, yet so incredibly sensuous. riki couldn't hide how worked up he himself had gotten from pleasuring you, given how he’d subtly began rolling his hips into the sheets below as an attempt to relieve the aching erection in his pants with some friction.

“riki.. fuck- i’m gonna..” you barely manage to let out a quiet warning before he suddenly pulled away, his naturally thick lips glistening with your juices, a dark look of lust mixed with love in his eyes. before you could question why he suddenly halted, the way he shifted off the bed and stood on the floor to frantically rid himself of his sweats and boxers was enough of an answer.

the knot in your stomach had subsided at the sudden loss of his stimulation, but you bit down on your lower lip in anticipation when at the sight of his cock springing out, his angry red tip decorated with a bead of precum bouncing off his muscular abdomen.

he wordlessly climbed up onto the bed, resuming hovering over you and aligned his erection with your pussy. with a groan, he slid himself into you, his hands finding yours and interlocking with it as he held them pinned on either side of your head.

you cried out a moan in utter pleasure, your hands squeezing his as you took his girthy length in.

“god, baby..” he grunted, digging his face into your chest as he began thrusting into you, his pace slow, but his proud length allowing his tip to penetrate deep enough to nudge your cervix and show you stars.

“oh, riki, it feels so good..” you whimpered out, head thrown back in pleasure at the way he fucked you so softly, almost lazily but so, so deep. you clenched around his length with every thrust, the trickle of his hair against your chest becoming a sensation you weirdly found pleasure out of.

“i got you, baby.. you’re doing so good for me..” he whispered sweetly, his own body feeling like it was on fire at the way your velvety walls closed in on his sensitive cock. riki lifted his head up from the crook of your neck to make eye contact, his face hovering right above yours as he whispered gruffly while simultaneously fucking you. “tell me you’re close..”

“i am..” you almost immediately responded, having approached your orgasm faster than usual due to the intense pleasure his tongue gave you previously. when riki let go of one of your hands and brought his free hand down to circle his fingers over your swollen clit, it was your final straw.

with the last cry of his name, you released your sweet nectar onto his shaft, the liquid forming rings around its base. your orgasm triggered his own, and with a final thrust, riki buried himself deep into you, shoots of his white seed coating your insides, all while holding eye contact.

he remained inside you for a few seconds as the two of you panted, cherishing the dopamine your orgasms had brought. he carefully slid his softening cock out of you, and closed the distance between your parted lips with his, capturing them into a tender kiss.

he brought his hands to hold your waist, his lips lapping against yours in a soft kiss you’d learn to revere for the rest of your life. he pulled away, smiling at how considerably relaxed, satisfied and even glowing if riki did say so himself you looked. ik this is kinda mid but last fic before exam hiatus (rahhh) reblog and comment!! 👉🏻👈🏻 🎀

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misteria247 · 8 months ago

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I'm going to throw something and become violently ill

Ford was so on edge, like he was pacing and all tense and then Stanley touched his shoulder. And like immediately Ford relaxes, his posture loses some of the stiffness it had. He stopped pacing, and just let's Stan touch him.

Even when he's losing his fucking mind, hasn't slept in God knows how long, and he's mad at his brother, Stanford still finds comfort in Stanley. Even after everything and all the hurt and miscommunication between them, Stanford still essentially trusts his brother when it really counts. Stan gives Ford comfort and the feeling of safety with just a gentle hand on the shoulder and a concerned "Easy there, let's talk this through." That's all it takes to get Ford to stop everything.

Fuck these two I hate (affectionate) them so much 😭

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xoxojisu · 17 days ago

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NOTHING LIKE DOING NOTHING ..WITH YOU! ♡

synopsis: living 'nothing' by bruno major with katsuki bakugo

notes: this song is so peak 2020 covid holy time capsule. this is so not proofread but im so tired i cant

“dumb conversation, we lose track of time”

"if two mind readers read each other's minds, whose mind would they be reading?"

katsuki looks down at you on his chest judgmentally. "..hah?"

"like, what do you think would happen? would they just hear their own thoughts because that other person is reading their thoughts?"

katsuki scoffs. you think he's going to tell you to shut up and go to sleep.

"but their own thoughts wouldn't actually be their own thoughts because they're reading that other person's mind, so they'd hear the other person's thoughts, yeah?" he grumbles, to your surprise.

"..but then isn't it the same thing? they'd hear their own thoughts because the other person's thoughts are their own."

"no, wouldn't they..? oh, wait. ..fuck, i dunno. i'm not a damn mind reader."

"maybe both of their heads would explode! or maybe they'd both faint! or maybe they'd hear everything all at once!"

katsuki rolls his eyes affectionately at your rambling and smooths a hand over your hair. "said i dunno. shut up and go to sleep, dumbass."

"'kay, goodnight."

"night."

"..."

"maybe they'd hear an audio feedback! like when you're calling someone but their phone is right there so it makes that big sound that sounds like 'BEEEE-'"

"I SAID SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP."

“have i told you lately i’m grateful you’re mine?”

he says it in the quiet, when the tv’s humming low and you’re half-asleep.

he's not even looking at you, just playing with your fingers in his lap, like it slipped out without permission.

your breath catches. you squeeze his hand.

“no,” you whisper. “say it again?”

he glances at you, cheeks a little pink.

"said 'm grateful you're mine, dumbass." he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hair to hide his flush. "feel like i don't say it enough."

because he is. he's so, so grateful that you're in his life. he's all explosions and anger and you're soft touches and sweet kisses. you see him, really see him, like no one else does. you're the yin to his yang, light to his dark, and the reason he likes living.

sometimes, katsuki feels guilty. guilty that he stuck such a good person with a guy like him. worries you'd be better off with someone else.

but when you whisper, "'m grateful you're mine, too," into his chest and snuggle into him and breathe him in like he's your life force, he thinks he might be ok.

“we'll watch the notebook for the seventeenth time”

“again?” he groans, even as he presses play.

“yes again,” you grin.

you’ve seen it so many times that you know exactly when he’s about to scoff.

he always hates on allie, saying she's "so fuckin' annoying. stop fuckin' squealin!'" he respects noah's drive, but never fails to hate on his letter-writing. always says it’s too much for a two-second romance.

but for all his hating, he never says no.

“i'll say 'it's stupid,' then you'll catch me crying”

you always feel him burying his face into your hair during the rain scene.

says it's "just a coincidence" whenever you call him out, but you know it's because he's a closet crybaby and actually thinks its all so romantic and sweet and meaningful. but god forbid anyone finds out that the bakugo katsuki is capable of feeling any emotion other than hot, fiery rage, so he hides crying in you.

it makes your heart swell, because it sort of feels like he's trusting his more vulnerable emotions with you. he trusts you. he loves you.

so you both sit there and cry together, watching a movie you both know the exact ending of curled up with your legs and hearts intertwined.

“we're not making out on a boat in the rain”

just on a secondhand couch in your tiny dorm room, blanket slipping to the floor, popcorn bowl between you.

he's soft and sweet and gentle, the complete opposite of what you'd expect. he holds you and kisses you in a way that makes your stomach flutter and your heart squeeze. it's less like he's trying to devour you, and more like he's trying to savor you. like you're precious, and he values you more than anything else in the world.

(he does. and he doesnt like the rain, anyways.)

“or in a house i painted blue”

you're both still stupid high schoolers living in dorm rooms, but katsuki knows he wants to marry you.

he wants to give you the whole damn world, or at the very least, whatever life you want to live. he scoffs and denies it when people call him whipped, but he knows damn well deep down that he would build that stupid blue house for you if you so much as said "please."

and katsuki is so much more of a secret romantic than people think. he doesn't just want you in a short-term or lustful sense. he wants you. all of you. the whole you. he wants to build a life with you, have a family with you, buy a house with you. so, as much as katsuki enjoys being two stupid teenagers in love, sneaking into each other's dorm rooms and cuddling on twin-sized beds, katsuki also wants to grow old together in a house of your own.

“but there's nothing like doing nothing with you.”

katsuki thinks his favorite times with you are in the slow moments.

he likes thrill and adrenaline, sure. he likes seeing you all dolled up and pretty for a fancy date, yes. he likes watching your reactions when he does romantic grand gestures, of course.

even still, in his mind, there's nothing more perfect than this.

you're in his hoodie and on his lap, face buried into his chest. the movie is buzzing in the background, but you both have long since abandoned it. his hand is slipped under your hoodie, rubbing slow, soothing circles the way he knows you like at your bare skin. your hearts and stomachs are full with the dinner you both cooked together, and you'll probably fall asleep soon. katsuki can tell by the way your muscles feel relaxed and boneless.

you're not doing anything fancy. no passionate makeout, no makeup, no rapidly beating hearts.

it doesn't matter. this is his favorite thing. because truly, there's nothing like doing nothing with you.

masterlist rbs + comments appreciated!

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dakusan · 11 days ago

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HOW SKZ ACT WHEN YOU'RE ON YOUR PERIOD

stray kids ot8 x reader | eight boys, one mission: defeat your uterus with snacks and affection

🌙 synopsis: In this emotionally feral docuseries of domestic chaos, witness eight men spiral between panic, pouty affection, and god-tier cuddling skills as they try to soothe your demon womb. Hormones? Fluctuating. Pain? Off the charts. Love? Disgustingly abundant. Because when you're bleeding, these boys are bleeding emotionally.

💌 a/n: hello bleeding babes 💋. this was written under the influence of one (1) rage cramp, two (2) emotional support chocolates, and the ghost of every ex who didn’t bring me a heating pad. every skz boy is ✨feral✨ in love here because you deserve nothing less than devotion when your insides are trying to kill you. take this as a reminder: you don’t have to be cute while suffering. you can be bloated, bitter, in socks that don’t match and still be the main character of someone’s romantic fever dream. p.s. reblogs = strawberry chocolate covered kisses p.p.s. take a nap. eat something. drink water. i will literally cry if you don’t

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the divider

🎧 » Dimple — BTS « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // ��찬 domestic softness | clingy cuddles | emergency snack mission | intuitive caretaker

It starts around 2AM, when your cramps get so bad they actually wake you up.

You curl up tighter, hoping they’ll pass, but the wave hits harder this time—twisting, aching, blooming low in your stomach like something cruel. You let out a small whimper before you can stop it.

A pause. Then: Chan stirs beside you.

"Hey," his voice raspy, half-asleep, already worried. "Was that you?"

You nod into the pillow. “Mmhm. Cramps.”

He’s fully awake in seconds. No panic, no noise—just that quiet, laser-focused way he moves when it’s something important. You barely get a breath in before he’s rolling over, warm hand already on your waist.

“Babe,” he murmurs, soft and serious, “where’s your heating pad?”

You blink at him. “Living room. Under the couch. I think.”

“Okay. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He slips out of bed shirtless, in his boxers, feet padding across the cold floor like a man on a mission. You hear him fumbling in the dark, then the microwave, then some mild swearing when he stubs his toe on the table, and then—

He’s back. Holding a warm rice sock. And a small pack of chocolate-covered almonds. And a bottle of water.

You blink up at him, dazed. “...You brought snacks?”

Chan gives you the softest little smile, one hand brushing your hair off your face. “You always crave something sweet when it starts. I remember.”

He gently tucks the heating pad against your lower belly, adjusting it until you sigh in relief. He doesn’t crawl back under the covers right away—just watches your face with that puppy-eyed tenderness he saves for rare, quiet moments. Then—

“Can I hold you?”

You nod, and he pulls you into him slowly, like he’s scared to hurt you. One arm around your waist, the other beneath your neck, anchoring you against his chest.

You can feel his heartbeat.

He kisses your hair. “I hate that you’re in pain.”

“You’re making it better.”

“Good,” he whispers, breath warm against your ear. “That’s my whole job, you know.”

You smile tiredly into his chest. “I thought your job was being the leader of Stray Kids.”

Chan chuckles. “Nah. That’s just a side hustle. My real job is being yours.”

You groan and smack his chest, but it’s lazy, affectionate. He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. And then, quietly: “If it gets worse, or you need anything else—wake me up. Even if it’s just to cuddle, yeah?”

You hum sleepily. “You’re already doing perfect, Chris.”

Lee Know // 리노 soft grump mode activated | petty grocery store rampage | cat therapy squad | the quietest, most extra caregiver alive

You try to hide it at first. It’s not a big deal. Just some cramps. You’ve had worse. So when Minho walks in and sees you curled up on the couch, a pillow hugged to your stomach, blanket barely covering your legs, expression just slightly off—he narrows his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

You wave him off. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

Minho stares for another solid beat. Then, in the driest, most unimpressed tone imaginable: “Lie again and I’m feeding your emergency strawberry Pocky stash to Soonie.”

You squint. “...I’m on my period.”

A pause.

“Did you take meds yet?” “No.” “Heating pad?” “No.” “Water?” “...No.” Minho exhales. “Jesus Christ, babe.”

You blink at him, kind of amused. “Why do you look personally offended?”

“Because I’m your boyfriend, not a background actor. You’re not supposed to suffer in silence when I exist.” Before you can respond, he turns on his heel and disappears into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back—with a full survival kit.

– Painkillers – A hot water bottle – Three kinds of snacks – Tea – A protein bar – A suspiciously aggressive amount of napkins

You stare at the spread. “Why do you look mad?”

“I’m not mad.” He sets everything down like he’s preparing a shrine. “I’m annoyed that you thought I wouldn’t want to do this for you.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Then: “…You’re so dramatic.”

“Correct,” he says, plopping down beside you. “But I’m also right. Now drink your tea.”

He doesn’t offer cuddles—not immediately. Minho’s love language is closeness, but it’s always on your terms. He lets you shuffle over to him first, curl into his side, blanket dragged over both of you.

A few minutes later, Dori hops up and makes himself at home on your lap. Then Doongie curls by your feet. Then Soonie pads over with the slow, quiet grace of a prince and lays directly on your stomach.

“…Ow,” you mutter.

Minho shrugs. “Cat therapy. He’s trying.”

You glance up. “You trained them to do this, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer (That’s a yes.). Eventually, when your eyelids start fluttering, he shifts beneath you, tucking your head against his shoulder, his voice low: “You get a pass today. From everything. I’ll handle food and chores. You just rest, okay?”

“Mmh.”

He kisses your temple. Doesn’t say I love you, but—“Try not to bleed on the couch. It was expensive.”

You snort. He grins.

Changbin // 창빈 gym bro but make it nurturing | snack-stocking menace | constant verbal reassurance | bear hug therapy

You don’t even say anything. Just shuffle into the kitchen with a pout and that one specific oversized hoodie you always wear when you’re crampy. Changbin looks up from where he’s meal-prepping chicken breast and protein muffins.

“…Oh no,” he says, immediately dropping the spatula like it offended him. “Is it…?”

You nod solemnly.

He gasps softly like it’s tragic news. “Not the cursed week…”

You give him a weak grin. “Yeah. It’s started.”

“Oh baby…” He sweeps across the kitchen in three steps and engulfs you in a warm, solid hug that smells like soap and cinnamon protein powder. He sways you gently side to side. “My poor little womb warrior.”

You muffle a laugh into his chest. “Did you just call me a womb warrior?”

“Yes. Because you’re strong. And scary. And currently bleeding from the inside.”

He lets go just long enough to grab your hand and lead you to the couch. “Sit. No, wait. Lay down. Actually, gimme a second—let me make you the Nest.”

The Nest, as he calls it, is a masterpiece of plush blankets, body pillows, and one of his giant hoodies stuffed like a plushie. You flop down into it like a marshmallow landing in hot cocoa.

He comes back in five minutes with: – A hot water bottle in a cute cover – Your comfort drink (the overpriced iced juice he always says is a scam but secretly buys for you anyway) – A bowl of hot rice with kimchi and a fried egg – A pack of sour gummies – His hand on your forehead like he’s checking for a fever

“You good?” he asks, brows furrowed in that classic Changbin worried but trying to stay cool way.

You nod. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Damn right I am. You’re my girl, and my girl doesn’t suffer alone.” Then, serious voice: “Tell me the pain scale. 1 to ‘rip my uterus out.’”

“Uhh... seven.”

He kisses your temple. “We’re going to war.”

You laugh, and he smirks like it was his life mission to make you do that.

Later, when you’re drowsy and curled into his side, he runs his fingers gently through your hair and whispers: “Next month, I’m buying you a little heating pad you can wear. One of those fancy ones. You deserve a luxury uterus experience.”

You glance up, barely holding in your giggle. “That’s not how it works.”

“I don’t care,” he says, dramatically pressing a hand over your stomach. “We’ll rebrand menstruation into an elite spa process.”

You snort.

And just before you drift off, you hear him mutter: "You're still the prettiest person alive, by the way. Even when you’re grumpy. Especially when you're grumpy."

Hyunjin // 현진 sensitive prince mode | soft-reading-voice therapy | bath prep connoisseur | cries because you cried

You don’t say much that morning. Just shuffle around the apartment with a sluggish pace, wrapped in one of Hyunjin’s big sweaters and hugging a warm water bottle like it’s your emotional support pet. Hyunjin notices instantly. You haven’t even finished your first sigh before he’s halfway across the room, one hand gently brushing your cheek.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

You hesitate, then mumble, “First day… cramps.”

His face crumples like you told him you’d just been hit by a truck. “Oh no. Oh, angel—come here.”

You’re pulled into his arms in seconds. He tucks your head under his chin, rocking you slowly like he’s trying to lull the pain out of you. Then he kisses the top of your head and says with complete, poetic Hyunjin™ sincerity: “If I could trade places with your uterus right now, I would. I’d fight it. With a sword.”

You choke on a laugh. “That’s not how uteruses work.”

“Don’t care. I’d challenge it to a duel.”

You try to tell him you’ll be fine, but he’s already deep into period care prince mode. The next thirty minutes are a flurry of whispered comforts and gentle commands:

“Lay down, my love. I’ll get your fuzzy socks.” “You’re not allowed to move unless it’s to kiss me or pee.” “I made your favourite tea with honey and a cinnamon stick because you’re precious.” “Do you want me to read to you? Or just hold you?”

Eventually, you find yourself nestled between his thighs, back to his chest, as he reads aloud from your favourite book in that soft, lilting voice of his. His fingers stroke your arm as he reads, each word slow and sweet like honey dripping into your brain.

When he feels you tense from another wave of cramps, he stops reading immediately. “Hey—breathe. You want me to rub your tummy?”

You nod weakly. He shifts, placing a warm hand gently over your lower belly, thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of your hoodie.

Then he goes quiet.

You glance back at him. Hyunjin has tears in his eyes. “…Are you crying?”

“I’m just—” he sniffs, “—you looked like you were in pain. And I love you. And your uterus is being evil. And I feel useless.”

You burst out laughing. It hurts, but you can’t help it. You twist around to cup his face, pressing a kiss to his damp cheek. “You’re not useless. You’re literally being perfect.”

He smiles through it, sheepish and pink and glowing.

Later that night, he draws you a warm bath, lights candles (unscented, because strong smells make your nausea worse), and plays your favourite soft playlist. He even ties his hair up in a bun to match yours. You sit between his legs, soaking and sighing.

“You’re everything,” you murmur.

Hyunjin kisses your shoulder. “No. You are. I’m just your backup dancer.”

Han // 한 snack gremlin turned snack provider | panic researcher | dramatic empathy overload | “i gotchu baby” energy

You shoot him a warning text before he comes over.

"just a heads up: cramps. mood: possessed."

Jisung shows up thirty minutes later with:

a bag of snacks too big to be legal,

a heating pad still in the box (he bought a new one just in case),

your favourite hoodie,

and the most anxious but determined look on his face.

“Babe. I Googled things. I am ready.”

You’re half-laying, half-flopped on the couch, blanket over your head like a sad ghost. You peek out. “Google, huh?”

He nods furiously, plopping down next to you with his phone. “Listen. Did you know dark chocolate, bananas, and omega-3s can help? Also—massage, but not too hard or your uterus gets pissed.”

You blink at him. “How long were you researching?”

“Since your text. And also last month. I made a doc.”

“…You made a period doc?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You snort, already feeling better, but your stomach twists again and you wince. Jisung’s face falls like you just told him his puppy died. “Oh no no no. Come here.” He gently pulls you into his lap, wrapping you in the hoodie like a burrito. “C’mere, my angry little cinnamon bun. You wanna scream into my chest? I can take it.”

You do, in fact, scream into his chest. It helps.

He rubs slow circles into your lower back with one hand, the other holding a juice box to your mouth like a doting nursemaid. Occasionally he whispers things like:

“You’re so strong.” “I would absolutely fight your uterus in a 7/11 snack isle.” “I bet if we played sad songs, your cramps would get scared and leave.”

You’re half-laughing, half-dying, and he’s leaning into both roles like a professional clown slash life coach. Then, when you least expect it, he looks down at you—all softness and sincerity: “I know I can’t feel what you’re feeling, but… I hate seeing you hurt. I’d switch with you if I could.”

You melt. Fully. Into him. And he holds you like you’re made of glass and gold at the same time. Eventually, you fall asleep in his arms while he plays soft lo-fi beats from his phone and feeds you Pocky like a spoiled hamster.

And from the way he holds you all night, you just know—next month, he’s showing up again with a full annotated PDF and a playlist called “Period Pains Ain’t Shit (ft. me and snacks).”

Felix // 필릭스 literal cupcake with a god complex | affirmation factory | creates a healing shrine out of your bed | draws you a glitter bath

Felix notices before you even say a word. You shuffle out of the bedroom with a scrunched-up face and a bloated waddle, and he pauses mid-toast, blinking in slow realization.

“…it’s that time, isn’t it?”

You nod dramatically and collapse into the kitchen chair like a fallen soldier. “She has risen from the depths. My uterus is currently staging a revolution.”

Felix gasps like you’ve been personally attacked. “Not the inner apocalypse!!” he gasps, running to your side. “I knew I felt a disturbance in the force!” You start laughing and groaning at the same time while he holds your face like he’s cradling a wounded fairy. Then—

“Go lie down,” he says gently. “I’m turning our bedroom into a cloud.”

And he does. Twenty minutes later, you return to find:

— Your weighted blanket fluffed on top of fresh sheets — Two body pillows on either side like a pain-relief sandwich — A tray of tea, lemon water, and chocolate-covered strawberries — Mood lighting from the fairy lights he set to warm orange — And a soft playlist titled “you deserve the world (and also naps)”

You blink. “Felix what the hell—”

He beams. “Cloud.”

You stare. “You made me a healing shrine.”

“You deserve a healing shrine,” he says, dead serious, crawling onto the bed and patting his chest. “Now get in here. I’m gonna spoon the sadness out of you.”

You curl into him, head pressed to his cinnamon-sugar heartbeat.

But then you start to tear up and Felix notices immediately and pulls you closer, fingers stroking your back with a gentleness that makes your throat ache. "Hey hey hey, shhh—no tears, baby. You already bled enough today," he jokes softly, then immediately kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing to your soul.

Later, he insists on running you a bath—with lavender bubbles, flower petals (that he definitely plucked from your neighbour's garden), and gentle music. He even lights a tiny candle and sets it on the sink like it’s a spell. And when you emerge, cosy and flushed, he wraps you in a towel burrito and murmurs: “Next time, I'm writing a passive-aggressive letter to your ovaries.”

“…You know they don’t read fanmail, right?”

He smirks. “Then I’ll write hate mail.”

You fall asleep giggling, cradled in his arms, full of chocolate and comfort and sunshine-boy magic.

Seungmin // 승민 sarcasm-flavoured care | savage but intuitive | cuddles like a weighted puppy | makes you laugh until it hurts less

It’s early afternoon. You’ve said nothing all day except for a grumbled “ow” while dramatically faceplanting into the couch. Seungmin, across the room eating cereal like it’s a military mission, just raises one eyebrow.

“…Again?”

You groan into the cushions. “Yes. Tell your ancestors to take it up with my uterus.”

He shrugs. “You should unionize your organs. Demand better working conditions.”

You crack a weak smile, and that’s all he needs—he gets up, puts down the cereal, and returns with his usual "pain protocol" like it’s just another Tuesday.

He doesn’t announce anything. No big gestures. Just quietly hands you: – A heat patch from the cupboard – A bottle of water already uncapped – A protein bar you always forget you need – And your favourite oversized hoodie that he always pretends not to like when you steal it

He says nothing. Just watches until you take it.

“…Thanks, Minnie.”

He finally sighs, dramatically plopping down next to you. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t serve and protect you from your own reproductive system?”

You pause. “A bad one.”

“Exactly.”

You shift closer. He adjusts the blanket over your shoulders with one hand and opens his phone with the other. A few seconds later, he’s playing one of your comfort shows—he remembered which episode you stopped on.

And then?

He lets you rest your head on his thigh while he lazily pets your hair like a spoiled cat. Occasionally, he comments on the show like nothing’s wrong.

“Wow, imagine being this emotionally unstable. Couldn’t be me.”

“You cried at a ramen commercial last week,” you mutter.

“Shh. You’re the one with pain hormones. I win.”

But then—quietly—he leans down and says: “Let me know if you need anything, okay? Anything. I don’t care. I’ll go to the store and buy you twelve types of pads and an emotional support donut if that’s what it takes.”

You look up at him, touched. “You’re actually sweet sometimes.”

He scoffs. “No I’m not.”

You smirk. “You are.”

“Lies.”

But later, when you wake up from a nap in his lap, you find your phone sitting next to you with a new lockscreen: A doodle of your uterus getting karate-kicked by a stick figure with puppy ears labelled “me.”

I.n // 아이엔 panicked rookie boyfriend vibes | clumsy cuddle pro | “i googled it” energy | buys everything he sees in the pharmacy aisle

It’s only been a few months since you started dating, so when your period hits full force mid-date night—Jeongin panics. You’re curled up in bed, hands on your stomach, face tight with pain. He’s sitting next to you looking so painfully concerned it’s almost cute.

“Are you dying? Is this a dying thing? Should I call someone?”

You squint up at him. “It’s just cramps, Innie.”

“…Are you sure?” he whispers, already holding his phone with the Emergency icon half-tapped.

You grab his sleeve and tug him down into a hug. “I’m sure.”

He melts immediately. “Okay. Okay. I got you.”

Then: cue Jeongin’s Period Preparedness Panic Arc™. He disappears for forty-five minutes. You think he went to buy a snack or something.

No.

He returns with: – 3 different heating pads (“I didn’t know which one to get so I bought all of them.”) – A literal mountain of snacks (chocolate, gummies, ice cream, crackers, a random matcha cookie that looked ‘healing’) – A floral-scented candle that he regrets instantly (“It’s kinda… strong. We can throw it away.”) – And the softest stuffed alpaca you've ever seen (“She’s for emotional support. Her name is Princess Womb Slayer.”)

You blink. “Jeongin—”

“I panicked, okay?! You were hurting and I didn’t know what to do and the pharmacy lady told me ginger helps so I bought ginger tea and also ginger candy and gingerbread even though I hate gingerbread—”

You laugh. Hard. Which makes your stomach cramp more. You curl into a little ball again and he instantly shuts up, looking terrified.

“I—did I make it worse? Should I go back and get—”

“Innie,” you wheeze. “Come here.”

He carefully crawls into bed, cuddling you gently, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Then, after a beat: “…You wanna watch penguin videos?”

You blink. “Penguins?”

“They’re cute. They waddle. You always say that makes you feel better.”

You grin and nod, and two minutes later, he’s got a compilation playing of baby penguins slipping on ice while you snuggle into his chest.

#skz #skz imagine #stray kids x reader #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #sunday softdrops

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