#i just started settling out the scene and it became ... this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER.

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after.

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip.

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat.

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face.

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to. I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs.

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard.

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself.

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold.

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to.

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away.

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact.

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself.

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still.

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale.

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..."

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact.

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light.

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there.

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes.

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight.

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in.

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you.

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you.

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer.

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack.

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening.

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor.

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up."

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long."

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home.

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs.

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbott #jack abbott #dr. abbott

2K notes · View notes

help-itrappedmyself · 7 months ago

Text

Dead on Main short part 2

This was not supposed to be this long. It just kept getting longer, just kept going. I found a cut-off point eventually, but there may actually be a part 3 to what was supposed to be a very short little piece. Whoops. (part 1)

Jason never had the time to be concerned about his words when he was young. Neither did anyone else around him. His dad couldn’t be bothered with anything to do with him, and Jason would have been surprised if Willis actually knew what his words were. His mother was more confused by them then anything else, and even then that was only in her rarer sober moments.

Then Jason moved in with Bruce. Dick wasn’t around much when he lived in the Manor. He had just started tolerating him when Jason had died. Dick probably knew what the words were, but they had never discussed it with each other, and Jason couldn’t begin to guess what his opinion was on them back then.

Bruce used to entertain his fantasies of trying to think up different scenarios his words could be said in, both of them trying to make the funniest good outcome. It became a game they played when bored on stakeouts, obviously keeping the contents of the words private while playing. To be fair, there were a lot of good and funny scenarios. But they lived in Gotham, and Jason had experienced enough of the world, even at that young age, that he understood the likeliness of a bad scenario.

And then he died. And he didn’t think about his words for a very long time. Too busy training and plotting. Busy coming back to Gotham, enacting his plans and building a criminal empire. He barely remembered them himself until he was back in Gotham, operating as the Red Hood, with a trail of bodies behind him.

Assassin training, heads in a duffel bag, counts of arson, and leader of a gang, Jason was not the same kid he used to be. There were few scenarios in which his words could be said that he couldn’t come to understand. And he was at a point in his life where he could find room for a soulmate again. He was settled, secure as the anti-hero of Crime Alley, tenuous agreement with the Bats and all. He had even been by the Manor to have tea with Alfred.

Arkham breakouts were old hat to everyone in Gotham. Citizens bunkering down, and Bats readying themselves to round up whoever made it out this time. However, this was the first Arkham breakout since his plan with Bruce and the Joker failed. The first since his agreement with the Bats to use non-lethal means. When Jason heard that it was the Joker that had broken out, he planned to kill him, truce be damned.

The Bats could probably deduce that, it was too soon into the truce for any real change to have been made. And this was the Joker. So now it was a race to see who could get to him first.

Luckily (in this instance), Jason’s base is much closer to Arkham than the Bats. So while they are all stuck driving in from the better parts of town, Jason is already chasing the Joker down alleys.

Joker is laughing, practically skipping away as if this is a game, and Jason almost loses him as he turns a corner he didn’t see. Jason can hear the Joker laughing, starting to speak. Probably to taunt him again. Then the sound cuts off with a choke and a thud.

Jason turns the corner to see Joker laid out flat, nose bleeding and neck at a funny ankle. A choked breath escapes him, and he looks around to see a man leaning against the alley wall.

The man’s hands are shaking, breaths choppy, and there's a bit of blood on his right hand.

Jason takes a deep breath, which causes the man to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Jason takes in the scene again. And then again, hardly daring to hope even with the evidence in front of him.

“Is he dead?” Jason asks softly. The man turns to face him, and Jason takes a glove off and slowly, hesitantly, checks the Joker’s pulse.

“Look, in my defense…” The man trails off, looking to the heavens for a moment. “I really fucking hate clowns.”

Jason, hope fully settled in as the Joker remains still and lifeless on the ground, pulse non-existent against his fingertips, almost laughs. Then his brain does a record scratch. Rewind. Replays the words ‘Look, in my defense’ over again, head shooting up to look at the man who just killed the Joker.

Jason takes his other glove off, standing. He takes a step towards the man, pushing up his sleeve. The man seems nervous at his advance, watching him warily until Jason uncovers the words on his arm. The cover falls to the ground behind him as he takes another step forward.

The man’s eyes light up in realization, and he also rushes to push up his sleeve. One more step forward and they are right in front of each other. Arms held up, brushing together as they show each other their marks.

Left forearms pressed together in the space in front of them, one reading ‘Is he dead?’ and the other “Look, in my defense.’.

The man laughs and Jason takes in the sound of it, the happiness in his eyes as he looks up at him. Jason slowly reaches up to remove his helmet, domino still on underneath it, and lets it fall to the alley floor as well.

“You’re amazing.” Jason breaths out, hand reaching up to cup the stranger’s, his soulmate’s cheek. “You have no idea what you’ve just done for me.”

“Little bit of manslaughter.” He laughs. “Didn’t think it would be received this well.”

Jason smiles in response. “I would worship you for this, if you’d let me. I will never stop thanking you.”

“Oh.” The man gasps, breath hitching. Jason, one hand still on his cheek, thumb stroking underneath his eye, places his other hand on the man’s waist and backs him up to the alley wall. Deliberately slowly, watching the man as he takes a deep breath, licks his lips, and lets himself be moved.

“Tell me your name and I’ll start right now.” Jason whispers.

“Danny.” The word is breathy and low, only heard due to Jason’s close proximity.

“Danny.” Jason repeats his name like an anthem and a prayer. Prepared to give his life for this man already. And then kisses him, pressing his lips to his softly, reverently. Wanting to hold this moment forever.

#fanfiction #my writing #batman #danny phantom #dpxdc #dcxdp #red hood #soulmate au #soulmate words #jason todd

1K notes · View notes

honeyhotteoks · 12 days ago

Text

in bloom - part one (j.yh + j.wy); section two

summary: one night, you and your boyfriend and your best friend are watching a movie, only you didn’t realize this movie would have a sex scene this long. or that they would notice how uncomfortable it made you. when you finally confess to them why, they take their time guiding you through every life experience you’ve always felt too late for, one kiss at a time. part one; section one | part one; section two | part two masterlist

note: this was inspired by my 🪻 anon who sent a suggestion about a yunwoo fic centered on loss of virginity. what was supposed to be an ask reply became a full fic. see under the cut for more detailed notes and disclaimers. part two coming soon.

warnings: virginity, late bloomer reader (she’s 26), demisexual!reader, complex relationships to sex, sexuality, and pleasure. fluff, angst, and emotional hurt/comfort, frank conversations about sexual experiences and norms including body hair and preferences, references to disassociation during sex but in the past, brief mention/question about sexual trauma (there is none), bisexual!wooyoung, bicurious!yunho, nervous / inexperienced reader, shy reader, embarrassed reader, slow and i mean SLOW sexual acts, lots of consent, kissing galore, nipple play, body worship, masturbation (f), fingering, oral sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), hand jobs, yunwoo teaching how to and reader learning for basically ever sex act….. lots of soft pet names y'all know me, an extremely earned 'good girl'

pairings: boyfriend!yunho x best friend!wooyoung x fem!reader

genre: smut and more smut

word count: 18.9k

note! this part was too long for tumblr! be sure you read section one first! linked here

You and Yunho both watch him carefully as he guides your hand down between your thighs, his eyes darting back up to yours every few moments to be sure he isn’t crossing a boundary.

“I think you should touch yourself,” Wooyoung prompts softly, pressing your hand lower so that it settles over your sex, “Yunho’s right, you should teach us what you like,”

You swallow nervously, “How do I teach you?”

“Just let us watch,” Wooyoung murmurs, “pretend we’re not here if it helps, just… show us what your body likes,”

The tension is so thick you feel like you could cut it, but somehow their idea seems right. It makes sense, and more than that, it feels safe.

You glance between them, wetting your lips and nodding, “Yeah, yeah, okay,”

Yunho sucks in a breath but stays still.

“Can we,” You adjust in the bed, “can you not touch me for this? Can you just watch?”

Wooyoung’s hand slips off your thigh, “Yeah, we can do that.”

You push away from Yunho and he slides back to give you some room, still lying by your side but this time just propped up on his hand and watching.

With a sigh you settle onto your back in the familiar position you’ve always touched yourself in, flat to the mattress, legs spread open, knees slightly bent as you angle your hips up.

“Alright,” You let out a nervous breath, “I guess… I’ll just, yeah, I’ll just do this,”

With familiar movements, you reach between your legs with your left hand and settle the pads of your fingers over your clit, warm and firm under your touch from arousal.

Their eyes are trained on you, and you swallow again, nervous.

“Baby,” Yunho says softly, “close your eyes.”

You let them flutter shut.

“It’s just you in bed,” He murmurs, “let your mind go to wherever it normally does. Just feel.”

It takes you a moment, awareness thrumming through you as you hear their slow breathing, every shift in the sheets, but you focus. You clear your mind.

Alone, relaxing in bed.

You think of the last thing that turned you on, the book you were reading that tugged at the tight coil inside you, the faceless male lead who’s romantic tenderness to the heroine got you feeling indescribably restless.

You sink into the mattress, you let it all fade.

With a breath, you start to touch. Slow circles of your fingers over your clit, dipping down to gather more wetness from your dripping core, your free hand sliding down over your body from rib to hip.

Warmth pools in your belly, and you let out a soft breath, head relaxing to the side as you keep your eyes closed.

You slide your hand up and over your abdomen again, brushing against your thighs, and the faceless figure in your mind starts to shift.

You feel the ghost of Yunho’s hand on your skin, of Wooyoung’s kiss.

Staggered images filter through, little flashes in your mind’s eye as you start to roll your fingers a little faster.

Yunho’s full lips, parted and pink.

Wooyoung’s eyes, shaggy hair falling across his forehead.

Your mouth makes a soft pop as your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth, a gentle sound on your lips, and more floods through your mind.

Long fingers, veined forearms, taut abdomens, the straight cut of Wooyoung’s collarbones and the broad set of Yunho’s shoulders. Arms around you, warmth enveloping you, hands searching your body with soft curiosity, lips on your skin.

You make a tight sound, adjusting your hand, your legs straining a little wider.

Your mind tumbles over the thought of them.

Wooyoung’s smile, Yunho’s laugh. Tanned skin, freckles, their light dusting of body hair. Soft pressure, gentleness, tenderness, whispered breath on your skin.

You suck in a sharp breath, back arching a little, and you slide your other hand down to find your entrance, pushing two fingers deep inside yourself.

The weight of the mattress shifts and you hear a thready inhale that’s not your own, but it doesn’t matter.

Your head starts to rock back, pressing into the mattress as hot pleasure swirls in your gut, and your fingers find the pace that always makes you come. Fast, steady circles on your clit and a matched rhythm for the two fingers that pulse in and out. Your thighs spread wider, knees drawn up, hips rolling down to chase the feeling.

“Ah,” You stammer out, “ah,”

Eyes pressed tightly together, chasing the feeling.

Images continue to flash in your mind, a mix of sensations.

You’re chasing hard now, desperate, but you can’t reach it.

Jerking into the mattress you keep working your clit, but your other hand flies up to your breast, squeezing hard, tweaking your nipple with a tug and then a steady flick, but it’s not enough.

You need it all, suddenly, sharply, and you’ve never needed that before in your life.

A pained whine pulls from your lips, frustration laced in the tone, and your heel slips against the mattress, pushing the blankets down further in the bed.

You need more.

With a desperate sound, you reach out to the side where you know Yunho is, searching for his hand.

He takes it, silently, giving you a squeeze to tell you he’s here, he’s got you, but that’s not what you need.

Eyes still closed, you drag his hand forward with a sharp tug, drawing it to your breast.

His fingers close over your soft flesh, his body shifting closer, and he gives you a tentative squeeze to mimic the sensation of your own hand.

“Yes,” You shudder, “fuck,”

He doesn’t speak, but you hear his breath change, and feel his fingers roll over your painfully hardened nipple.

With a staggered breath you reach down, but instead of touching yourself, you leave your hand open, “W-Woo,” you’re begging, “please,”

“Fuck,” You hear his soft curse, his hand sliding into yours.

You direct it down, pushing it where you need it.

His fingers are thick, thicker than yours to be sure, and when he sinks two inside you the stretch is sinful.

You moan properly this time.

In tandem, they work your body while you rub your clit, your free hand flying up to grip the pillows above your head, your face pressing into the soft skin of your own bicep as you pant.

“God,” You manage, something hot curling in your gut.

Yunho makes a tight sound next to you, his fingers rolling and tugging at your nipples with precision, and Wooyoung curses again between your thighs, the sound of his fingers pulsing in and out of your dripping cunt a filthy wet mess.

It hits you without warning this time. Normally you work yourself up to a quiet, rolling pleasure that leaves you feeling comfortably satisfied, but this orgasm is sudden and intense. A crackle of heat sparks from your clit to your nipples, zinging through every part of you, and it’s like a pressure valve releasing.

Your legs snap shut around your hand and Wooyoung’s, body wrenching up in arched ecstasy, and you cry out against your own skin, body shuddering in fits and starts.

It takes a second for your body to come back online, but you feel it when Wooyoung’s fingers slowly slip out of you, and when Yunho’s hands change from stimulating to soothing.

Still trembling, chest rapidly rising and falling with your shallow breathing, your body finally slackens and your eyes start to open.

They’re quiet, afraid of unsettling the moment, and then the realization hits you.

No one in the world has ever watched you come before, no one’s ever seen you fall apart, but what’s more is that no one has ever been a part of the reason you did before. It’s more intimate than being naked, and more meaningful than any lost virginity.

Emotion builds up in your chest, throat thick with it, and you take an unsteady inhale.

Yunho’s hand on your chest stills.

You reach for him, pulling his arm, “Please,”

He’s unsure, you can feel that in the way he wraps his arms around you, but then you grab onto his shirt like a lifeline and his hand cups the back of your head protectively, tenderly. Wooyoung slides up to your other side, his hand ginger on your bare hip as he watches you recover.

“Are you here?” Yunho asks, his voice a whisper.

You nod, steadying your breathing.

He lets out a shuddering breath, and Wooyoung’s hand tightens on your waist.

“Are you okay?” Wooyoung finally asks, nervous energy in his tone.

You nod again, getting the emotional tidal wave under control, “Just hold me,” you manage, “please,”

“Right here,” Yunho’s hand brushes over your hair, “Woo,”

There’s a shift behind you, and then his body joins you, the three of you pressed tightly together.

Yunho rocks you slowly, lips against your forehead as he murmurs. Your best friend rubs soft circles into your skin, kissing your shoulder slowly, chastely.

You don’t need either of them to say it, you know with perfect clarity that they love you.

Time stretches with them tucked around your bare body, and eventually, your breathing slows and your sudden rush of emotion fades into the background.

You shift back, looking up at Yunho and to the side where Wooyoung leans over, “Hey,” you manage.

“Hey,” Yunho’s fingers brush over your cheek.

“You okay, babe?” Wooyoung asks gently.

You nod, exhaling slowly, “That was a lot for me,”

Wooyoung looks nervous, his expression pinched with concern.

You reach for him, smoothing his worried brow, “It was a lot because it was new,” you explain softly, “I’ve never done that in front of anyone.”

He softens, “How was it?”

“Incredible,” You whisper, “I’ve never… it was so intense,”

Wooyoung nods, kissing your palm, “It looked intense,”

“I fantasized,” You confess with a small smile.

Yunho returns your smile, but there’s a question in his expression, “About?”

“You,” Your smile stretches into a grin, “both of you,”

“Is that new too?” Yunho’s eyes flick over your face.

“I’ve never done that either,” You confess softly, “I’ve never thought about a real person, not like I did,”

“But you thought about us?” Wooyoung asks, his voice hesitant.

“Yeah,” It feels like a victory, and maybe they don’t understand it fully, but they’re smiling with you, “I did,”

“Come here,” Yunho cups your face, pulling you up into a kiss, sighing against your lips as he tenderly holds you.

Sensation stirs in your body again, the thrill of it lighting up your stomach, and you grip his shoulder, “Mm,” you nod, deepening in the kiss, “yes,”

Yunho pulls away, his breath a little ragged, “Wait, wait,”

“W-what is it?” You breathe.

“Are you,” He breathes, shaking his head, “should we-,”

Wooyoung laughs gently, “Do you want more, is what he’s trying to ask”

Yunho blushes, pink darkening in his cheeks.

“Oh,” Wooyoung nudges him, helping break the tension, “you are down so bad for her,”

“Shut up,” Yunho rolls his eyes, but you watch as his ears darken too, a scarlet warmth that tells you everything you need to know.

You interrupt them though, finding their hands and drawing them closer, “Yes, yes I want more.”

Yunho’s head snaps up, “You do,”

“I just needed a minute,” You confess, “but I’m not ready to stop,”

“That’s my girl,” Wooyoung surges up, kissing you hard and fast, and then slides down the bed again.

“Woo, what are you,-”

His fingers slip between your knees, pressing them apart until you’re following his touch and falling open again, “Do you still want slow?”

You nod, your breath fully caught in your throat.

“Okay,” He drops to his stomach again between your spread thighs, kissing the tender skin there just once before looking up at you, “If you want me to stop, say anything. Push me, tug my hair, however you need to tell me, tell me. I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” You whisper.

“Yunho,” Wooyoung directs, “hold her for me, if she gets too quiet, let me know,”

“Got it,” Yunho smiles, blinking at the sudden interaction. You gather that he’s not used to being told what to do by anyone in the bedroom, but when it comes to your comfort, he just nods.

“I’m gonna lift you up a bit,” Wooyoung explains, sliding his hands under your splayed thighs, “just get comfortable, okay? Just like that,”

Your legs settle over his shoulders.

He kisses your cunt and your head falls back with a gasp.

Yunho watches your face, curling close to your body, but all he sees is pleasure.

Wooyoung’s mouth is slow and warm, his lips soft against your center, his tongue firm as he starts to trace your skin. Your hand shoots out instinctively to grab the sheets, to ground yourself, but you find Yunho’s palm instead and he laces your fingers together, giving you a squeeze.

You’re wet, still dripping from your first orgasm, but you can hear it when he inhales, the sound almost pornographic despite the tenderness of his touch.

A soft sound pulls from your lips, your hips jerking, and when Wooyoung groans into your heat, the vibrations roll through you.

He presses into you slowly, working you open with every deliberate stroke of his tongue. There’s nothing frantic in the way he moves, only focus. Your hips twitch, a gentle jerk you can’t fight and he hums low into your skin, a ripple spreading out beneath your navel.

Your breathing changes first, growing shallow, tight, your hand growing more solid in Yunho’s group as the feeling starts to build and crest.

Wooyoung’s tongue circles your clit in patient, repeating spirals, a mimic of the way you rubbed yourself and something inside you starts to gather. It’s not like your orgasm before, the way it snapped suddenly with urgent pressure, this pleasure is quieter, gentler. It builds around you like a rising warm bath, carrying you into its sensations with ease.

Your thighs twitch again, feet flexing against the sheets, and you sigh.

Yunho nuzzles your temple, “Let it happen, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t rush it,”

Wooyoung’s mouth lifts, looking up to check you, “I got you, I promise,”

You exhale shakily, wetting your lips and nodding, and as Wooyoung sinks back down your hips rise to meet his mouth. He shifts with you, one hand pressing up under your thigh to hold you closer to his eager mouth, his other hand reaching around and settling over your lower belly.

This pleasure is new, not because it’s wholly unfamiliar, but because for the first time you’re able to sink into the feeling of someone’s hands on your skin. Someone’s body working to please yours, and you want it, you want to live in it.

Wooyoung gently sucks at your clit, sighing a breath of warm air against your slick skin, and your body warms. A tingling shifting down your fingertips, curling in your toes. A breathy sound catches in your throat.

“Hmm,” Yunho kisses your hair, “you’re doing so well,”

You sigh, a pleasured sound, your fingers pressing into his hand, your head starting to dig back into the mattress.

You’re close now, so close it almost scares you. Pleasure starts to catch again, full and steady, and Wooyoung pushes down more firmly with his mouth, his tongue thrusting into you, lapping up you, flicking steadily against your aching bud.

It’s too much, it’s overwhelming, but in a way that’s starting to make you feel alive.

You gasp, back arching off the mattress, and your free hand flutters like it doesn’t have a place to land.

“There she is,” Yunho says, his voice quiet and warm.

Slow and deep, the rush of pleasure that hits you this time is an undulating wave rocking through every nerve in your body. You fall into it, open to it, trembling against Wooyoung’s mouth as you moan and twitch.

Your voice shifts, not a cry like last time. It’s a long, low release, a bloom.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths as you come down, your body easing back into Yunho’s waiting arms. His hand strokes up and down your side, steady and warm, the lightest pressure of his fingertips along your skin.

Slowly, Wooyoung lifts his head, his lips parted and face flushed, chin slick with your arousal.

You sigh, eyes drifting to the ceiling, “That,” you manage, your voice a bit hoarse, “felt so good,”

Wooyoung breathes out a shaky laugh, resting his forehead on your thigh, grounding himself there like he needs this contact just as much as you do.

Your pulse is still fluttering under your skin, and when you look down at him, he’s watching you with such an unguarded affection it tugs at a deep, quiet longing long dormant in your chest.

Reaching out, you brush your fingers through his damp hair, and Wooyoung leans his cheek into your palm without hesitation, his own eyes softly closing as he feels your warmth.

He cups your hand against his face, turning to kiss your palm, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” You promise him, “I really am,”

Wooyoung kisses your thigh once more, and then slides up your body to rest beside you, face level with yours. You smile as he shifts into your space, and you realize you’ve always been safe with him, comfortable with the way his skin feels on yours, his touch, always so freely given without expectation of anything in return.

It’s only natural you ended up here.

Wooyoung’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, “I’ve never seen you like that,” He comments softly.

“Like what?”

“So relaxed,” He smiles a little, “free,”

You soften, your body tucked into Yunho’s behind you.

Wooyoung smiles, just a little, “I love you,” he says it so simply, “you already know I do, but, God, I do love you,”

Emotion swells behind your ribs again, “I love you too,”

Wooyoung’s eyes flick up over your shoulder, but whatever he finds in Yunho’s expression must soothe his anxiety because he smiles, and dips to your mouth. He kisses you this time with affection, you feel it in the slow pull of his mouth, the way his hand slides up your arm before cupping your cheek.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs as he leans back.

A little laugh escapes you, “You keep saying that,”

“It’s true,” Wooyoung grins.

Yunho’s body curls closer around you, his hand resting on your bare hip, “He’s right,”

Turning your head to find his eyes, something in your chest tugs loose at the sight of him.

Utter affection, the closest thing you’ve ever seen to devotion, heavy in his soft eyes. When you reach for him, he comes willingly, responding to your movements with his own like a dance he knows the steps to by heart.

Your lips meet, a catch of breath in his throat as he holds you close.

This time, you kiss him, your fingers on the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer as your mouths part, tongues connecting between breaths.

“Jagi,” He sighs.

Your lips part so you can look up at him, “Yunho?”

“Yes?” His voice is quiet, looking at you like he can read your every thought.

“Thank you,” You whisper.

His brows lift, expression clearing, “For what?”

“For being patient with me,” Your eyes flick down so you can get the rest of the words out, “for waiting for me, not pushing me. I didn’t know how much I needed that,”

His warm lips connect to your forehead, “You’re worth waiting for,” he murmurs, fingers stroking up and down your spine, “sweetheart, you’re more precious to me than I ever knew someone could be,”

Your eyes close as you let his words sink in, breathing quietly together, and you nod just a little, hopeful that he understands that you mean it too.

He leans back to see you after a beat, “I just want you to feel good, and feel safe,”

“I did,” You assure him, “I still do, which is a miracle,”

Wooyoung kisses your shoulder and nods, “It just means it feels right, babe,”

For a moment, his lips linger at your shoulder while Yunho’s hand cups your waist, his thumb stroking a soothing line into your skin.

The room is quiet again, another breath to let you get your bearings in this new territory, to understand the shape of the intimacy building between you. Your eyes are closed as you breathe in and out, body languid after your back to back orgasms, and you let your mind drift.

After a moment though, your senses shift. Your mind is so attuned to touch, typically preoccupied with the ways that it makes you feel discomfort or on edge, so you’re good at spotting the hidden meanings in people’s hands.

Wooyoung’s arm wrapped around you isn’t relaxed, there’s a subtle tension in his position, and in the sound of his tight exhales, every few breaths one just a bit deeper and laden with something urgent.

Your attention shifts, and you notice the way Yunho’s fingertips aren’t brushing softly, not anymore, there’s a press to it, a restraint of something more.

You blink your eyes open, level with Yunho’s chest, but when you shift backwards, sliding your leg just right, your body slots together with Wooyoung’s and you feel an unmistakable hardness.

He sucks in a soft breath, arching a little to guide his hips away from yours, but no one moves, no one mentions it. You watch as his hand tightens on the mattress, just a little, but enough.

From your position here, you can’t see Yunho’s face, but you study his body language. There’s a faint strain in his jaw, a tense cord of muscle in his neck, his breathing shallow and carefully controlled. When you readjust in the bed, he readjusts too, something clearly aching under his skin.

Glancing down to his hips, you nearly lose your breath when you see that he’s hard too, impossible to conceal in those sweatpants, despite his best efforts and careful positioning.

They’re both hard, and if you’re guessing, they’ve been like this for a while.

Your chest flutters, something quickening in your chest.

They wanted you.

They want you, still.

Your mind flicks through all of it, every touch, every word. Every second since you crossed the threshold of this bedroom has been about you – your comfort, your peace, your pleasure. Never once did they try to turn your attention or coax you into something further or faster.

The contrast of that slices through you.

Every guy you tried with, every single one, picked you for what they could take from you, not what they could give.

The decision is made in your mind before you even verbalize it to yourself, and you find yourself reaching, your hand settling on Yunho’s abdomen, “Yunho?”

He twitches at your touch, you feel his muscles quirk under your fingertips, but he answers you with his softest voice, “Yes?”

Your hand drifts a little lower, “You’re hard,”

His hips turn, trying to conceal that fact, and he leans back to see your expression, “Sorry,” he clears his throat, a flash of embarrassment moving across his face, “yeah,”

“Don’t apologize,” You smile a little, hand sliding back up to a safer spot on his chest, “you’re fine,”

Wooyoung snorts a little breath of air, “I’m pretty sure I’ve been hard since you kissed me,” he admits with a crooked grin.

You nudge him with your elbow, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Yunho brushes his hand against your jaw, “Baby, this wasn’t about us,”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung nods, “we’re fine, we’re more than fine.”

You study his eyes a moment, and you know he’s being truthful. You know if you said this was over then this would end right here.

You move then, extricating yourself from their arms and sliding up in the bed, the sheet slipping off you until your skin is bared again to them in the soft light. Their eyes track your movements, unsure why you needed to make space, but they wait, they watch.

“You’re both hard,” You say it funny by mistake, like you’re trying to get your facts straight.

Yunho’s eyes flick to Wooyoung, then back to you, “Yes,”

“You both want me?”

“Yes,” Their voices blend together, answering you without hesitation.

“So then,” Your teeth catch on your lip, “let me try and make you feel good too,”

Wooyoung’s brows lift high in surprise and he shakes his head, “You don’t have to do anything for us,”

Yunho’s nodding, opening his mouth to say more, but you get there first.

“Stop,” You shake your head, “I’m okay, I feel good,”

His face softens, but you still see his hesitation.

“This is a part of sex too, isn’t it?” You look to Yunho, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but you said you’d teach me.”

Yunho’s eyes darken with something more, a tense pulse in his jaw, but he nods.

“So, teach me,” You breathe, a smile on your lips.

The silence hangs, none of you breathing, and you look back and forth between them.

“Jesus,” Wooyoung finally cuts the tension, running a hand over his face, “you’re perfect,”

Yunho shifts in the bed, sitting up to meet your eyes, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” You nod, “I want to try,”

“Try what exactly?” Yunho’s hand against the bedding flexes, trying to keep his obvious need under control.

“Um,” You feel the heat rise again in your cheeks, and then you look too Wooyoung, “your mouth felt… would my mouth feel that good for you?”

Wooyoung groans, falling into the mattress face first, but he nods, “You’re going to kill me,”

“So, that’s a yes?” You grin.

“That’s a big fucking yes,” Wooyoung exhales, pushing himself up to a seat with you both, “if you’re comfortable, we can do that.”

“I want to do that,” You say, and you mean it.

Yunho takes a deep breath and then shifts off the bed, “Alright,” he swallows tightly, and as he stands you see the impressive tent in his sweatpants, “jagi, is it alright if we get undressed?”

“Yes,” You nod, a little too eager and he smiles at you, amused.

Wooyoung slides off the bed too, and you watch as they start to peel off layers.

Yunho starts to talk, but your eyes are locked on the way that his body looks when he shucks off his shirt, the way his fingers move when he pulls at the tie of his sweats. His lean, corded muscle tensing and relaxing as he moves.

“If you start to get uncomfortable,” Yunho says, and your eyes fly up to his, “tell us, I don’t care what we’re doing or what we’re saying to you,”

Wooyoung nods emphatically.

“I don’t care if Woo says he’ll die if you stop,” Yunho says, and it’s funny, but his voice is firm and clear, “if you need to stop, we fucking stop.”

“I got it,” You smile, “stop means stop.”

You take a breath, and realize they’re both almost stark naked in front of you. You take them in all at once, pupils dilating and head going fuzzy.

They’re both lean, the bodies of men who are endlessly active – running, biking, dancing, all movement and cardio and stamina, but every line of their muscles are well defined. Their cocks visibly strain against the cotton of their boxer briefs, and you feel a curl of heat in your belly just like before.

Wooyoung shoots a look at Yunho and rolls his eyes, “She’s okay,” he says as he reaches out a hand to you, “I’ll take very good care of your girl, Yunho-yah.” The teasing emphasis on Yunho’s name pulls a smile from your lips.

Yunho’s jaw tightens, but he exhales through his nose and nods, “I know,”

Taking Wooyoung’s hand, he pulls you forwards, “Come here, babe,”

You end up standing, and you let him guide you as he shifts your positions, sitting down onto the edge of the bed.

“Here?” You check, nodding, moving to get on your knees.

Yunho’s hand on your lower back stills you, and he reaches past both of you to grab one of the thick throw pillows, sliding it onto the floor between Wooyoung’s feet, “Don’t hurt your knees, baby,”

“Right,”

Slowly, you drop down, situating yourself with your hands on Wooyoung’s thighs.

It’s still for a moment, no one moving, but then Wooyoung drops back onto his elbows and lets his legs open wider, “Doing okay?”

“Mhm,” Your eyes are glued to his clothed cock.

Yunho’s hand brushes over the back of your head as he steps from one side of you and Wooyoung to the other, and then he crouches behind you at your side, one of his heavy, warm palms settling on your lower back.

“Okay,” You breathe.

Wooyoung’s eyes look hot, need unapologetic in his gaze, and as you reach for his waistband his hands tighten in the blankets under him.

“So,” You manage, hooking your fingers under his underwear, “I’ve never done this before, obviously,”

“Doing great so far,” Wooyoung exhales.

“This seems like a clear first step to sucking your cock, Woo,” The words roll off your tongue, an easy jab with your best friend.

Yunho laughs at your side, his lips pressing against your temple, “Quick study, baby,”

Wooyoung’s smiling too, but it fades into a completely new expression on his face when you pull his boxers down completely.

Your eyes flick over his cock immediately. He’s rock hard, cock flushed pink and leaking, a string of precum connected from the tip of his velvet head to his belly. It’s thick, that’s the first thing you think, and perfectly proportional for him.

“Jesus, fuck,” Wooyoung breathes, “you look so hot right now, babe,”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans.

Yunho gives you a moment, and then his hand flexes on your back, “Start slow,” he urges you softly, “touch his thighs,”

You let your hands slide over his skin, over the dark loops of his thigh tattoo, strong quads rippled under your palms. He’s warm, soft, and his cock twitches the closer you get to his hips.

You catalogue that quietly.

“Just like that,” Yunho nods, “we like being teased too,”

Wooyoung swallows.

“It feels good?” You check with him, your nails gently brushing over his inner thighs, a mirror of how Yunho touched you earlier.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Yeah,”

“You can press,” Yunho offers, “here,”

You look down, looking at the place he gestures to on his own thigh.

Your fingers travel there, on the tender skin of his inner thigh, close to the heavy weight of Wooyoung’s balls. You hear his breathing change, and when you press he groans.

“Kisses feel good there too,” Yunho murmurs, his voice low and tight as if you were touching him too, “anywhere close that’s not his cock,”

You nod, attentive, sliding closer to him between his splayed knees, and despite the curling nervousness in your gut you press a soft, featherlight kiss to his thigh.

“Ah,” Wooyoung hisses, hands tightening.

“There,” Yunho encourages, “that’s good,”

You kiss again, a little firmer this time, exploring him more, inching closer to his hips. With a flash of heat in your own chest, your tongue licks a slow stripe from the soft juncture of his groin back up to the straining tendon at the base of his cock.

Wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath and jerks, “Oh, fuck,” he pants, “what the fuck,”

“Bad?” You look up at him.

Yunho’s hand tightens on your back and Wooyoung shakes his head.

Wooyoung’s cock twitches by your cheek, and you smile, “This isn’t so hard,”

Wooyoung bites his lip, a laugh caught in his throat, “Yeah, well,” he says, “my cock is,”

You roll your eyes up at him.

“Baby,” Yunho shifts, positioned a little closer to your side, “do it again,”

You nod and repeat the hot line of your tongue.

“Good,” Yunho sounds breathy, and out of the corner of your eye you see his hand rest over his own cock, curling around the thick length through the fabric of his boxers, “same thing, but here,”

Yunho reaches around with his free hand and without touching Wooyoung’s cock, he draws a line from base to tip. His hand settles on Wooyoung’s thigh, and you hear Wooyoung groan.

You lean in, and with hesitant pressure, you lick a line up Wooyoung’s cock from base to tip just like he showed you.

Wooyoung pants, “You can, uh,” he gathers himself, “press more,”

Your eyes flick up at him, but you lean in to try again.

Wooyoung’s cock jerks away from the sensation though and you stop in the middle, a hesitant look in your eyes.

Yunho’s hand on your back gently slides up, cupping the back of your head with the most gentle pressure, and then uses his free hand to press flat to the front of Wooyoung’s cock, bracing it, “Again,” he encourages softly, “the pressure feels good, you’re not hurting him.”

This time, you press, really press, with the firm muscle of your tongue. The wall of Yunho’s hand gives Wooyoung’s cock room to shift away, and for the first time, you hear your best friend moan.

“Oh, Jesus,” Wooyoung sinks into the mattress, flat on his back now.

You repeat the motion, and again, and again.

“Focus here,” Yunho’s fingers curl around your best friend’s cock, softly brushing against the seam at the head of his cock, a heart shaped curve of velvety smooth skin.

You bring your tongue up, and focus your attention there. Kitten licks, heavy presses, doubling down on anything that makes Wooyoung pant, moan, grip the sheets.

“Still good?” Yunho’s fingers brush over your hair.

You almost forgot. For a very real moment, none of the fear existed, none of the nervousness.

“I’m great,” You smile, kissing the head of Wooyoung’s cock.

“Fuck, fuck,” Wooyoung’s hips jerk.

“Alright,” Yunho kisses your temple, “I think we can stop torturing him,”

“Please,” Wooyoung twitches, his body flushed pink with need.

“Come here,” Yunho presses between your shoulders to get you higher up on your knees, and then he stands, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Wooyoung so he can get a better vantage point.

“Baby,” Wooyoung makes a heady whine, and something low swoops in your belly, “please, if you’re good, if you, please, touch me,”

Yunho looks pleased, Wooyoung looks wrecked, and you’re pretty sure the rest of this is self explanatory.

Bracing yourself with one hand on his hip and the other at the base of his cock, you sink down over him, enveloping his cock in the wet heat of your mouth.

Wooyoung moans, deep from his chest as you sink down as far as you can go.

“Easy,” Yunho breathes, his hands gathering up your hair to move it out of your way, “easy, baby, you don’t have to take him all the way,”

You adjust, shifting focus to his cockhead.

“That’s right,” Yunho murmurs, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes your belly tighten.

This part feels instinctive, but you’re still a little fumbling. Getting the right amount of wetness, tightness to your mouth, you try to listen to his sounds as you pass your lips up and down.

“Ah, fuck,” Wooyoung jerks, a little, “use your tongue, press up with your – fuck, just like that,”

Your hand tightens on his thigh as you adjust.

You taste the salt on his skin, the start of his release on your tongue, but you don’t mind it. You think you’d drink him down just like this if he keeps talking to you this way.

“Suck me,” He begs, “just p-pull with your,”

You hum softly, and suck.

“I’m gonna come,” Wooyoung shakes, “I’m not gonna last,”

“Ease off,” Yunho instructs and you lift off.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung physically arches, his chest heaving, “what the f-fuck did you do that for?”

“Feels better if you wait for it,” Yunho explains, looking at you, “it’s the same for you. I’ll show you sometime,”

You don’t know what is shifting in the air between the three of you right now, but for the first time in your life the idea of a next time leaves you with the good kind of ache.

Wooyoung looks down at you both, pushing up on his elbows, “What are you?” Wooyoung says, a shocked smile on his face, “some kind of dom?”

Yunho grins, shaking his head, “No,” he keeps his eyes on Wooyoung, but he strokes the back of your head with his hand, “but she said teach her, I’m thorough,”

They’re flirting.

Something drops in your belly, and your lips part as you watch them.

“Edging is not lesson one material,” Wooyoung pants, “Jesus,”

Yunho shrugs, his hand smoothing over the back of your neck, “You don’t like that?”

“Not what I said,” Wooyoung chuckles, and then he sits up, “take those off,”

Yunho’s lips quirk into a half smile, his eyebrow raising just a tick.

You find your voice all of a sudden, “Take them off,”

Both of their heads snap to you.

“You heard her,” Wooyoung nods, taking in your expression, knowing exactly how much you want this from one look.

Yunho softens for one second, but you cut him off.

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” You tell him, hand sliding up his thigh, “I want this, let me want this.”

Yunho peels off his boxers without another word.

“Shit,” Wooyoung says as Yunho settles next to him.

His cock is so much bigger than you thought it would be. It’s the only way to say it, it’s big. Heavy, long and surprisingly straight.

Yunho clears his throat, “Yeah, well,”

You burst out a laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth.

“I wouldn’t recommend laughing the first time you see your boyfriend’s cock, babe,” Wooyoung just grins.

Yunho’s cheeks go pink.

“It’s just,” You shake your head, “I see what you mean about wanting to know I’ve never done this before,”

Yunho’s lips quirk, “Yeah,”

“Jesus,” You breathe, “we’re going back to slow when we get to the sex part,”

His hand slips into yours, “Of course we are,”

You give him a squeeze, silently letting him know you’re fine, and then look up to Wooyoung.

“Good?” He checks.

You nod.

“Alright,” Wooyoung trades a look between you and then reaches out, “edging is lesson one, my ass,”

You watch as Wooyoung’s hand closes around your boyfriend’s cock, and Yunho groans, his head falling back for a second as he lets himself feel it.

“Lesson one,” Wooyoung says, drawing his hand up and down over Yunho’s shaft, “is hand jobs,”

You shift closer on your knees.

“Yunho,” Wooyoung says, pressing a hand over his chest, “relax,”

He sinks back onto his forearms, eyes trained on Wooyoung.

“He explained teasing,” Wooyoung says, meeting your eyes, “same principles apply here,”

You slide your hand up Yunho’s thigh, sliding closer to him so you can find the spots he showed you.

“Yeah,” Yunho nods, swallowing tightly.

“Watch my hand,” Wooyoung says, “watch my wrist,”

Your eyes flick down from Yunho’s face and you watch with rapt attention. His hand bobs up and down, clear pressure around all sides, his wrist loose and rolling, making sure to connect over the head of Yunho’s cock with each stroke.

You nod.

“Not this,” Wooyoung shifts to a stiffer, less natural looking grip and drags his hand up and down twice.

Yunho hisses, “Alright,”

“Got it?” Wooyoung asks you, his hand lifting off.

“I think so,” You exhale, nerves bubbling inside you as you take Yunho’s heavy length in your hand.

Yunho jerks, his teeth tightening together, jawline tense, “Fuck, baby,”

“Tell me if I do it wrong,” You say to them both, “I want it to be good for you,”

Both of them groan.

With slow movements, you try to mimic Wooyoung’s strokes, keeping your hand tight and your wrist loose.

“Higher,” Wooyoung prompts softly and you comply, “yeah, good,”

You work him more, until he’s panting.

“Babe,” Wooyoung interrupts, “give me your hand,”

Yunho makes a tight sound when you lift your hand off him, but you follow instructions, offering Wooyoung your hand, palm up.

He spits in it, and you gasp, “Woo,”

“Trust me,” He nods, “watch,”

Yunho’s eyes are blown wide, and when you wrap your wet hand back around his cock, his hands turn into tight fists at his side.

“It’s good?” You look up at him.

All he can do is nod.

Wooyoung smiles, “Keep going, you can go a little faster,”

You work your hand, ignoring the start of an ache in your muscles.

When Yunho groans, you look up and watch as Wooyoung lays his hand across your boyfriends abs, “You have a really pretty cock, Yunho,”

“Fuck,” Yunho’s head falls back.

“And a pretty girlfriend,” He adds.

Yunho nods, “So pretty,”

Something stirs in you. You grip his cock a little tighter, working him faster.

“Christ, yes,” Yunho nods, his voice finally needy and breathy, “good girl,”

You suck in a sharp breath, lips parting at his words.

Wooyoung grins like the cat who got the cream, “You’ve got him, keep going,”

“Ah,” Yunho’s eyes roll, “mm,”

You watch as Wooyoung wraps a hand around his own cock and starts to pump it. With a little shake of his head, he silently tells you not to worry.

There’s a promise of next time in his eyes.

Whatever happens tonight, this isn’t the end, that you know for sure.

Yunho’s sharp groan brings you back.

“Want you to come,” You lean on his thigh, the words slipping out like you’ve said them a thousand times before.

Yunho moans, his eyes meeting yours, nodding.

“Please,” You manage.

Wooyoung curses softly next to you.

Yunho’s eyes widen hungrily when he sees the picture of you both, you perched on your knees between his thick thighs jerking him so perfectly, Wooyoung working himself over, too desperate to wait.

“I’m close,” Yunho’s chest starts to go dark red, sweat beading at his forehead, “please, don’t stop,”

“Not stopping,” You promise.

His hips jerk, like he wants to fuck himself into the tight ring of your hand, and Wooyoung’s hand presses him down.

Yunho groans, and then he shifts the energy, his hand wrapping around yours where you grip his cock, fingers slotting together around his length, “Yes, baby,”

You nod, both of your hands syncing in time until he takes over, desperate and needy, using your hand as a cocksleeve as he fucks himself hard and tight.

“Oh fuck,” Wooyoung groans.

“Yunho,” Your voice is close to a whine.

That undoes him.

His mouth drops, breath heavy, and he pumps himself hard until his cock erupts, hot ropes of pearl white cum shooting up onto his chest, covering your combined hands as he milks his pulsing cock.

Wooyoung groans, following him over the edge, his own release painting his abs.

It takes a moment, both of them shaking and recovering, but then Yunho reaches for you and wraps his hands around your arms, hauling you up onto his chest and kissing you breathless.

“You’re so fucking incredible,” He says between heady kisses, your bodies flush together, the mess of his release slick between you.

The bed shifts, Wooyoung falling onto his back next to you both, his hand giving your thigh a squeeze.

Gently, you slide off his chest to lie between them once again, warm bodies draped over soft, damp sheets.

Your breath is the only sound.

Yunho has your hand still wrapped in his, a grip that says he’s not letting go any time soon.

Your free hand settles in Wooyoung’s hair.

Yunho murmurs into the quiet, “Hey,” his voice low, careful, “you okay?”

You nod, a slow smile on your face, “Not okay,” you breathe, “I’m good.”

He gives your hand a squeeze.

“This is the best I’ve ever felt with anyone,” You confess.

Wooyoung kisses your arm, “You deserve that,” he says, “always.”

A warm ache settles inside you, sated, calm.

Yunho’s fingers brush along your skin, Wooyoung’s lips pepper kisses as the three of you stretch into the afterglow.

“Can we…,” You sigh, “can we just pause here for tonight?”

Wooyoung looks up at you, “Too much?”

“No,” You assure them, “but this was perfect, I want to have one perfect night,”

“Whenever you’re ready for more,” Yunho says, kissing your hair, “we’ll make sure it’s perfect too.”

“When you’re ready,” Wooyoung agrees, “whenever that happens.”

“Tomorrow,” You smile, “stay over, let’s keep going tomorrow,”

Yunho grins, “Tomorrow,” he nods.

“Hell yes, tomorrow,” Wooyoung kisses your arm.

“For now,” Yunho says, sitting up, “let’s get you cleaned up,”

Slipping from the bed, your body feels lighter. Your skin is still tingling, every nerve humming with awareness. Yunho guides you to the bathroom, Wooyoung padding softly behind you, and before you know it, you’re wrapped up in the steam of the shower with both of them.

Under the water, your eyes fall closed and you sink into the night, letting your forehead rest against the cool tiles.

They don’t push you, they don’t dig deeper. They give you a moment to breathe.

Yunho’s soft fingers work shampoo into your scalp while Wooyoung laters a loofah with your body wash. Their hands pass over you with equally tender care.

After, Yunho finds you soft clothes to wear and Wooyoung disappears into the kitchen to whip up something more substantial to eat.

You’ll talk later about what this means for your relationship, but for now the way Yunho looks at you tells you everything you need to know about where his head is.

On the couch, all three of you are wrapped up under the blankets just like a few hours ago.

This time though, their hands on you feel essential. Your head rests on Yunho’s chest, your legs stretch out over Wooyoung’s, one of their hands on each of your thighs.

Some game show plays on the television, but you’re focused on the steady, tender beat of Yunho’s heart under your cheek and the soothing stroke of Wooyoung’s hand along your skin.

You laugh, so soft, so content, “So…,” you murmur, “did we… did we just have sex? Did I dream that?”

Yunho smiles wide, his lips pressed to your hair, “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice warm and certain, “we did.”

“Wow,” You breathe.

“How do you feel?” Wooyoung nudges you.

Your hand tangles with his, “Here,” you tell them honestly, “whole.”

As the couch grows quiet again, you sink into them, into the knowledge that this wasn’t one time, one moment of impulse. It was the beginning of something new, of something honest.

Your skin on theirs, you’re right where you belong.

Ready to breathe it in again tomorrow.

#honeyhotteoks fics #honeyhotteoks updates #jeong yunho #yunho #ateez #jung wooyoung #wooyoung #yunho x reader #wooyoung x reader #yunho fic #yunho smut #wooyoung fic #wooyoung ff #yunwoo fic #yunwoo x reader #ateez fic #ateez series #ateez ff #ateez smut

479 notes · View notes

ohodie · 1 year ago

Text

SETTLE DOWN!

luke castellan x reader

★ “for crying out loud, settle down!”

ABOUT - you hate his guts. he hates yours. but you’d by lying if you said you didn’t want to make out with him until his lips start bleeding. and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like that idea.

WARNINGS - sexual references, sexual comments, enemies to lovers, steamy makeout scenes, no explicit smut. both luke and reader are very horny and very mean sooo two red flags lol

A/N - please don’t make fun of my english/australian vocabulary. i know americans don’t use the word ‘fit’ but LET ME LIVE IN PEACE!!!let me know if you’d fancy a part 2 <3

WC - 3.7k words

it’s hard to recall when exactly your distaste towards luke castellan first developed.

maybe it started off as rude comments and shoved shoulders, or simply the act of tripping over each other's shoes, paired with a few nasty glances. either way, you hated his guts.

this sentiment was obviously returned by luke, who was eager to constantly egg you on and rile you up. maybe he found it amusing- watching the ever so calm and collected eldest daughter of the hypnos cabin going absolutely ballistic whenever luke did something slightly annoying. he loved the way her mature and gentle persona shattered as soon as he provoked her.

it was rather strange how quickly they let their masks slip, letting themselves shout foul obscenities at each other as soon as a conflict arose between the two of them. it was like being near each other was the primary catalyst for their arguments and squabbles- not the actual contents of the disagreement itself, but the players involved.

curiously, luke’s terrible attitude was never extended to anyone other than you. around everyone else at camp half-blood, luke was the perfect gentleman. warm and welcoming to anyone who happened to walk past him, a great swordsman, well-kept, respectful and polite, the list goes on. he was perfect. but as soon as his eyes met yours, his entire body shifted. he became something colder, something ravenous- something hungry. he was out for blood, he just didn’t understand why.

you were slumped over a picnic table near the cabins, tiredly observing all handful of half-blood kids from various cabins making friendship bracelets.

it was dark out, the moon and the embers of the nearby fire acting as the sole providers of light for the camp that night.

truthfully, you didn’t want to be there. you would rather be in bed, coddled up between your sheets for hours before heading down to the infirmary to help out the younger kids with their sleeping troubles. maybe afterwards you could go down to the theatre and join in on a few songs with the apollo kids, or even practice sparring with clarisse.

whatever it was, you didn’t want to be there. not with luke castellan’s eyes studying your every move. you didn’t need to lift your head to know he was looking at you- you could feel it. the arrogance was radiating off him and you could smell his pride from across the picnic table. your nose easily picked up on notes of wet grass, a neutral deodorant, pure spite, and vanilla candles.

after what seemed like an eternity, you eventually shot your head up to meet luke’s unwavering gaze.

“someone’s sleepy.” he smirked, his voice calm and cold. he looked satisfied; content with watching you slowly rise in anger as he began to coddle you and patronise your every move.

you ran a hand through your hair, fixing the messy state it was in after laying down for so long. “i’m not sleepy, just bored.” you retorted, letting your hands hold up your head as you stared deeply into his eyes, not breaking eye contact.

luke played along, refusing to blink as he picked up on the competitive gesture. “bored, huh?” he mused, shooting you a cocky grin as he leaned forward over the table. “you’re never satisfied, are you, princess?”

you rolled your eyes, letting your pupils meet the back of your head as you stifled a groan. you slowly covered one side of your face in your hand, hiding your pink cheeks as a result of his use of the nickname ‘princess’.

“don’t you have a loser convention to get to?” you asked, referring to the cabin councillors meeting that he was supposed to be at.

luke shrugged, looking to his side as he watched a young demeter boy making a bracelet. “got cancelled. now i get to look at your pretty little face for an hour straight.”

“i’m going to bed.” you grumbled, standing up from the picnic table, an unfinished friendship bracelet left discarded. you walked away, hearing little to no protests from the rest of the table.

luke’s eyes met the bracelet you left behind, studying it for a moment. the colours were cute and the beads were placed strategically along the string, creating an interesting and visually pleasing combination of textures and shapes. luke’s hand wandered over to the bracelet, quickly snatching it before securely tying it and stuffing it in his pocket.

luke wasn’t sure why he stole the bracelet. maybe he thought he could taunt you with it, or maybe he could just wear it for shits and gigs. it was a pretty bracelet- why wouldn’t he want to wear it?

a week passed by, and it was time for capture the flag.

luke had consistently come out of the games a champion, securing his place as the best swordsman at camp half-blood whenever possible.

you were tired of it. you promised yourself that when the opportunity arose, you would beat him to it. you would earn the praise he revived so effortlessly.

your determination to win capture the flag was also partially encouraged by the events of the previous tuesday.

you, luke, and a few other older demi-gods were forced to monitor the younger campers on a trip to the nearby lake. simple, right? wrong.

things went south fast when luke ‘accidentally’ nudged your shoulder a bit too hard, forcing you to fall into the lake. luckily, you were a strong enough swimmer and were able to get back on land safely.

“sorry about that, y/n. maybe next time you should keep out of the way?” he leaned in close, whispering in your ear.

luke smirked lightly as his dry hand rubbed the soaking wet and now transparent fabric covering your shoulder. his lips softly grazed your neck as you released yourself from his grip, shooting him a dirty look.

“you should watch your step, castellan. things like this happen to anyone.”

luke scoffed, looking you up and down as he took in the sight of your shivering body. “do they now?” he asked, his head turning to follow your figure as you walked past him.

as you walked away, luke couldn’t help but study your body as it became revealed by the fabric of the camp t-shirt sticking to your skin. how could he not admire the way he could see the vague outline of a lacy black bra underneath your top? or the way your wet hair was framing your angry little face? how you stared him down as your friend offered you a towel.

if you weren’t so acutely aware of how your figure was on full display, you would’ve pushed him in as well- but you were way too infuriated to even get close to him at this point… as well as the fact you didn’t think you could handle the idea of him taking off your shirt in front of you, all wet as his hair let water droplets roll down his torso.

maybe you could handle hitting him with a baseball bat a few times, but the idea of his face all beaten and bloodied was strangely appetising as well.

in all fairness, luke’s actions were not unprovoked. it’s not like you didn’t also tease him and fuck around with his temper.

for example, the very day before the incident at the lake, you had used your abilities as a daughter of hypnos to put him to sleep… for 19 hours, causing him to miss out on camp activities and lose hours of valuable training time.

you felt pure bliss watching him as he stepped out of the hermes cabin, confused and disoriented as hoards of campers instantly surrounded him.

“are you okay luke?”

“i heard you were in a coma!”

“we thought you were a goner,”

luke blocked out the concerned comments of his peers as soon as he caught you gazing over at him from the deck of the hypnos cabin.

with that ‘i got you good’ smirk plastered across your face, luke knew he had to get you back. getting to see your semi-exposed and cold, shuddering body in the process of doing so was only a bonus.

he felt a high from getting to see what he caused. what he did to you. it made him hungry for more. how else could he anger you? get you to show him more? how could you return the favour? would you? he didn’t know if you realised the effect you had on him- but he was going to do anything in his power for you to feel it too.

but those incidents were nothing compared to what was about to go down.

2 hours into capture the flag, and you had managed to fool and scare off enough members of the blue team, causing many individual members to go off track. those hours practising sword fighting with clarisse were definitely worth it.

you leaned against a nearby tree, closing your eyes for a moment as you fiddled with your sword. lost in thought, you heard something coming. more specifically, someone. you didn’t even have to open your eyes to know who it was.

“oh, hey castellan. isn’t it past your bedtime?” you asked, rubbing your eyes open as you lazily swung your sword back and forth.

luke scoffed, taking a step towards you. “i think i like you better when you’re drenched in lake water.” he smirked, looking into your eyes without breaking contact. he couldn’t look away. it wasn’t even because he wanted to intimidate you; he simply couldn’t stand to have you exit his field of vision. not right now, at least.

you look a step backwards, getting into position as you use your shield to protect yourself. “are you gonna try to maim me or what?”

luke took another step forward, mirroring your stance as he took the defensive. “and hurt your pretty little body? i’d rather die.”

you turned red, your mouth agape as you processed what he had said. “excuse me?” you spat, your voice breathy as your eyes widened.

“you heard me,” he smiled innocently, deceiving you before beginning to attack. you blocked every move, pacing around the area as you swung your sword at him. “you’re such a fucking prick!” you grumbled, trying to catch your breath as you struggled to mark him with your blade.

“language, princess.” he scolded, still smiling at you as he continued his attempts at disarming you.

that was the moment when you realised something.

you can play dirty.

not with your sleep-themed party tricks or your weak little fists, but with the power of unpredictability. the element of surprise.

you let him get closer to you, pretending to settle down before him. luke chuckled at the sight of your loosened grip on your shield and increasingly tired eyes, noticing the way your footsteps shuffled backwards and forwards.

“someone’s getting tired-“ his cocky sentiment was quickly cut off by the feeling of your hands tightly gripping his arm- his shock only furthering as your teeth dug into the soft skin on his wrist.

he instantly dropped his shield, his sword still held firmly in his other hand. you quickly released him from your bite, taking a step forwards as you put your weight on his shield. “ow- what the fuck?!” he stammered, looking up at you with red cheeks and a bleeding hand.

you were stumped. you hadn’t thought further than getting rid of his shield. “i didn’t mean to break skin to be honest. sorry.” you shrugged, picking up his shield and throwing it far away while he was still frozen in shock.

luke continued looking at you, silent as he became overwhelmed by the feeling of a ruthless war finally coming to an end within his mind.

obviously, he found you attractive. you were a pretty girl. sure, a lot of girls at camp half-blood were pretty. but for some odd reason, he thought you were much prettier. the type of pretty girl that deserved to be called cute nicknames every day and covered in gentle kisses every night. he wanted to kiss you softly, hold you tightly, say you looked gorgeous, make you tacky beaded bracelets that were the same colour as your eyes. he wanted to make you feel loved.

but he also thought you were a brat. always teasing him and only him. driving him insane with targeted comments and insults. purposefully making him look stupid in front of the younger campers and even patronising him for it. luke wanted to put you in your place. he wanted nothing more than to push you onto his bed in the dead of night, marking you as his. he yearned to hear your strained voice whimpering his name as he towered over you. he wanted to exchange knowing glances and pretend nothing had changed, despite the images of your hands gripping his bedsheets as you let out stifled moans etched into his mind.

luke often wondered how the two could overlap. how the fuck could these two perceptions of this one girl coexist? but luke didn’t wonder how it was possible to think about anymore, he didn’t care about that. now, he wondered if it was possible to act on both of his separate desires for her. he wondered if she even wanted him as much as he wanted her- if she wanted him at all.

“hey, i said i was sorry for making you bleed!” you called out, snapping him out of it.

“stop sulking! what, do you want me to kiss it better or something?”

luke blinked for the first time in what felt like centuries, shrugging as he let a sly smile creepy onto his face. “oh, im not sulking.” he insisted as he stepped closer towards the shorter girl.

he extended his wrist out towards you, a deep and bleeding bite mark engraved into the skin. “you gonna kiss it better, or…?”

you turned red, shaking your head. “i was just joking, castellan.” you murmured coldly, trying to avoid his gaze.

he kept his hand extended towards you, temping you to just take it and kiss it to get him to leave. “fucking loser…” you grumbled, holding his hand in yours as you gave his wrist a soft kiss.

“there, better?” you scoffed before luke’s hands began to tightly grip your wrist, spinning you gently onto your back as he pushed you to the ground, hovering over you. luckily, you still had your sword in your hand. you quickly moved it in front of you, holding the blade close to his neck.

“be careful, princess” he cooed, his sword digging into the dirt ground, standing upright in is position as the skin of your right thigh pressed against the blade. his hands gripped your shoulder and waist, keeping you bound to the floor as you began to squirm under his grip. “ugh, are you kidding me?!” you huffed, your face red from the feeling of intimacy between the two of you arising.

luke was basking in it, relishing the moment as he became almost addicted to the feeling of your skin against his. he let out a hitched breath, his eyes trailing down her frame as he finally realised just how close they were. the vulnerable yet stubborn look in her eyes set off a switch in him. you watched him curiously as he suddenly became a flustered mess, quickly scrambling off of you and standing up.

you lifted your back off the ground, using your hands to rid yourself of the dirt that had accumulated on your shirt.

“are you gonna explain whatever the fuck just happened, luke?” you asked, calling out to him from your spot on the ground.

he rolled his eyes, turning around to face you. “shit, y/n- are you fucking stupid?” he questioned, his voice reeking of irritation and frustration. you furrowed your brows, standing up as you approached him, sword and shield in hand. “oh, alright. forgive me for wondering why the dickhead who threw me into a lake a few days ago was pinning me to the ground in the middle of capture the flag for no reason?” i explained, seething as i pushed him back by the shoulders.

“what the fuck is your problem?” you asked again, letting yourself back him up against a nearby tree.

the game didn’t matter to you anymore. what mattered was getting to the bottom of why this prick was fucking around with you. sure, you liked how it felt being pushed against the ground. you liked the feeling of his blade pressing against your thigh. but you liked the boy more than his actions. you hated yourself for it, of course. this was the dude who’s been teasing you about and pushing you around for 3 summers straight- so why the fuck did you think he was the fittest guy you had ever laid your eyes on?

why did you want him to run his hands through your hair? suck on your neck till it went purple? why on earth did you spend countless nights dreaming about him holding you close as he slept next to you?

you were the eldest hypnos daughter at camp half-blood. you could’ve changed your dream easily; came up with literally any other fantasy at the drop of a hat- but you didn’t. you let it continue. because as much as you hated to admit it, you liked him. you wanted him bad. every last inch of him.

luke let your words echo through his mind for a bit. ‘what is my problem?’ he thought, his expression blank as he stared at you. “i don’t know, y/n! maybe my problem is you?” he said, his voice strained, yet still snarky and somewhat dramatic.

you rolled your eyes again, stepping forward. you kept your hands on his shoulders, pressing him further against the tree he was pinned against. “i’m your problem?!” you asked angrily, holding your sword against his neck once more.

“yes! you make me feel fucking weak.” luke confessed, gripping your wrist tightly as he pushed your hand away in order to create some space between his neck and the sword. “i can’t control myself around you.” he exclaimed, pushing his hand against yours as you retracted the blade from his neck.

“you bring out the worst in me, and i hate you for that.” you arched your brows, leaning forward. “that sounds like a you problem.” you quipped, defeatedly pushing the top of the blade of your sword into the ground as you let your newly free hand grip his chin- forcing him to look down at you.

luke’s hand wandered over to your face, his thumb softly grazing your bottom lip as you tilted his chin downwards, letting him look you in the eyes.

“don’t act like you don’t get exactly what i mean, princess.” he cooed, his voice low as his fingers traced over your lips and cheekbones, his other hand gently caressing your jawline as his fingertips wrapped around your neck.

you grumbled, standing on your toes to reach his height. “you’re a prick.” you scoffed, your eyes fluttering closed as you eagerly kissed him on the lips, his cheeks turning red as he mirrored your movements. he let his hands run through you hair, his other hand resting on your waist as he turned you around- pushing you against the tree now.

his hands ravenously scattered across your delicate frame, trying to feel every curve and dent on your face, back and waist. you pressed your body against his as his hands travelled across your form, closing any and all distance between the two.

after a few straight minutes of violently making out, you pulled away for air, staring into his eyes as your lower lip trembled in shock. you both tried to steady your breathing, lost in each other's eyes as your heartbeats returned back to normal.

“i’ll kiss you again if you turn around and let us win.” you said quickly, the offer seemingly the first thing you could think to say.

luke stayed quiet for a moment, before bursting out into hesitant laughter. “i mean, that’s a pretty good offer…” he said softly, letting his fingers trace your facial features as he studied the colour of your eyes.

“sure.” he said, a little smile on his face as you both leaned in again, the kiss a lot more passionate this time around. you held a clump of his hair in your hand, lightly pulling on on it as luke’s fingers jumped between gripping your neck and shoulders- the other hand running up and down your waist and hips.

you felt his knee hit the bark of the tree, slightly bent as it lightly pressed against the inside of your thigh. that’s when your hands began to grip the back of his shirt, your lips gliding down to the side of his neck. quiet moans escaped luke’s lips, only encouraging you to keep going. he moved his hand downwards, tracing circles into your hips as he moved his other arm hand upwards, cupping the space on the side of your breast with his thumb, lightly rubbing your ribcage.

the moment was only increasing in intensity- before luke was cut off my the sounds of someone calling his name. he quickly pulled away, leaving a gentle kiss on your lips before stepping back.

“right, time to hold up my end of the deal.” he chirped up, leaving one more needy kiss on your forehead.

“oh, by the way-“ he paused, before quickly pulling the bracelet you made the week before out of his pocket. “did you want this back, princess? or can i have it?” he asked cheerfully, his voice low as he looked over you.

“keep it.” you said hastily, your cheeks a vibrant shade of red. luke nodded, giving you one final kiss on the lips as he put the bracelet on the same wrist you had bitten earlier. he gave you a subtle wink and a smile, before jogging away- leaving you frozen in place.

you could hear him talking to his friend from a distance, noting on how he lied to effortlessly- saving your arse over a few kisses.

needless to say, the red team won capture the flag. but luke couldn’t bring himself to care about losing. how could he care about anything other than y/n and her hands and her smile and her eyes? her witty comments and remarks? the way she tilted her head up to look up at him? the way his face fits perfectly in her palm? how could he care about anything else ever again?

#luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan x you #percy jackson #pjs #pjo tv show #pjo series #pjo x reader #luke castellan smut #luke castellan enemies to lovers #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson tv show #pjo #luke castellan fic

6K notes · View notes

awarmbowlofhomemadesoup · 1 year ago

Text

What I love about Dungeon Meshi is that it writes platonic relationships with the same weight romantic stories would normally be written.

The Character that Got Their Heart Broken Too Many Times

Humanity broke Laois' heart. This is taken advantage later on by the Wingled Lion, but I digress.

Laois got bullied in all-boys school to the point that he ran away to become a soldier. Heartbreak #1.

He got harrassed in the training camp to the point that he became a deserter. Heartbreak #2.

The combination of these events were so bad, his lack of basic self-care can be a sign of a depressive state. If Falin hadn't joined him, who knows what would've happened to him.

Laois was so happy when he became friends with Shuro and felt so betrayed when Toshiro said he couldn't stand him. Not exactly a heartbreak #3 but it hurt all the same. They got past it but Laois remembers.

And when Kabru, for once in his life, stopped playing poker and laid down his cards, Laois wasn't going to let his heart be hurt for the fourth time.

The biggest thing that stands out to me in this manner is how Kabru's blurted confession of wanting to be friends with Laois was treated as much as a big revelation as a romantic one. Because the weight of that confession is Kabru's character development.

The Character Whose Sincerity Doesn't Come Easy for Him

This guy grew up being infantilized and not taken seriously by the elves for being a short-lived race. So, he honed diplomacy as sharp as his assassin's blade.

He knows the right things to say and when to say them, making him well-liked by everyone (much to his team's chagrin over their loved ones). And yet his personal cause puts a distance between him and his trusted teammates (including his childhood friend).

To say his true feelings and thoughts would end up with long-lived races dismissing him for being unwise and irrational.

So he keeps his cards to himself and works with subtlety throughout the manga, until things got worse, and he couldn't make Laois stay.

And he was left with nothing but to be sincere.

Right from the start, he said he wanted the Touden siblings to be unmasked. But in the end, he unmasked himself, much to his horror.

Addition edit: Kabru has been keeping his cards close to himself for so long, I don't think he realized what he really feels until he blurted it out. He chased after Laois throughout the dungeon because Laois might defeat the mad sorcerer. But for a guy who wants to understand everyone, he never understands what he feels about Laois and what that feeling means until his brain catches up with his mouth.

After decking Laois for not believing him, Kabru elaborated in his confession. He has developed a platonic crush (plush for short) or desire to be friends with Laois because:

1. Kabru wants to understand how Laois could love the very thing Kabru hates. Hate is just another face of fear. We fear what we don't understand. To understand Laois is to understand monsters. I think Kabru finds it admirable that Laois could admire monsters when everyone just view them as a threat.

2. He wants Laois to care about the same thing he does, which is saving humanity. Laois and co. are willing to side with the demon to protect Marcille from the Canaries. By asking to be Laois friend, Kabru becomes Laois' link to humanity that whatever they would do from there with the demon, please don't forget how it might affect other people outside his friends. And by gods, this is important to Kabru's development because he has never asked for help for his cause nor asked anyone to care because he's too used to the self-serving nature of all races. And yet, he chose to believe in Laois. Because if Laois could go that for his sister and elven friend, what more if he could do the same for what Kabru cares the most?

However, it was only in the end that they were able to talk after things had settled down. And they are so different and so alike at the same time.

Source

In this scene, there are two differing thoughts:

Laois, who experienced social rejection growing up: Do you still mean it?

Kabru, who had to deal with those of higher power: Are you testing me?

But they're still thinking the same thing: Is this real?

Like, all of their motivations have the weight often molded into romantic plots in any other story. A character who got their heart broken too many times and another character whose honesty does not come easy for them. But it's not a romantic story, but a start of a beautiful friendship.

There are more examples out there, but this is what came to my mind. Feel free to add more.

#dungeon meshi #labru #i guess #kabru #laois touden #dungeon meshi spoilers

3K notes · View notes

em1i2a3 · 15 days ago

Text

Some Kind Of Love

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Pregnant!Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You and Bob find out that you’re expecting, and things get extremely complicated when you realize that the good news comes with its own set of interesting side effects.

Warnings: Fluff, Discussions surrounding pregnancy and pregnancy symptoms, Exploration of fear surrounding pregnancy, Scenes involving medical checkups, There are some supernatural elements to this

Author’s Note: This was a request by a cool ass anon, and it’s a two parter! I really enjoyed writing this first part and exploring the ideas that were brought up in the request itself, I really took the idea and literally dashed off with it screaming. Absolutely loved it! Thank you so much for the neat request and I hope I did it justice <3 (so far at least lol)

Word Count: 6,198

Four little pink plus signs greeted you that fateful morning.

They all sat in a neat, trembling row across the marble lip of the bathroom sink–each with a soft pink plastic cap, each window displaying the same quiet verdict in unwavering lines. The morning light slanted through the frosted glass window, shining down on them like a hand reaching out to caress it, as if even the sun understood the gravity of what was resting there.

You were only supposed to take one.

One test. One answer. One more gentle disappointment that you would tuck away like the others–stacked quietly in your memory alongside months of calendar calculations and hopeful silences. But the moment the positive result came up–faint but immediate–you froze in your spot. You weren’t relieved, or joyful, you were in pure disbelief.

Then, almost without thinking, your body moved quickly–muscle memory taking over your actions completely. You grabbed another box from the cabinet under the sink, ripping it open with shaking hands before opening up the plastic that the test was surrounded in. Your heart was hammering inside your ribs like it was trying to escape from the confines of your body–or like it was trying to wake you up from this dream. When the same result came back, you took a third test, doing the exact same thing.

By the fourth test, your hands were shaking with pure relief and excitement. You couldn’t stop staring at the results, as if it might somehow change if you closed your eyes for too long.

You needed to be sure that this was real.

Because after eleven long months of trying, hoping, and hurting together–you didn’t know how to trust good news anymore.

You and Bob had started the journey together with optimism. The kind that sits high in your chest and makes you whisper things like ‘this could be the month’ after every kiss, and every breathless evening tangled together in bed, sweaty and laughing and full of quiet wanting. He had taken the liberty to mark the dates in a small notebook, it was chalked full of ovulation windows, fertility reminders, and soft little smiley faces in the margins beside your initials.

It had been romantic, even magical at first.

Until it wasn’t.

By the seventh month, the intimacy had begun to feel clinical, timed, and mechanical. The warmth that once bloomed between your bodies–those breathless nights laced with quiet laughter and whispered I-love-you’s–began to thin under the weight of expectation. Sex became a checkbox, with each wave of hope that came crashing down with another let down. You’d lie tangled in the sheets afterward in a haze of silence, with Bob’s thumb stroking the back of your hand absentmindedly, while neither of you said what hung between you.

The tension settled into your bone like a second skin. You started visiting the med bay together after returning from missions, but it wasn’t just for bruises or being patched up–it was for answers. The techs ran every test they could think of. Hormone panels, sperm counts, uterine scans…Everything under the sun. You sat side-by-side on sterile white exam tables with your hands clasped tightly together while polite professionals told you the same thing, over and over again:

”Everything looks normal.”

But normal didn’t help, because no matter how normal everything looked, nothing was happening.

And that was the part that began to hurt the most.

Bob tried to hide it, but you saw the guilt spreading inside him like a quiet rot.

One night, after a particularly long debrief, you came into the bedroom to find him sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark. The lamp on his side was still on, casting soft golden light across the sheets, but he wasn’t moving. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands twisted into his thick light brown hair, like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

You stepped toward him, wordlessly, and wrapped your arms gently around his shoulders. At first, he didn’t move. He just let out a quiet, shaking breath–one that you felt creep down your spine. Then his hands found you, pulling you closer to him, arms curling tight around your waist like he needed you as close as possible. His head dropped forward until his ear was resting against your stomach, and you slid your fingers into his ruffled locks of hair, smoothing them down as you always did when he was unraveling.

It took him a long time to speak, and when he did, it was barely a hushed breath.

”M-Maybe it’s me…” You froze in your spot, “Maybe it’s the…The Sentry s-serum. It wasn’t properly tested…I–I don’t even know what it did to my body. To my cells…” His voice cracked, low and raw and ashamed, “Maybe i-it broke something inside me…Maybe it’s my fault.” Your heart shattered. You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your free hand coming up to the curve of his jaw to tilt his head up. You brushed your thumb across the soft skin beneath his eye–where tears began to well up in the corners–watching his lashes flutter at the touch. His face was flushed in the amber glow, lips parted like he was struggling to breath through the thoughts that plagued his mind.

”Don’t say that Bob…” You said gently. He swallowed hard, his lashes dampening.

”Everything came back fine for you. But for me…T-They don’t even have a panel that goes into d-depth enough. That’s probably w-why we don’t have answers.” You shook your head slowly, pressing your forehead to his.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not mine either. It’s just…” You paused, barely able to say it. “It’s just happening the way it’s happening. And I know that hurts. I know.” He curled his arms tighter around you, before burying his face into your soft stomach again. You could feel how hard he was holding himself back from breaking further. It was like being loved by someone standing at the edge of an earthquake, afraid to fall in too deep in case he took you with him.

Then some nights, Sentry would surface.

In the quiet moments between sleeping, and turning over to reposition yourself, when you were both too exhausted to pretend you weren’t hurting, his golden eyes would flicker and overtake the ocean expanse of Bob’s. He would lay behind you, with one arm slung protectively over your waist, palm pressed flat over your womb, like he could feel a future there, and he never stuttered or hesitated when he made his claims.

“I will make it happen, my love,” He whispered, voice like honey and heat curling against the shell of your ear, “Even if I must pull the stars from the sky and set the world ablaze to do it…You were made to bear my light…And I won’t stop believing that.” He kissed the back of your neck, his hand stroking along the softness of your stomach.

”I can already picture them…I can feel them in the ether…Yours and mine.” And for the briefest second–you believed him.

There were other nights like that. Quiet ones, where you woke to find Sentry’s arms curled around you like a shield, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering promises you didn’t know how to hold.

By the ninth month of trying, the emotional weight had started to wear thin. You’d stopped tracking your cycle. Stopped buying ovulation strips. You even started pulling away a little when Bob reached for you–not out of rejection, but exhaustion.

The joy was gone, and that magic and closeness ceased to exist.

One night, you lay on the couch together after dinner, half-draped over his chest, your fingers curled loosely in the hem of his shirt. You could hear his heartbeat in your ear–steady and strong–and it made you ache with love for him in ways you didn’t have words for.

So you finally said it.

“…Let’s stop trying.”

Bob went still beneath you. His arm around your shoulder froze mid-stroke, the fingertips that had been tracing idle patterns against your skin stilling in surprise.

“What?” he asked softly.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy but calm. “Let’s stop tracking it. Stop planning it. It’s making us miserable.”

He stared down at you, concerned. “But–what–if?”

You shook your head slowly.

“If it happens, it happens,” You whispered. “And if it doesn’t…Maybe we weren’t supposed to be parents.”

His face crumpled like you’d reached in and crushed something inside him.

But then he pulled you in tighter.

And replied, “O-Okay. I just…I don’t want you to think it’s your fault. Ever.”

“I don’t,” You lied softly. “Not anymore.”

You nestled against him and didn’t speak again. You didn’t have to. Because in that moment, the two of you silently agreed to step back, to take your hands off the wheel and let the universe drive–even if neither of you liked where it might go.

And now…Here you were two months later, with four positive pregnancy tests in front of you, beaming the news that you had been wanting to see since the beginning.

“Just one more…” You whispered to yourself, like it might bring even firmer proof that this was real, that you weren’t dreaming still. That the aching quiet of the last year had finally given way to something more.

But before you could tear open the packaging to one more test, you heard a gentle knock.

“Y/N…Is e-everything okay?” Bob’s voice asked, soft as a breath through the wood. You froze, your fingers tightening around the unopened test. Your heart thudded, and you glanced back down at the row of pink plus signs. Your throat tightened as you stepped toward the door, swallowing against the wave of emotion building behind your sternum. You cracked it open just a sliver, and the moment you did, your eyes found him.

He was already staring at you.

Messy hair from restless sleep, light brown strands sticking out like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His grey sweatpants clung to his hips from where he’d thrown them back on half-asleep, and his chest was bare–warm and flushed from the heat of the sheets, freckled skin rising and falling with each nervous breath. His eyes scanned over your face, and you saw the way his brow pulled–worried, tender, and afraid.

”…Y/N…What’s w-wrong?” He asked gently. That was the moment you realized you were crying. Silent tears rolled down your cheeks without fanfare, without permission–carved straight from disbelief and joy and exhaustion. You lifted your hand quickly, wiping at your face with the back of your wrist like it might erase what he saw.

“C-Can I come in?” You gave a shaky little sniffle and nodded, stepping back just enough to open the door wider. He didn’t hesitate. The moment there was enough room, Bob stepped in and reached for you like he couldn’t stand a second more of distance. His hands came up to your face instantly, gentle but urgent, tilting your chin so he could see you properly in the light. His thumbs swept across your cheeks, brushing away the tears that continued to fall.

“Why are you c-crying?” he asked, searching your expression like he was bracing for heartbreak. “Did you…D-Did you get your period?”

You shook your head immediately, the denial spilling from your lips in a breathless rush. “No. No, I didn’t.”

His hands stilled on your face, and you felt him pause–completely, fully still like he was afraid to breathe.

“That’s…That’s why I took the test,” You whispered. “I’m three weeks late. And my body’s been…” You faltered, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to explain. “It’s like I’ve been feeling these little…Pins and needles? All over. Especially in my stomach. I didn’t really think much of it until–until you said it.”

Bob blinked. “S-Said what?”

Your voice was nearly a whisper.

“That maybe it was happening.”

You saw the way his expression shifted then. How that sentence came back to him like a ghost. He had said it so gently, with that hesitant hope he always laced through his worry, like he didn’t want to jinx anything but couldn’t stop believing in you anyway. He had stood beside you in the kitchen just last week, watching you rub your stomach absentmindedly–trying to ease the discomfort you were feeling–and said it so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

Now, with his hands still holding your face and your eyes glistening beneath the bathroom light, spilling tears, he looked terrified.

“I–I didn’t mean to get your hopes up,” He said quickly, stammering over the words. “I–I just…I thought maybe, maybe it was finally–God, Y/N, if I made you think–” You shook your head again, cutting off his spiral before it could build into something heavier.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You were right.”

His eyes widened slightly, lips parting as if the air had suddenly gotten too thin.

”W-What?” Your hands found his wrists gently, fingers curling around them as you guided him across the bathroom, his socked feet shuffling quietly across the tile behind you. The sunlight had shifted again, now casting a warm halo over the sink–and over the four test sticks aligned like sacred relics, their soft pink caps and double lines shining beneath the golden hue.

Bob followed your movement, as you stopped and tilted your head toward them, wordlessly telling him to see for himself.

He looked down.

And everything about him seemed to slow.

He hunched forward slightly, blinking hard like he didn’t trust his eyes, his hands still hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them. His brows furrowed, mouth falling open slightly as he looked closer–at each plus sign, one after the other, as if he needed to study every single one before the truth could bloom fully in his chest.

“…Holy…” His voice cracked. “Holy shit.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“Y-You’re pregnant?”

You let out the softest breath, almost a laugh but caught halfway by tears, and nodded.

“I’m pregnant,” You whispered, your voice breaking mid-syllable.

And just like that, he crumpled into you.

He let out a laugh–a huff of disbelief, breathless and wild–and then wrapped you in his arms so tightly you felt like the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His face buried itself into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears as his arms closed around your back, curling in like he wanted to disappear into the moment and stay there forever.

You held him just as tightly, your fingers sliding through the soft mess of his hair, your chin resting on his shoulder.

He breathed against your skin.

“You’re pregnant…You’re really… Oh my God.”

You nodded into his shoulder, laughing gently through the tears. “We’re gonna have a baby, Bob.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, his eyes glassy, lips parted like he still couldn’t catch his breath. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips—soft, slow, and full of wonder. The kind of kiss people write about. The kind that tastes like the end of grief and the beginning of something holy.

When he pulled back, he was smiling.

Then he laughed–really laughed–and looked down again at the row of tests before glancing back up at you with wide, teary eyes.

“W-Who takes four pregnancy tests,” He said, breathless with awe and amusement, “When the first two should be perfect confirmation that it’s happening?”

You let out a small laugh and swatted playfully at his chest. “I was in shock!”

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, then pressed it to his cheek like he couldn’t bear to let go of you.

“I’m only joking…I-I probably would’ve done the same…” Bob’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, soft and breathless, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep and warm. He leaned forward again, unable to resist the gravitational pull of your joy, your eyes, your mouth–and kissed your cheek. Then your nose. Then another to your brow.

And another.

You giggled, trying to wriggle away from the onslaught, but he held you fast with both arms, kissing across your face like he was tracing the constellation of his entire future.

He pulled back just an inch, golden warmth shining through the tears in his eyes. “S-Sentry is g-going to flip his lid.” You snorted, forehead resting lightly against his, your smile tugging at the corners of your lips like it had been waiting to return for months.

“I’m glad I got to have this moment with you first,” You whispered, voice softer now. “I feel like…Now that this is really happening, he’s going to be even more protective of me.” Bob brough his hand up to his chest, eyes wide in playful mock offence.

”A-And I’m not as protective as h-him? Is that what y-you’re saying?” You gave him a teasing smile, poking your fingers against the muscles that lined his stomach, leaning your weight towards him.

”You’re just the right amount of protective,” You said sweetly, “But…Unlike you, he would destroy the entire planet if something were to happen to me…So…” The corner of Bob’s mouth twitched up into that crooked little grin you loved.

”T-This is true…” He murmured, nose brushing yours. “Won’t fault you for w-wanting him to be a bit calmer…M-Maybe I can talk to him about that.”

You raised your brows. “You think he’ll listen?”

His arms slid tighter around your waist. “He listens to you m-more than he listens to m-me.” His voice was quieter now, like the truth of it was something he didn’t quite know how to say louder. “A-Always has.”

Your eyes flickered over his face, studying the curve of his mouth, the warm flush in his cheeks, the awe still settled in the crinkle of his brow like he hadn’t fully come down from the miracle of it all.

“Are you flipping your lid too?” You asked.

Bob let out a low laugh and leaned into you again, burying his face against your neck, his voice muffled but full of that same breathless wonder. “I-I already did, sweetheart,” he said, kissing the hollow of your throat. “L-Lid’s long gone.” You laughed, tears slipping freely again, and you reached for him–both arms looping around his neck as you pulled him into a real embrace. No more shock. No more waiting. Just you and him, wrapped in the truth you both thought you might never hold.

He squeezed you so tight you could feel his heartbeat pressed against your chest.

“We’re gonna be okay,” He whispered, almost to himself.

You nodded, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” You breathed. “We really are.”

———————

About five and a half months later the couch had practically grown to match the shape of your body. It groaned beneath you like an old friend as you shifted, the fabric warm from hours of lingering and the soft cream blanket wrapped around your legs knotted somewhere at your knees. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ceiling vent and the occasional scrape of Bob’s pen scratching against a mission log from down the hall. Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains in lazy streaks, painting everything in muted golds, the kind of light that made the world feel soft-edged and far away.

Your eyelids were heavy. Not just from the long day–but from everything. The weight of your limbs, the steady ache in your lower back, the constant fluttering exhaustion that had been clinging to your bones like static for weeks now. The med bay techs said it was normal. “Just your body working overtime,” They’d chirped. “Perfectly healthy. Nothing to worry about.”

Still, it didn’t feel normal. It felt cosmic. Like something else was siphoning your energy on purpose.

Your hand slid across your belly, fingers tracing the curve that had blossomed so quickly over the past two months. The baby had started kicking last week–gentle taps at first, like your stomach was tapping back whenever you pressed your hand there. But now, the little one responded to everything. A shift in temperature. Bob’s voice. And most of all, cravings. The second one popped into your mind, you immediately felt the odd sensations of taps against your stomach, like the baby was telling you to get up and get it–and right now was one of those times.

You let your head fall back against the cushion, palm warm on the swell of your bump, rubbing gently.

“…Just give me five more minutes, kiddo,” You whispered, voice hoarse and affectionate. “Mommy just needs to rest a bit longer…”

As your eyes slipped shut, the room dimmed–but not from your eyelids.

You cracked one eye open again just in time to see the lamp beside the couch begin to flicker. Not a casual bulb hiccup. A slow, pulsing flicker. Like something breathing. Or responding. Your brows pinched faintly, heart skipping a beat.

”Sentry,” You called out, eyes locking in on the lamp, “Can you stop please?” There was no response–only another pulse of light. Then another. Then the faintest hum, low and glassy, vibrating somewhere behind your ears like a tuning fork deep in your skull.

Footsteps padded out from the hallway, and Bob appeared in the common room, damp hair curling slightly from the heat of the shower he had taken about two hours ago before he started working on the mission report, with a towel slung around his neck to keep his hair from dripping onto his shirt.

“H-Huh?” He questioned, surprised at the sight of you sitting upright on the couch. You turned your head slowly toward him and motions toward the flickering lamp.

”Stop flickering the light.” Bob glanced over to where you were gesturing, then brought his gaze back to yours.

”D-Do you see Sentry h-here right now?” He joked, pointing at his eyes, which were shimmering their normal deep blue. Your brows furrowed, your fingers still splayed protectively over the gentle curve of your belly as the lamp pulsed again–once, twice, slow and drawn out, like the rhythm of a second heartbeat.

“Then…What’s happening–” You began, but you didn’t get to finish the thought. Because just as the question began to leave your lips, a soft, undeniable movement rolled beneath your palm. A shift. A stretch. A little thump against your palm.

The light flickered again.

Your lips parted, eyes widening just a little as your heart stuttered in your chest. You looked down, then back at the lamp. And that’s when your pulse spiked with something other than fatigue.

“…Bob?” You said slowly, not taking your eyes off the softly pulsing bulb. He stepped toward you, towel now loose around his neck, one brow arched slightly in concern.

“Y-Yeah?”

You swallowed and turned toward him fully.

“Can you…Go grab me some chocolate ice cream?” You asked. “And crush up some potato chips onto it?”

He blinked. “R-Right now?”

You nodded, voice even and quiet, eyes drifting back to the lamp again. “Yeah. I need to try something.”

Bob didn’t question you further–just gave a soft little hum of acknowledgement, a small smile, and padded into the kitchen, leaving you with the low, steady flicker of the lamp and the strange thumping in your belly that had synced to its rhythm like a song only the two of you could hear.

The hum in your ears didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened the longer you sat still.

He returned quickly, careful hands cradling the bowl like it was precious cargo. The clink of the spoon against ceramic echoed through the quiet room.

“Crushed the chips in nice and good,” He said softly, still clearly trying to read your face. “L-Like you like it.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed together in something between gratitude and concentration as you took the bowl, your gaze never leaving the flickering lamp. You dipped the spoon into the ice cream, scooping up a messy, jagged mound where crushed chips poked out like salt-dusted glass. You brought it to your mouth and took a bite–cold, crunchy, sweet and savory all at once–and chewed slowly, watching.

Bob sat gently on the edge of the couch beside you, towel still draped across his shoulders, eyes shifting between your face and the lamp.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, fingers brushing your knee through the blanket.

You nodded again, slowly swallowing. Another bite. Another crunch.

Then the light stopped flickering.

Everything went still.

You paused mid-motion, the spoon still hovering near your mouth as you stared across the room.

No hum.

No pulse.

Just silence.

Your tongue flicked absently over your bottom lip, catching a bit of melted ice cream. Then you slowly dragged the back of the cold spoon across your mouth, down to your chin, and turned your head toward Bob.

“…I think we may need to go to the med bay.”

His whole body tensed. His hand stiffened against your knee. “W-Why?” he asked immediately, voice rising an octave. “Is everything okay? Are you n-not feeling good?”

Your eyes searched his, calm but certain. “I’m fine,” you said gently. “I just… I have to ask them something.”

Bob’s brow pinched, his free hand gripping the towel now like he was bracing for bad news. “O-Okay. What…What do you think it is?”

You hesitated. Your fingers brushed your stomach again–this time slower–as the tiniest tap fluttered beneath your skin. Then you looked at the lamp, still quiet and dim. The air around it no longer vibrated and it was no longer looking like it was flickering Morse code at you.

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“…I think the baby was doing that.”

Bob blinked. “The…The lights?”

You nodded slowly. “It stopped when I gave in and ate what I was craving. Right after I told them to wait.” He stared at you, eyes wide, and you could see the gears turning in his mind–sifting through possibilities, logic, science, the unknown. His lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. You could see the flicker of gold rising just faintly behind his pupils.

“S-So…Our kid…Might h-have Sentry’s abilities?” He said, stunned.

You looked down at your belly, brushing your fingertips gently over the fabric of your shirt.

“I think they already do.” You replied.

————————

The med bay was unusually quiet for midday.

The sterile hum of overhead lights buzzed faintly above, softened only by the muffled whir of machines in the background and the occasional tap of booted footsteps down the hall. You sat perched on the edge of one of the exam room chairs, an old grey hoodie stretched over your bump, the sleeves pushed up as you spooned another mouthful of half-melted ice cream and chips into your mouth.

It was more soup than sundae at this point–cool and salty-sweet–but you didn’t care. The moment it hit your tongue, the baby gave one tiny, satisfied kick. You exhaled, easing back slightly, your eyes drifting across the room to where Bob sat hunched on the edge of the medical table.

He was picking nervously at the bandage on the inside of his elbow–the cotton ball barely hanging on beneath the crinkled tape where the lab techs had drawn a fresh round of blood.They’d also asked for a sperm sample, just in case.

“I-I didn’t think it could p-pass on like that,” He murmured now, eyes still fixed on the loose edge of his bandage, his voice soft with guilt. “The Sentry stuff. I mean…” You sighed quietly, resting the bowl of ice cream on the counter beside you.

“We don’t even know for sure yet,” You said gently, licking a bit of salt from your thumb. “Let’s just wait for the results.”

Bob gave a slow nod but didn’t look up.

“I-I’m sorry,” He said quietly.

Your hand stilled, and you looked over at him. “Bob, I’m not mad at you.”

His head lifted slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I-It seems like you are.”

You groaned under your breath, pushing up from your seat. “I’m not.”

Crossing the room, you moved to stand between his legs, resting your hands on his knees first, then sliding them up to gently take his hands. He resisted for a second–unsure, sheepish–but let you guide them forward. You brought them to your stomach, pressing his large palms against the gentle curve of your bump. The baby shifted almost immediately, a subtle little roll beneath your skin like they were saying hello.

Bob’s lips immediately turned up into a smile, as his fingers twitched against the spot that had flinched beneath his touch just moments ago.

Then you reached up, fingers curling softly against his jaw as you tilted his head up

“I’m not mad, Bob,” You said again, quieter this time. “Look at me.”

His eyes finally met yours.

Soft and heavy-lidded, lined with something old and aching–guilt, maybe, or worry dressed in too many layers of silence. You could see the shimmer of doubt flickering behind the blue, the way he was already bracing for worst-case outcomes before anyone had said a word. The way he always did when it came to you.

“All I want to do,” You said gently, voice low and even, “is make sure I don’t have to be doing something extra to keep both of us happy and healthy, okay? That’s all this is.”

Your thumbs stroked along the curve of his cheek, slow and patient.

“This isn’t about blame. It’s not about anything other than making sure we’re safe. All three of us.”

Bob let out a short breath, his jaw shifting slightly beneath your touch. “Y-Yeah, but… what if this makes it harder for you?” He murmured, his voice cracking just a little. “W-What if this causes problems further d-down the line? If Sentry is u-unhinged with me sometimes…I-I can’t imagine what a baby could do…E-Especially when it’s relying on you…” You let out a quiet huff, somewhere between a breath and a laugh, and your hand slid up to the soft mess of his hair.

“Well, that’s exactly why we’re here, isn’t it?” you said, arching a brow playfully. “We update the techs, and they figure out a plan. That’s kind of their whole job.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but stopped when you leaned in a bit closer.

“Bob,” You whispered softly, your fingers tracing just beneath his eye, brushing over the faint circles that had deepened in the past weeks. “We’re a team. Me, you, Sentry…” Your lips tugged up slightly, “…Even the Void, when he’s behaving.” That earned a barely-there smile from him. But it was real. You felt it twitch beneath your palm.

“We’ve gotten through worse. We’re managing all of this together just fine,” You continued. “And we’ll manage this too. Whatever it ends up being…We’ll figure it out.”

He swallowed hard, but nodded–once, then again, a little more firmly this time.

“…Okay,” He said, the word soft but full of trust. “O-Okay.”

You leaned in and gave him a kiss.

It was gentle, slow, and unspoken–the kind that didn’t need to ask for anything. The kind that just reminded him he was still yours. Still enough. Still good.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, and his hands remained where they were, settled protectively over the curve of your belly like he was guarding something sacred.

The baby stirred again beneath his touch.

And this time, neither of you flinched.

Just sat there in the quiet, holding each other–wrapped in warmth and soft light and the simple truth of your bond, waiting together for whatever came next.

The quiet knock came like a break in static.

You and Bob both looked up, heads lifting at the same time as the door creaked open and the med tech stepped inside with a tablet pressed against their chest. Their expression was professional, but there was a distinct glimmer of curiosity behind their eyes–the kind of barely-restrained intrigue that only showed up when science started tipping toward the supernatural.

“Hey,” The tech greeted, voice gentle but brisk as they closed the door behind them. “Sorry for the wait. We wanted to run everything twice just to be sure.”

Bob straightened on the edge of the exam table. You could feel the shift in his body beside you–shoulders rising, grip instinctively tightening over your hand as if to brace for something he couldn’t stop.

You stayed still, your thumb tracing over the back of his knuckles as the tech swiped through the tablet, pulled up a screen, and angled it slightly toward the two of you.

“So, we compared the blood sample we pulled from you,” The tech said, gesturing toward you, “With the fetal cell-free DNA that circulates in maternal blood during pregnancy.”

Then they paused, looking directly at Bob.

“And we compared both directly with your sample and a read of your original Sentry serum signature on file.”

Your breath caught quietly. Bob’s leg bounced once, then stilled.

The tech continued, eyes flicking back to the screen. “There are definitive traces of the serum’s presence in the fetus. Not the exact structure, but markers–identifiers–that mirror your serum signature almost exactly, including some of the same regenerative protein indicators we’ve flagged in your biology before.”They glanced up at you now, more focused.

“Which likely means that yes, the serum has been passed on in some form. And based on the movement patterns and the report you gave earlier about the lamp responding to emotional states or cravings…” They paused, lips pressing into a tight but impressed line. “…Your baby may already be exhibiting early-stage sensory projection or electrokinetic response. We’ve seen something similar in third trimester post-enhanced cases–but this… This is a bit earlier than we’d expect.”

You blinked, slowly. “So they’re…Already developing powers?” you asked softly, though it didn’t really feel like a question anymore. Just a breath. A confirmation.

The tech gave a small nod. “Looks like it.”

You felt the lump begin to rise in your throat–slow, thick, humming beneath the surface.

“So…They’re only going to get stronger?” you asked, your voice hoarse and tight. The tech offered a small smile, like they were trying to be as reassuring as possible.

“Well, yes. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” They glanced down at the readout again. “As long as you keep satisfying your cravings and listening to your body, the fetus will likely stay balanced. Think of it like…Emotional regulation but you’re doing it from within the womb.” You choked out a laugh at that despite yourself, and Bob exhaled a tense breath beside you, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You just want to be able to keep them under control,” The tech went on. “Y’know what I mean? Stable inputs. Satisfied cravings. No high emotional spikes or power surges. As long as you do that, you and your baby should be completely fine.”

You and Bob both nodded.

His hand tightened slowly around yours again, anchoring you–his thumb curling along the side of your wrist, as if grounding himself through your pulse.

You looked up at him, then smiled faintly as you murmured, “Well, Sentry is going to be buzzing about this for the rest of the time I’m pregnant.”

Bob let out a soft, defeated groan and dropped his forehead briefly to your shoulder.

“P-Probably for the rest of our lives…” He muttered, half-laughing, half-dreading.

You felt his hand slide gently over the swell of your stomach again–warm and gentle–and you knew he was trying not to panic. Not to think too far ahead. But his touch lingered like a prayer all the same. The baby gave a little thump beneath his palm in response.

“Jesus,” He whispered under his breath, bringing his other hand to his temple, massaging it slowly, before adding, “He’s d-definitely buzzing already.”

You snorted and leaned your head against his, your smile widening just a little as the tech chuckled lightly and excused themselves, giving you space.

You didn’t say anything for a few moments after the door clicked shut.

Just breathed.

Together.

And let the truth settle around you like gravity–sacred, strange, and somehow just right.

902 notes · View notes

chrissssssmut · 3 months ago

Note

Can I request a sweeter lesserafim x inexperienced male reader smut story?

BURNING DESIRE (Smut)

Le Sserafim OT5 x Male Reader

AN: Hey y'all! Here's an OT5 smut for you guys! Have a great weekend! 💗

The energy of the concert still lingered in the air, a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion settling over the hotel suite. The five members of LE SSERAFIM had changed into comfortable clothes, their post-performance glow making them look even more ethereal than usual. The male reader, their close friend and the person who had always supported them behind the scenes, sat in the center of the plush couch, surrounded on all sides by the girls.

"That was insane," Kazuha sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "The crowd was so loud tonight. I think my ears are still ringing."

"Yeah, but did you see how hyped they got when Y/N showed up backstage?" Chaewon smirked, nudging him lightly. "I swear, some of our fans are more excited about him than us."

Y/N chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’s just because I’ve been around for so long. They probably see me as your lucky charm or something."

Sakura, sitting beside him, tilted her head playfully. "Maybe we do too."

The atmosphere was relaxed, but there was an undeniable weight to their gazes. Something unspoken lingered between them, thickening the air. Y/N had always felt a close bond with the members, but tonight, something was different. The way they were looking at him—soft, warm, almost too focused—sent a strange shiver down his spine.

"You’re blushing," Yunjin pointed out with a teasing grin, leaning in a little closer. "Are we making you nervous, Y/N?"

"N-no," he stammered, but the way his voice cracked at the end made them giggle.

Eunchae, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, rested her chin on her hand. "You know, we’ve always wondered something about you."

"Oh?" Y/N tried to sound casual, but his heart was already beating too fast.

Chaewon exchanged glances with the others before leaning in, lowering her voice. "You’ve never really talked about relationships. Like… have you ever been with someone?"

The question made his breath hitch. He shifted in his seat, suddenly hyper aware of how close they all were. "I mean… not really."

A beat of silence followed. Then, Sakura smiled gently. "That’s cute."

"Cute?" Y/N echoed, incredulous. "Isn’t that kind of… sad?"

"No," Kazuha reassured him, her voice soft. "It just means you haven’t been with the right person yet."

Yunjin’s fingers brushed lightly against his arm, sending a wave of warmth through him. "You know we adore you, right? You’ve always been there for us, taking care of us in ways we don’t always realize."

Eunchae nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! And you’re always so sweet to us."

Just then, Sakura stood up with a smirk and walked over to the minibar. "You know what? I think tonight calls for a little celebration." She pulled out a few bottles of liquor, making the others perk up in excitement.

"Ohhh, drinking with Y/N? This is gonna be fun!" Yunjin grinned, clapping her hands.

"Wait, wait, I don’t drink much—" Y/N started, but Chaewon was already handing him a glass, eyes twinkling.

"Don’t worry, we’ll go easy on you," she teased. "Just a little something to loosen up."

They started drinking, the warmth of the alcohol settling in, making the mood even more relaxed. Their laughter grew louder, their touches lingered just a little longer, and their words became bolder.

"Alright, confession time!" Kazuha announced, pointing at Y/N. "Tell us the truth—have you ever even kissed someone before?"

Y/N nearly choked on his drink. "W-what kind of question is that?!"

"Just answer!" Eunchae giggled, already leaning forward in anticipation.

He hesitated before mumbling, "...No."

The girls gasped in unison, their eyes widening in shock and amusement.

"No way," Yunjin whispered, inching closer. "That’s… adorable."

"I don’t know if adorable is the right word," Y/N muttered, flustered beyond belief.

Chaewon tilted her head. "So… does that mean you’ve never…?"

His face burned. "Never what?"

Sakura leaned in, her voice low and teasing. "Never been with anyone, in any way?"

He covered his face with his hands. "Oh my god, why are we talking about this?"

"Because we’re curious," Kazuha giggled. "And a little tipsy."

Eunchae beamed. "It just means we get to be your firsts!"

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. Y/N slowly lowered his hands, only to find five pairs of eyes looking at him with a mix of amusement, fondness, and something deeper.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" Chaewon asked softly, her fingers grazing his hand.

Y/N swallowed hard. His heart was racing, and yet… he wasn’t afraid. There was no pressure, no expectations—just warmth, affection, and the quiet promise of something beautiful.

"Do you trust us?" Sakura murmured.

He nodded. "Yeah. I do."

Kazuha smiled, her fingers intertwining with his. "Then let us take care of you tonight."

Y/N’s breath caught in his throat. His mind raced, but their presence, their warmth, anchored him in place. Every part of him told him that this moment was safe, that whatever happened tonight would be something beautiful.

Sakura moved in first, resting her head against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around him in a slow, comforting embrace. "We don’t want to rush you, Y/N," she whispered. "We just want you to know how much you mean to us."

"You’ve always been here for us, always putting us first," Chaewon added, her fingers tracing small patterns on his hand. "Let us be here for you now."

Yunjin sighed, leaning against the couch, eyes warm and affectionate. "You’re always thinking about other people. When’s the last time you let yourself feel special? Truly wanted?"

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came out. His chest felt tight, overwhelmed in the best way possible. It was one thing to admire them from afar, to support them as a friend—but this? This was something else entirely.

"We love you," Kazuha murmured, her fingers tightening around his. "All of us do."

Eunchae, still on the floor, beamed up at him. "We just want you to feel loved the way you deserve to be."

The warmth of their bodies surrounding him, the softness of their words, the way they were looking at him—it was intoxicating. Y/N had never felt like this before, never felt so completely enveloped in affection.

"Just relax, Y/N," Chaewon whispered.

"We’ll take care of everything," Yunjin added, her voice laced with affection.

"You don’t have to do anything… just let us love you," Kazuha finished, her voice barely above a breath.

One by one, they inched closer to you, their warmth sinking into your skin, the faint scent of perfume and liquor lingering in the air. A brush of fingers along your arm, a thigh pressing lightly against yours—each touch slow, deliberate, testing your reaction. The space around you seemed to shrink, their soft laughter wrapping around you like a haze, their voices dipping lower, sweeter. You could feel their gazes on you, playful, affectionate, filled with something deeper.

Yunjin was the first to close the distance, her face mere inches from yours, eyes gleaming with playful intent. She lingered there, watching you carefully, waiting for any sign of hesitation—any crack in your resolve. Then, without warning, she shifted to your side, her lips brushing against your earlobe in a featherlight kiss.

"Do we make you nervous, Y/N?" she whispered, her voice dripping with amusement.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry as your mind scrambled for words. "Uhm… uhmm… uhh…" Every attempt at a response crumbled before it could form, leaving you stammering helplessly.

Yunjin let out a low chuckle, her lips curving into a knowing smile. She bit down on her lower lip, tilting her head slightly as she studied your flustered expression. "I guess that’s a yes," she mused, her voice laced with amusement and something deeper—something teasing, almost predatory.

Before you could even think of a way to recover, you felt her hand settle on your thigh. Her fingers, warm and deliberate, began tracing slow, featherlight circles against the fabric of your pants. The heat of her touch seeped through, sending an unexpected shiver up your spine.

"You’re so cute when you get all shy like this," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper as she leaned in closer. "It makes me wanna tease you even more…"

A chorus of soft giggles surrounded you as the other girls watched, their gazes filled with warmth and mischief. You could feel the heat of their presence pressing in from all sides, their bodies inching just a little closer, their touches lingering just a little longer.

"Let Yunjin do her thing," Chaewon purred, her voice soft but filled with unmistakable intent.

"But don’t worry," Kazuha added, her fingers trailing along your arm. "We’re all gonna take care of you."

Sakura smiled, her eyes dark with something unreadable. "We just want you to know how much we love and appreciate you… for everything."

Eunchae beamed up at you, her voice sweet but filled with anticipation. "So just relax, Y/N. Let us show you."

The air felt heavier now, charged with something undeniable. Your heart pounded in your chest as the warmth of their touches, their voices, their closeness—all of it—began to overwhelm you.

A shiver ran down your spine as Yunjin’s soft lips ghosted over your skin, trailing slow, delicate kisses from your neck to your jaw. Each touch sent warmth coursing through your body, the tenderness behind them making your heart pound even harder. By the time her lips finally brushed against yours, you could feel just how deliberate every movement was—gentle yet intoxicating, as if she wanted to savor every second.

Her hand drifted lower, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your torso before reaching the waistband of your pants. She toyed with the fabric, her touch featherlight yet teasing, making your breath hitch..

A knowing smirk curled on Yunjin’s lips as her fingers toyed with the waistband of your pants, her touch unbearably light. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispered, voice dripping with seduction, "Mmm… look at you. So eager, so sensitive. Are you this excited just for me, baby?"

I swallowed hard, my breath shaky as I felt the heat pooling in my body. “Y-Yunjin… what are you doing to me?” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with both nervousness and anticipation.

Yunjin pressed a finger against my lips, her eyes dark with amusement. "Shhh, no talking," she whispered, her voice dripping with sultry command. Her hand traced a slow, deliberate path downward, slipping beneath the waistband of my boxers. A sharp inhale left my lips as her fingers wrapped around my length, featherlight and teasing. She stroked me slowly, her touch agonizingly gentle, as if savoring the feeling. She captured my mouth in another kiss—this time even deeper.

She stroked me slowly—gentle enough to show they wanted to take care of me, yet firm enough to remind me that this was real. That this was happening. Every stroke sent a shiver down my spine, a moan slipping past my lips no matter how hard I tried to hold it back. The other girls watched intently, their eyes dark with desire, amusement flickering in their gazes as they took in the sight of me unraveling.

I swallowed hard, my voice shaky. “T-This feels… so—ah…“ I barely managed to get the words out before another moan escaped, my head tilting back as pleasure clouded my senses.

Yunjin chuckled, her breath warm against my ear. “You’re doing so well… just let yourself feel it, okay?”

Chaewon glanced up at me, her lips curling into a soft smile before letting her tongue trace along my length. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered, Y/N,” she murmured between slow, lingering licks.

Yunjin chuckled beside me, her grip steady as she continued stroking me with that same intoxicating tenderness. “We want you to feel good,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “Just let us take care of you Y/N, okay?”

I let out a shaky breath, my body already giving in to their touch. “I… I don’t even know what to say…” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Chaewon giggled, her fingers tracing small patterns along my thighs. “Then don’t say anything,” she cooed. “Be a good boy, Y/N.”

As Yunjin’s hand continued its slow, deliberate strokes—slick with Chaewon’s warmth—the other girls began peeling away their clothes, their eyes filled with nothing but love and adoration. My head felt light, completely lost in the overwhelming rush of sensations, my body surrendering to the warmth of their touches and whispers.

Sakura let out a soft giggle as she slipped her top off, her voice gentle and soothing. “You’re doing so well for us, baby… such a good boy.”

Kazuha ran a hand through her silky hair, eyes filled with admiration. “We’re so proud of you, Y/N. Just let go, okay? Let us take care of you.”

Eunchae playfully traced a finger down my chest, her smile sweet and reassuring. “You don’t have to think about anything, just feel us. You deserve all of this.”

Yunjin leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear as she tightened her grip just enough to make me whimper. “That’s right, baby… just be good for us. We’ve been waiting so long to love you like this.”

The intoxicating scent of liquor and lingering warmth of intimacy filled the room, wrapping around us like a haze. Every touch, every whispered praise, every lingering kiss was cherished by the girls—each of them taking their time, savoring the moment as they guided me through my first experience with nothing but love and devotion in their eyes.

As Yunjin’s strokes slowed to a stop, she gave my length one last squeeze before pulling away with a teasing smirk. Kazuha, who had been watching intently, gently moved Chaewon aside, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face as she spoke.

“You had your fun, unnie,” Kazuha murmured with a soft giggle. “But I think it’s time we show him just how much we’ve always wanted this… how much we’ve always wanted him.”

She turned her gaze to me, eyes filled with warmth and something deeper—something longing. She ran her fingers along my chest, tracing slow, delicate patterns as she leaned in, her lips barely ghosting over mine.

“You’ve been so good for us, Y/N,” Kazuha whispered, her voice dripping with sweetness. “Now… let me show you how it feels to be inside me—to finally be where you belong.”

The other girls watched closely, their eyes dark with affection and desire.

“Mm, he looks so cute when he’s flustered,” Sakura cooed, her voice like silk. “Don’t be nervous, baby.”

Yunjin let out a soft hum, tilting her head. “Just relax, love… let Kazuha show you how much we love you.”

Kazuha’s fingers trailed lower, her touch featherlight as she kissed me again—slow and deep, as if she wanted me to feel every ounce of her adoration.

As Kazuha shifted, she hooked her fingers around the lace of her panties, moving them to the side with a teasing slowness. Her eyes never left mine—soft yet filled with unspoken longing.

She positioned herself carefully, her breath hitching as she slowly sank down onto my cock. A shiver ran through both of us as I felt her warmth completely envelop me, drawing a deep moan from my lips.

Kazuha let out a soft gasp, her hands pressing against my chest for balance. “Oh… Y/N,” she whispered, her voice laced with both pleasure and affection. “You feel… so perfect inside me.”

The other girls watched with a mixture of adoration and excitement.

"That’s it, baby," Sakura purred, her fingers lightly tracing my jaw. "Let yourself feel everything… let her take care of you."

"You’re doing so well," Eunchae added sweetly, her eyes shining. "Such a good boy for us."

Yunjin smirked, her lips brushing against my ear. "Feels good, doesn’t it?" she murmured. "She’s been dreaming about this moment just as much as you have… we all have."

Kazuha let out a shaky breath as she started to move, her hands gripping my shoulders for support. “Just let go, Y/N,” she whispered, her lips grazing mine. “Let us love you the way you deserve.”

Kazuha’s movements were slow and deliberate at first, each roll of her hips filled with tenderness, as if she wanted me to feel every inch of her warmth. Her flexibility became evident with the way she moved—graceful, controlled, yet so intoxicatingly sensual.

As her pace quickened slightly, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was just enough to make me feel everything—every soft, wet, pulsing sensation inside her. My breath hitched, my hands instinctively finding her waist, gripping her gently as she took me deeper into her heat.

Kazuha let out a soft, breathy moan, her fingers tightening against my chest. “Mmm… Y/N… you fit so perfectly,” she whispered, her voice dripping with affection.

Chaewon brushed a hand through Kazuha’s hair, tucking loose strands behind her ear. “Take your time, Zuha,” she cooed. “Make him feel just how much we adore him.”

“You’re so good for us, baby,” Yunjin murmured, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “Just relax… let her take care of you.”

Kazuha met my gaze, her lips curving into a sweet, breathless smile. “You like it, don’t you?” she asked, her voice filled with warmth. “Being loved by all of us like this?”

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers gently gripping Kazuha’s waist as she continued to move. “I… I love being with you all,” I murmured, my voice laced with both affection and pleasure. “Spending time with you, laughing with you… it’s always been special. But this—” I paused, swallowing hard as another wave of warmth enveloped me. “This feels so different… so intense.”

Kazuha’s movements didn’t stop, her soft, rhythmic motions sending shivers down my spine. She leaned in closer, her lips hovering near mine. “That’s because we love you,” she whispered sweetly. “And we want you to feel just how much.”

Eunchae ran her fingers through my hair, placing a lingering kiss on my temple. “That’s right, baby,” she cooed. “We’ve always wanted to show you just how precious you are to us.”

Sakura giggled softly from the side, her bare skin glowing under the dim light. “And you’re being so good for us, Y/N,” she praised. “Such a good boy to your 5 exclusive girlfriends.”

Kazuha moaned softly as she rolled her hips a little deeper, her fingers intertwining with mine. “So just let go,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to my lips. “Let us love you the way you deserve.”

Kazuha let out a soft moan as she felt me twitch inside her, her hands pressing gently against my chest as she slowed to a stop. She gazed down at me, warmth filling her eyes. “Not yet, sweetheart,” she murmured, brushing a few strands of hair from my face. “Let’s make this last.”

Turning her head, she signaled to Sakura and Eunchae. Without a word, Sakura crawled closer, her fingers delicately tracing my jaw before pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “You’re being so good for us,” she whispered against my skin.

Eunchae giggled, her touch featherlight as she ran her hand along my arm. “Hope you’re ready, Y/N…”

Kazuha slowly lifted herself from my cock, a quiet whimper leaving her lips before she leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be right here,” she whispered.

My breath hitched as I looked up at Sakura and Eunchae. Their eyes were filled with love, their touches tender, and I could feel it—this wasn’t just desire. It was something much deeper. And the night was far from over.

Sakura and Eunchae shared a knowing glance before lowering themselves, their warm breaths ghosting over my sensitive skin. Their tongues flicked out, tracing slow, deliberate paths along my cock—one after the other, alternating between teasing licks and gentle kisses, as if savoring every inch of me.

A shudder ran through my body, my breath hitching as their slick touches sent waves of pleasure through me. Eunchae giggled, her fingers wrapping around my cock before pressing it against her cheek, her soft skin warm against me. “You’re so cute when you’re like this,” she murmured, flashing me an innocent smile that contrasted with the way her hand caressed me.

Sakura, still close, placed a kiss just above where Eunchae’s grip was, her lips barely brushing against my heated skin. “Such a good boy,” she whispered, her voice sweet and full of adoration. “You’re taking everything so well, letting us love you the way you deserve.”

Their words wrapped around me like a warm embrace, making it impossible to think, to do anything but surrender to their touch.

Eunchae’s touch was gentle yet reassuring as she guided my hands, placing them atop their heads with a sweet, encouraging smile. “Here,” she whispered, nuzzling against my thigh. “Hold onto us… don’t be shy.”

Her warmth, her voice—it all felt so comforting, even in a moment so intense. My fingers tangled into their soft hair, gripping just enough to feel them beneath my touch. They let out soft hums of approval before turning their attention back to my cock, their tongues meeting at my tip before slowly trailing down my length, taking their time to savor every inch.

I couldn’t help the moans that escaped me, my body trembling as they worshipped me with each slick stroke of their tongues. “F-Fuck…” I groaned, my voice barely above a whisper, overwhelmed by their devotion.

Eunchae giggled against me, the vibrations sending a shockwave through my core. “Mmm, we love hearing you like this,” she purred, her lips brushing against my sensitive skin. “Just let it all out, okay? We want you to feel everything…”

As Sakura and Eunchae continued their slow, sweet worship of my cock, Chaewon crawled closer, her presence undeniable as she straddled my face. Her breath was warm, her voice soft yet commanding as she ran her fingers through my hair.

“Be a good boy for me,” she whispered, her tone laced with affection and need. “You’ve been feeling so good, right? Now… return the favor.”

She lowered herself gently, her soaked pussy pressing against my lips. The scent of her arousal filled my senses, dizzying and intoxicating. My hands instinctively gripped her thighs, pulling her closer as I hesitantly flicked my tongue against her entrance.

Chaewon let out a shaky moan, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Mmm, that’s it,” she cooed, her hips rolling slowly. “Just like that… you’re such a fast learner.”

I kept working my tongue on Chaewon, each flick making her moan, her grip tightening as she held onto Yunjin and Kazuha for support. Her thighs trembled slightly, and I could feel her body reacting to every movement of my tongue.

“Mmm, just like that,” she breathed out, her fingers threading through my hair before tugging me closer. “I’m so wet for you, Y/N. You’re doing so good love.”

Her praise sent a rush of warmth through me, fueling my eagerness to please her. Every moan, every shaky breath she let out only made me want to hear more. I adjusted my movements, finding the spot that made her body jolt, and when I focused there, she gasped, her grip tightening.

“Fuck—keep going,” she whimpered, her voice dripping with pleasure. “You’re making me feel so good, baby.”

Chaewon’s grip on my hair tightened, her nails lightly scratching my scalp as her thighs trembled around my head. “I’m—ahh, I’m gonna—” Her voice broke into a desperate whimper, her breathing ragged as her body tensed. But I didn’t stop. If anything, the way she gasped and shuddered only pushed me to go harder, my tongue flicking and circling over her most sensitive spot, determined to pull her over the edge.

Her hips bucked instinctively against my mouth, her moans growing louder, more frantic. “Oh—Y/N—” she cried, her body finally giving in as her release crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her thighs clenched around my head, her entire body shaking as she came undone. I felt her sweetness coat my lips and chin, her taste intoxicating as I eagerly lapped up every last drop.

Chaewon’s body slumped forward, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Her fingers stayed tangled in my hair as she tried to steady herself, her thighs still quivering from the aftershocks. “F-Fuck…” she whimpered, her voice breathy and dazed. “You’re so good at this, baby…”

She finally let go, lifting herself slightly, her flushed face filled with satisfaction as she gazed down at me. “You really know how to take care of your girls, don’t you?” she teased, her lips curving into a satisfied smirk.

Yunjin’s fingers trailed up my chest, leaving a trail of warmth as she pressed me firmly against the wall. Her touch was confident, yet the way she looked at me—dark, filled with longing—held an unmistakable tenderness. She reached for the two shot glasses on the nearby table, handing me one before clinking it against hers. “Drink with me,” she whispered, her lips curling into a small, teasing smile.

I obeyed, the burn of the liquor spreading through my throat, mixing with the heat already simmering between us. Before I could fully process the sensation, Yunjin pulled me closer, her breath fanning against my lips. Slowly, she backed me up until my spine was flush against the wall. Her hands gripped my waist, her body pressing against mine, the space between us nonexistent.

“I want to try something a little different,” she murmured, her voice lower, more sultry. “I want to be a little rough with you this time… but don’t worry, baby. I’ll still be gentle. I’ll still show you just how much I love you.”

There was no hesitation in her movements as she lifted one leg, hooking it against the wall beside me, her flexibility on full display. Her other hand reached between us, wrapping around my cock—still slick from the attention Sakura and Eunchae had given me—guiding me to her entrance. I could feel the warmth of her pussy pressing against my tip, teasing me, coaxing me forward.

She didn’t take me in immediately. Instead, she took her time, rolling her hips forward just enough to let me feel the slick heat of her, dragging my length through her folds in slow, deliberate strokes. A breathy moan escaped her lips, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she looked at me again, pupils blown wide with desire.

“Look at me, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice soft but commanding, fingers gently cupping my jaw. “I want to see those pretty eyes when I take you.”

I swallowed hard, my head spinning—not just from the alcohol but from her, from the way she made me feel like the center of her universe. And then, finally, she sank down onto me, inch by inch, her warmth enveloping me in a way that had me gasping. Her nails dug into my shoulders as she let out a shaky breath, her body adjusting to mine, fitting together like we were meant for this.

Yunjin pressed her forehead against mine, her lips ghosting over my own as she whispered, “That’s it, baby. You feel so good inside me… just like I knew you would.”

As Yunjin continued to ride me, her movements slow yet deliberate, the other girls moved closer, surrounding us in a haze of warmth and desire. Their hands traced along her body, soft fingers caressing her skin as if worshipping the sight before them.

Chaewon was the first to lean in, her lips brushing against Yunjin’s shoulder before trailing up to the curve of her jaw. “You look so beautiful like this, unnie,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss just beneath Yunjin’s ear.

Sakura, never one to be left behind, tilted Yunjin’s chin toward her and captured her lips in a deep, sensual kiss. A quiet moan slipped from Yunjin’s mouth as their tongues tangled, the vibration of it sending a jolt of pleasure straight through me. Her pace faltered for a moment, her walls clenching around me in response to the overwhelming sensations from all around her.

Kazuha and Eunchae weren’t far behind. Kazuha’s hands slid down Yunjin’s back, pulling her closer, while Eunchae placed teasing kisses along her collarbone. “You’re taking such good care of him, unnie,” Eunchae whispered, her voice filled with admiration. “We should reward you, don’t you think?”

Yunjin pulled away from Sakura’s kiss, her breath heavy as she looked down at me with dark, love-filled eyes. A teasing smile played on her lips as she cupped my face with both hands. “Looks like we all love you a little too much, baby,” she whispered, her hips rolling down onto me with a bit more pressure. “I hope you’re ready… because we’re not stopping until we’ve completely ruined you.”

Yunjin’s pace grew erratic, her body pressing even closer against mine as we both teetered on the edge. My breaths came in desperate pants, my grip on her tightening as my climax built up to an inevitable peak.

“I-I’m gonna cum…” I gasped, my voice barely above a whisper.

The girls’ eyes sparkled with anticipation, their hands still tracing over my body, leaving kisses and love bites in their wake. But before anyone else could speak, Chaewon smirked and spoke up.

“Yunjin should have him first,” she declared, her tone soft yet decisive. “The rest of us will get our turns… but for now, let her feel everything.”

The others giggled, nodding in agreement. “Mmm, it’s only fair,” Kazuha purred, running her fingers along my chest. “We’ll just make sure he doesn’t forget about us after.”

Yunjin tightened her hold around my neck, pressing her forehead against mine. “That’s right… give it all to me, baby,” she whispered, her voice dripping with need. “I want to feel your cum completely… let me have all of you.”

With one last deep thrust, I came undone inside her, my entire body shuddering as I spilled deep into her warmth. Yunjin let out a breathy moan, her grip on me tightening as she trembled from the sensation.

“Mmm… so warm,” she murmured, biting her lip as she rocked her hips just a little more, as if savoring every drop. “You’re so deep inside me, baby… I can feel everything.”

Sakura let out a dreamy sigh as she pressed a soft kiss against my shoulder. “That was beautiful… but don’t think we’re done just yet.”

Kazuha giggled, her fingers gently tracing patterns on my chest as she leaned in closer. “So?” she purred, her voice like silk. “How was that for your first time?”

I let out a breathy chuckle, still trying to catch my breath. “That was… the best first experience ever,” I admitted, my voice laced with lingering pleasure.

Kazuha smirked, her eyes filled with mischief as she pressed a soft kiss against my jaw. “Good,” she murmured. “Because you still have four more pussies to fill up.”

As my breathing slowed, I felt the warmth of their bodies surrounding me. Yunjin traced soft patterns on my chest, pressing a lingering kiss to my jaw. Sakura pulled me into her arms, whispering sweet nothings as Chaewon stroked my hair. Kazuha giggled, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "That was just the first round, you know."

I let out a tired chuckle, my body completely spent. "I don’t think I can even move right now…"

Eunchae playfully pouted, her fingers dancing across my skin. "Aww, but we’re not done showing you how much we love you."

The girls exchanged mischievous glances before snuggling closer, their hands still exploring, their lips pressing lazy kisses onto my flushed skin. Yunjin smirked, cupping my face gently. "You’re ours now, Y/N. Always."

I sighed, melting into their touch, my heart pounding—not just from what had happened, but from what was still to come.

958 notes · View notes

ptergwen · 5 days ago

Note

imagining a blurb where peter sleeps over at readers dorm for the first time and they haven’t done anything yet but he wakes up with morning wood and he’s trying to make it go down but she wakes up and helps get rid of it 🤭

the situation

ask box | taglist | blurb masterlist | main masterlist

w/c: 1,271

warnings: 18+ content! oral sex (m receiving), language

a/n: oh absolutely! i liked this one so much it became a full oneshot, happy reading friends (also i was so tempted to use a gif from That scene in far from home iykyk)

you wake up to peter shifting around behind you. he was here late last night, so he ended up staying over. you'd naturally been squished together in your small dorm bed, but neither of you minded. you took the opportunity to cuddle throughout the night.

at some point, you ended up with your back to peter, causing you to be pressed up against him. it was no surprise when he woke up hard. he doesn't want you to wake up to it, though. you've only been dating for a few weeks and haven't done much beyond make out. this isn't the most ideal way to introduce more into your relationship.

peter tries to wiggle out from behind you so he can go to the bathroom and deal with his situation. of course, he'd slept closest to the wall, which makes things a little difficult. he feels you start to stir.

"hey, go back to sleep," peter whispers, squeezing your waist. "where are you going?" you mumble. you look at him over your shoulder. "just the bathroom. i’ll be right back," he kisses your shoulder. "mhm. i know what you're gonna do in there," you give peter a lazy smirk. he scrunches up his nose.

"you, uh... felt that?"

"kind of hard not to."

"sorry," peter chuckles. "don't be. it's just, like, morning wood," you reassure, rolling over to face him. "i could help you take care of it, though," you search peter's eyes. his brows raise, a small smile playing on his lips. "are you sure? don't feel like you have to." his hand settles on your hip, his touch light.

"i don't feel like i have to," you echo. "i want to. do you want me to?"

peter nods, vigorously.

you grin and push at peter's chest, prompting him to lie on his back. he helps you on top of him. he tilts his head up and captures your lips in a slow kiss. you let your lips slot with his, your legs coming to rest at either of peter's sides. his bulge presses into your center. a noise of relief falls from his lips, making you giggle. you break the kiss and move further up his body so you're positioned over his torso instead.

"not that. i have another idea."

"what is it?"

"i'm getting to it."

you take peter's face in your hands and kiss him again. he eagerly kisses you back. he bunches up your top so he can wrap his fingers around your waist. his tongue slips into your mouth, thumbs running up and down your sides. you're starting to get a bit needy yourself, but right now you're focusing on peter.

"one sec," you breathe. you grab your water bottle from your desk and take a few sips in preparation. peter leans in for another kiss when you're done, but you start to make your way down his body, fingers trailing along his abs as you go. you feel them flex underneath your touch, his breathing becoming faster. your pinkie dips inside his boxers and brushes over his lower abs.

"what are you- oh."

you stroke peter's cock in your hand, sitting on your knees and smiling up at him. he takes off his boxers to make things easier. you look into his eyes as you lower your head, hand still wrapped around his cock. peter bites his lip and holds your gaze.

his eyes flutter closed when you swirl your tongue around his tip. you do this a few times, then bring your hand to the head of his cock and stroke downwards, using your spit to coat his length. peter moves a hand down to support the back of your head and encourage you to do what you both know he's waiting for. you let your lips wrap around peter's cock, taking him into your mouth.

"fuck," peter pants, his head falling back against the pillows. you fit as much of him in your mouth as you can, your hand staying at the base of his cock to stroke what doesn't. you begin to bob your head up and down, almost instantly earning a moan from peter. he carefully pulls your hair out of your face and holds it back for you.

you glide your tongue against peter's length every time you move your head. the sensation of it, combined with being in your mouth, drives him absolutely crazy. you can tell by the way his cock twitches and the little noises he makes. your mouth and hand continue to work him, and his eyes are screwed shut in pure bliss when you peek up at him.

"baby..." peter breathes out. you hum in response. "i’m close, really close. where do you want me to finish?" he asks. you stop sucking him off briefly to answer, and for a bit of air.

"in my mouth."

"you wanna swallow?"

you hum again. you continue to stroke him and lick along his length so you don't lose momentum. peter looks down at you with hooded eyes. he lets go of his makeshift ponytail for you, instead stroking your hair gently.

"that's hot. i didn't know you were into that."

"with the right person."

peter smiles, a genuine smile even in the lust filled moment. you return it before taking his cock into your mouth again. you challenge yourself to go a little further this time, until he's just hitting the back of your throat. peter groans at the feeling.

you find your same rhythm from before, repeat your same movements, and it isn't long until peter is reaching his high. his hips buck up and he holds your head in place, instinctively pushing into your throat, but he stills his hips before he pushes too far.

"fuck, y/n/n. is this okay?"

you respond by opening your mouth wider, letting more of him in. with your permission, peter spills down your throat, a series of short, breathy moans leaving his lips. he waits until he's finished to pull his hips back. you swallow the rest of the cum that fills your mouth. peter holds your face in his hands, looking down at you in awe. his thumb brushes over your lower lip, which curves into a smile.

"better?" you ask. "way better. let me just..." peter puts his boxers back on with rosy cheeks, as if he wasn't just in your mouth. "c'mere."

you crawl towards the top of the bed. peter grabs your hips and sits you in his lap, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. you smile into it. one hand is on the back of his neck, the other in his hair. this morning is the first time you've seen it curly, since it's usually gelled back. you like the way peter looks when he's just woken up.

"it wasn't too soon for us to do that, right?" peter asks quietly. "because i don't wanna rush anything." he sets a hand on your thigh, eyes finding yours. "i don't think so. we both wanted to, and it was my idea anyway," you remind him, playing with his soft curls. "okay, just wanted to make sure," peter grins.

"i appreciate the help, by the way," he says lowly. his fingers trail along your thigh. "yeah," you murmur, looking down at his hand.

you really like the way peter's touch feels, too.

his hand is traveling higher, and his smile has been replaced by a smirk. you press your forehead to his, lips ghosting over his and breath fanning across his face. his nose nudges yours.

"how about i return the favor?"

tags

@spidermans-gf @sacharinee @thollandsgirl2013 @pettypeety @girlinlovewithlove @marvelgurl @superlegend216 @angelinabelovedballerina @moniffazictress11 @superlegend216 @doubledizzy22 @mystic-writings @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @lnmp89 @starlight-starks @hollandsangel @ellebutnotwoods @tayyx @valluvsu @ronweasleysslut @winchestersgirl222 @fishingirl12 @raajali3 @niktwazny303 @thismessymasterpiece @alina02 @itsjanedeluca @idkeverythingistakennn @prancerrparkerr @urfayevorite @getwellsoontana @deanswifeyy @marvelita86 @uhhhj13iguess

#peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fic #peter parker writing #peter parker oneshot #peter parker #mcu peter x reader #mcu peter parker #tom holland smut #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader #tom holland writing

413 notes · View notes

bishovapls · 1 month ago

Text

Our Little One - Brats Don’t Get Soft, Brats Get Used.

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: You’ve never been a brat before, but after weeks with Wanda and Natasha and Natasha still holding back, a nudge from your roommate Kate sets something in motion. What starts as a simple need soon turns into a dangerous game, and you’re about to learn what happens when the consequences catch up.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy kink, Daddy kink, age difference, older WandaNat/younger reader, BDSM, Dom/sub dynamics, spanking/lashing with a belt, punishment, smut, overstimulation, fingering, safe word check-ins, aftercare, minor angst.

A/N: Reader and Natasha’s first-time scene kept popping up in requests, so here we are! If I’ve replied to your other asks, those fics will be coming ASAP. If you’ve sent an ask and I haven’t responded yet, I promise I’m working through everything! Thanks so much for all your patience and love. Honestly, your asks, replies, and support for this series make me all warm and fuzzy inside 🩵

P.S. In terms of the timeline, this takes place after 'It Was Fate' and before 'You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You’re Sorry', both can be found in my masterlist.

Word Count: 14,578

NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

It had been a month since you’d stepped into the world Wanda and Natasha had so carefully, deliberately built around you, and though the shift had been gentle, almost imperceptible at first, you felt it now in everything. The change had crept in like water, soft and steady, reshaping the edges of your life without ever needing to crash through them. You hadn’t thought you needed structure. You certainly hadn’t expected to crave it. But once it was there, once their presence became a constant grounding force, you realised just how badly you’d needed to be held in place.

The rules didn’t arrive all at once. They were introduced slowly, one by one, always with a quiet firmness, never exactly forceful, but never optional either. And what surprised you most was how easily they slipped past the bedroom and settled into the rest of your life. They took root in the mundane, the overlooked, the messiest parts of your routine: your study habits, your sleep, your social outings, your tendency to forget yourself.

At first, you questioned the point of it all. Why they cared whether you skipped a meal or pulled another all-nighter. But it didn’t take long to understand. They were wholly, unflinchingly invested in you. In your well-being. In your peace. And in the simple, sacred truth that you were theirs.

It began with the essentials. Drink more water. Eat proper meals. Step outside and breathe. No more skipping breakfast or living on scraps between lectures. No more letting your body crumble under the weight of your own neglect.

They didn’t leave it to chance, either. Wanda had set you up with a nutrition tracker, and Natasha synced it to a fitness app. Between the two of them, they monitored everything.

Then came the check-ins. If you weren’t with them, you were to check in twice a day: a brief morning text including how you slept, how you felt, and what was ahead for the day, and a call at night, no exceptions. You were to talk them through your day, tell them what had gone well, what hadn’t, and whether you needed anything, emotionally, physically, or otherwise.

And college brought its own rules. You were to attend every class unless you were truly ill. And even then, they were to be informed immediately. Natasha had your entire academic schedule memorised, down to your deadlines and office hours, and if anything shifted, she expected an update.

Your social life, limited though it was since you were far from a social being, had boundaries. You could go out, in fact, you were encouraged to do so, to have fun, to be young, to live, but never at the cost of safety. Drinking to excess was forbidden. Drugs and smoking, entirely off-limits.

And you were not to be out alone after dark. If you did go out, it had to be with trusted friends. Your fitness tracker was to remain on, fully charged, and GPS active. That rule had been delivered with unflinching clarity. Natasha had stated it plainly, her tone leaving no room for argument. They needed to know where you were. That you weren’t walking alone, vulnerable and unseen. That if something happened, they’d know exactly where to find you.

To an outsider, it might’ve seemed overbearing and excessive. But to you, it was the opposite. It was everything. These rules weren’t restrictions, they were evidence, proof that someone saw you clearly enough to draw lines around your chaos and call it worth saving.

And you wanted to be good for them. You lived for the quiet praise threaded through your evening calls, the warmth in Wanda’s voice when she told you she was proud, the low, satisfied hum Natasha would let slip when every rule had been followed to the letter. You craved their approval. Their attention. Their pride. Being obedient came naturally in most ways, and you basked in it.

Except… food and water. That was the rule you just couldn’t seem to get right.

It wasn’t rebellion; not truly. Sometimes you simply didn’t want to cook, or the idea of eating twisted something unpleasant in your stomach. Sometimes coffee was just easier; it kept you upright, kept you moving. Other times, it wasn’t deliberate at all, just a blur of hours and tasks and noise. You got swept up in work, or you ate but forgot to log it, or maybe you downed nearly a litre of coffee before it even occurred to you that you hadn’t touched water.

Whatever the reason, Wanda always noticed, calling with her voice full of concern. “When was the last time you ate?” she’d ask, and it wasn’t anger, it was disappointment, that would curl tight in your gut as you searched for a defence that never felt good enough.

The punishments for this were never too much, because they knew you were trying. But they were just enough to make you pause the next time your hand hovered over another cup of coffee and nothing else.

And part of you, ashamed as it was, needed that. Needed the accountability. The structure. The safety of knowing someone would catch you before you disappeared too far into yourself.

Still, even with all of it, the structure, the gentleness, the care stitched into every rule and ritual, something felt wrong. Not glaringly, not enough to shatter the sense of safety they’d built around you, but enough to unsettle, to gnaw at the edges of your thoughts when you were alone. It wasn’t the boundaries or the expectations, not the check-ins or the rules that governed your days. It was Natasha.

She was present and reliable in that steady, composed way of hers. She enforced the routine with silent efficiency, asked the questions that mattered, and made sure you kept your promises, to them and to yourself. But when it came to punishment, to intimacy, to that deeper level of connection you craved, she held back. And it wasn’t just that she didn’t discipline you, she hadn’t touched you. Not once.

You’d given yourself to them, inch by inch, until it didn’t feel like surrender anymore, but something closer to breathing. You’d let yourself fall, and Wanda had caught you. It was always Wanda.

It was Wanda who guided you, who punished you when you slipped, who praised you so sweetly your stomach turned to honey when you hadn’t. It was Wanda who took you apart in the dark, who knew how to coax you into obedience with nothing but a look, a sound, or a breath. Natasha either watched from the sidelines or, worse, left the room entirely.

Last weekend was a perfect example. You knelt before Wanda, her voice calm and steady as she guided you through the mantras she’d been drilling into you. “I deserve to take care of myself… my body deserves fuel… my mind deserves rest…” You’d forgotten to eat again, too caught up in school, and so when you came to them, punishment was needed. But it wasn’t a punishment of pain; it was one of words and care that slowly cracked open your walls, breaking down the bad beliefs you’d carried all your life.

At first, Natasha was there, quietly watching, even encouraging with small hums and soft smiles, but when your tears began to flow and your body shook, she left without a word. You didn’t know why; she never explained. Wanda shushed your whimpers, but it wasn’t enough, not when Natasha didn’t want you…again.

After the scene, when you dared to ask about it, Wanda’s answer only deepened the ache: “You’re just not ready for Daddy, malyshka (Little One).”

Those words echoed in your mind, not ready. As if Natasha was a threshold you hadn’t yet earned the right to cross. It made the ache of being good, of meeting every expectation, sting sharper.

—

That’s why this week has been hard, with constant thoughts of Natasha swirling through your mind; each check-in only deepened your frustration. By the time Thursday arrived, your mood had darkened. The usual nightly check-in with the women went ahead, but beneath it all, you felt that familiar tightening in your chest, the heavy weight of the unspoken barrier still lingering between you and Natasha.

As always, you took the call just outside your dorm building, settling on the cold edge of the concrete steps beneath the weak glow of the overhead security light. The buzzing hum of it filled the silence between your own clipped replies and Wanda’s soothing voice, Natasha’s steadier one threading in near the end as she asked the usual questions about your meals, your steps, your classes. You answered them all. Obedient. Polite. But your tone was flatter than usual, each sentence a little shorter, and by the time you hung up, the tight coil of something unspoken was still sitting behind your ribs, refusing to unspool.

You pushed through the heavy dorm door and climbed the stairs two at a time, jaw tight, nails digging half-moons into your palms. When you opened the door to your shared room, Kate glanced up from her bed, where she sat cross-legged in an oversized hoodie, scrolling on her laptop. Her eyes caught your face instantly, her brows drew together, subtle but unmistakable, and the screen was forgotten within a heartbeat.

“Uhh… what’s up?” she asked, her voice cautious but laced with warmth, like she could sense your mood before you'd said a word.

“Nothing,” you muttered, too quickly, flinging your bag to the floor and flopping onto your bed with the kind of exaggerated indifference that only made your frustration more obvious.

Kate didn’t buy it for a second. She shifted to sit upright, her back resting against the wall. “Seriously?” she said with a small, incredulous laugh, but her eyes didn’t leave your face.

You exhaled hard through your nose and rolled your eyes, reaching for your phone just to have something to fidget with. “You’re too nosy,” you said lightly, trying to deflect.

But Kate didn’t laugh this time. Her expression softened instead, concern overtaking the playfulness. “Maybe,” she said gently, “but I care, you know?”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You nodded once, a little jerk of your chin, your voice quieter when you finally said, “I know.”

“Then just talk to me?” she offered. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, but there was tension in her shoulders too, like she was trying not to push too hard, not to say the wrong thing, and watch you shut down.

You stayed silent for a moment, then sat up, legs pulled to your chest. You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, not quite able to meet her eyes. “It’s… to do with the girlfriends,” you said finally.

Kate’s eyes flickered with interest, not curiosity in a nosy way, but a gentle attentiveness that said she’d been waiting for you to talk about them again. “Are you ever going to tell me who they are?” she asked, smiling just a little, trying to keep it light.

You smiled too, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Of course, you wanted to tell her. You trusted her. But Natasha’s voice echoed in your mind, cool and resolute, no one at college can know. Not even your roommate. She was right, of course. College gossip moved fast, and all it would take was one whisper in the wrong ear for everything to unravel.

“You know the rules,” you said, sharper than you meant to, and your jaw clenched as the anger returned, at the rule, at Natasha, at how far away she still felt even after a month.

Kate let out a quiet chuckle, raising a hand to trace a little X over her heart. “I do. But it could be our little secret. Cross my heart.”

You looked at her grin, and something in you softened, just a little.“Maybe soon,” you said, voice tight. “I don’t think it’ll be going on much longer anyway, so there will be no secret to keep.”

That hit her like a slap. Her eyes widened, her posture straightening instantly. “What? Wait, what do you mean?” she asked, voice sharp with shock, all traces of teasing gone.

You had told Kate about your situation with Wanda and Natasha pretty early on, after all, she’d pestered you half to death after your first night with them, all wide-eyed curiosity and relentless questions. You’d given her the basics: that they were your dommes, that it wasn’t just sex, not to them, not to you either. That they’d made it clear from the start that they wanted something more, something serious, something committed.

Over time, details had trickled out, mostly because they had to. The rules you lived by, the punishments you’d earned, the very explicit reasons you sometimes came home with marks so unmistakable they made Kate drop her fork.

Kate never judged, never squirmed, or got awkward. It was embarrassing sometimes, yes, but it was also a relief to have someone who understood, who didn’t flinch at the language, at the power dynamics, at the weight of it all.

But you’d been careful, too. You’d kept their names to yourself, never once letting them slip. You hadn’t said where they lived, what they did, not even how old they were. You hadn’t even referred to them by title. It wasn’t mistrust, it was the rule. And more than that, it was something you instinctively honoured. Something Natasha had asked of you, and you hadn’t questioned it. You hadn’t wanted to.

Until now. Now, when everything felt like it was fraying. Now, when you couldn’t tell if you were still wanted, or just tolerated.

And Kate was still watching you, her expression tight with worry, waiting for you to explain why you’d just said it might all be over.

“Hello? Earth to the emotionally tormented?” she teased softly when your silence stretched.

You blinked, snapping back to the moment, and let out a tired little laugh. “I’m here,” you muttered with a half-hearted shrug.

Kate raised one brow in that subtle, persistent way that said, Don’t even think about dodging this, her body leaning forward just slightly.

You sighed, pressing your fingers into your temples for a moment before finally exhaling the frustration that had been crawling under your skin. “It’s just… Domme Two, she’s got all these expectations,” you started, voice tight, like every word had to be pried out. “I try so hard. And still… she won’t touch me. She won’t see me. I’m so tired of it. I’m so tired of being good and getting nothing back.”

Kate’s expression shifted immediately. You’d mentioned Natasha’s distance once or twice before in passing, but it had never sounded quite like this. Back then, it was a curiosity, an oddity. Now, it was pain. Frustration.

“Still?” she echoed, disbelief softening into sympathy. “It’s been, what, over a month now?”

You nodded mutely, jaw tight. “Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p’ with bitter emphasis. “And I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, Kate. I try so fucking hard. I follow their rules, well, mostly,” you added with a dry, self-deprecating smile. “I give them everything they ask for. But when I ask…it’s always the same line: you’re not ready.” The words came out quieter, more vulnerable now, like they physically hurt to repeat.

Kate’s face twisted with something halfway between a wince and a thoughtful frown. “You know it might not be about you, right?” she said gently. “That maybe you are ready… but she isn’t?”

You scoffed, not unkindly, but with that weary kind of disbelief that comes from hoping for too long. “No, Domme One said, that I am not ready because Domme Two can be intense. That she is holding back so I don't get hurt.” You shook your head with a dry, humourless laugh. “But this hurts, too, Kate. Being held at arm’s length like I’m not worthy yet. And it’s not like I haven’t made it crystal clear that rough doesn’t scare me. Domme One and I have had scenes that I couldn’t even put into words if I tried.”

Kate stayed quiet for a moment, taking it all in. You could see the gears turning, the way she bit the inside of her cheek like she always did when she was trying to offer advice without sounding preachy.

“Well… if it’s eating at you this much, then I think you have to talk to them again,” she said eventually, voice calm but firm, the kind of tone she only used when she really meant it. “Like, properly. Not mid-scene. Not just after punishment. Really talk.”

“I have,” you snapped, your voice pitching higher than you meant it to. “I have talked. I’ve tried. I bring it up, and it’s just brushed aside like I’m being impatient.”

Kate sighed, but it wasn’t a condescending sigh; it was heavy, empathetic. You could see the careful way she was treading. She was always mature when it came to this, always level-headed when you weren’t, always calm when you were spiralling.

“I get it,” she said softly. “I really do. But if something isn’t working for you, you have to keep pushing for a change. Communication’s everything, you know that.”

You slumped back against the bed, staring at the ceiling like maybe it would answer for you. “I’m just… tired of talking. Tired of giving my all and still being told I haven’t earned hers. I just wish there was something I could do.”

Kate was quiet again, but something in her posture shifted. Her lips twitched, just the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at one corner before she caught herself and quickly looked down, trying to hide it.

You sat up slightly, suspicious. “What? Kate. What is that look?”

She tried and failed to suppress a laugh. “Nothing. I just… shouldn’t say this. I definitely shouldn’t encourage this.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never stopped you before. Come on. Spit it out.”

Kate hesitated, her smile turning fond now, as if whatever memory she was about to share brought her warmth despite the topic. “It’s just… I know what Yelena would do in your shoes.”

Your stomach flipped, your curiosity piqued. “Yeah? And what would Yelena do?”

Kate let out a slow breath. “Well, okay, so our dynamic isn’t like yours. It’s not built on rules and structure 24/7. But in scene, there are rules. And sometimes, when I’ve been… off, or distracted, or distant, because life, you know? Yelena will break a rule deliberately. Just enough to make me react. It’s her way of saying notice me, see me, feel something.”

Kate looked almost sheepish after saying it, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether she’d just offered you advice… or handed you a loaded weapon. But you heard it clearly.

A quiet rebellion. A strategic crack in obedience.

And the suggestion glittered in your mind like something dangerous and gleaming, like the glint of a match just before it hits the strike pad. It didn’t matter that it was reckless. All that mattered was that something inside you shifted, something coiled and bratty and starved for attention stirred, stretching awake for the first time.

You turned to Kate, an exaggerated gasp of mock offence on your lips. “Kate Bishop, are you suggesting I should be a brat?”

She laughed, the sound light and helpless. “I’m suggesting,” she said with careful precision, “that breaking a rule might actually get you the kind of reaction you’re craving. Especially if it’s one of Domme Two’s.”

Your brain had already taken off at a sprint, running through possibilities, rules, boundaries, hers, not Wanda’s. You grinned slowly, wickedly, a spark of something deliciously mischievous taking root. “You know,” you drawled, already shifting your weight like you were about to get up, “I’ve been thinking… a late-night stroll sounds like just the thing to clear my head.”

Kate blinked at you, her mouth opening slightly in disbelief before flattening into a line. “It’s midnight,” she said, deadpan. Her eyes narrowed a little as she sat straighter, arms folded, like she was already preparing to intervene. “Can you not pick a safer rule to break?”

You tilted your head and gave a lazy shrug, letting faux innocence smooth over your features. “It’s this, or smoking. Or, I don’t know… drugs.” You raised your eyebrows for dramatic effect.

Kate’s eyes widened in horror, her whole body recoiling like you’d just threatened to juggle knives in traffic. “Not. Funny,” she snapped, though the sharpness in her tone couldn’t quite hide the way her lips twitched at the edges.

Your grin only widened. “A little bit funny,” you said, voice dipping with smug satisfaction, because provoking her felt almost as fun as what you were planning.

Kate groaned and flopped back against the headboard, dragging a hand down her face. “Okay, but what about… I don’t know, don’t go to class tomorrow. Don’t message, don’t give an excuse. It’s safe. Passive-aggressive. You get to make a point.”

You wrinkled your nose, unconvinced, and gave a dismissive wave of your hand. “Too slow. I’m supposed to be with them tomorrow night anyway, and I want it sorted before then.”

Kate sat forward again, staring at you like you’d grown a second head. Her brows lifted with genuine disbelief, and she stared hard, like she was still holding out hope this was all a bit. “You are insane.”

You gave her a sly wink as you stood up, grabbing your coat and slipping it on. “No,” you replied, with a gleam in your eye and a dangerous lilt in your voice, “I’m just impatient. And possibly very, very stupid.”

Kate stood too, suddenly tense, hovering like she wasn’t sure if she should block the door or help you open it. “Okay, but please text me. Keep me updated. And when you inevitably get dragged back to wherever they live for the punishment of your entire life, I expect details.”

You paused with your hand on the doorknob, turning back with a wicked little smirk that curled slowly across your face. “I will. And hey, thanks for the advice,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet with mischief.

Kate shook her head, muttering under her breath before sighing out loud. “God help you.”

And with that, the door clicked softly behind you, the hallway swallowing you up as you let the brat take the wheel, heart racing, nerves buzzing, a storm already forming on the horizon.

—

It took fifteen minutes of walking before your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t even need to check the screen to know it was Natasha. The GPS tracker in your watch had no doubt lit up the moment you stepped beyond the perimeter she’d quietly defined.

You pulled the phone out, thumb hovering for a moment, then smiled, slow, sharp, and wicked, and let it ring out. One call. Then another. Then a third, her name flashing again and again like a warning light.

The next buzz wasn’t a call, it was your shared group chat, the one only used for schedules, check-ins, and rare moments of praise or correction outside sessions.

D2: I thought you were staying home with Kate tonight?

You didn’t answer. Just opened it and continued walking, heading deeper into the park, where the glow of streetlamps filtered softly through leafless trees. The cold bit at your cheeks, but you welcomed it, anything that grounded you in the daring, dizzy satisfaction of rebellion.

D2: Why are you ignoring me? D1: Little one, are you okay?

That one gave you pause. You felt a flicker of guilt crack through the high of disobedience. This wasn’t about her. None of this was really her fault, yet you were treating her the same way, but you kept walking.

D2: You better be with Kate.

Her tone, even through text, was clipped, and you could practically feel her jaw clenched from miles away. Then another text came from Wanda, softer again.

D1: Please, let us know you are safe, Sweetheart. We’re worried.

That one stung. You hated that you’d made her worry, hated even more that it was necessary to make your point. You sighed and finally typed back, your fingers momentarily trembling from more than just the cold.

Me: I am safe. Going for a walk.

There were only a few seconds of silence before Natasha responded.

D2: Are you with Kate?

You stopped walking and stared at the message. This was it. The line you could still choose not to cross. The point of no return. You could lie. You could say yes and diffuse it all. But you didn’t want to.

You wanted to be seen. You wanted to matter. You wanted Natasha to stop treating you like a thing she could discipline from a distance but never touch.

Me: No.

You hit send before you could change your mind, before reason or fear could pull you back. Your heart was pounding, thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break free. This was what you wanted. This was the moment you’d imagined: the rule-breaking, the reckless defiance, the thrill of finally crossing a line that might force Natasha to stop keeping you at arm’s length.

But now that you were here, standing in it, the storm you’d so desperately wished for felt a lot less like a cleansing force and a lot more like a cliff edge you’d sprinted off without thinking.

Your phone buzzed.

D2: If I don’t see you turn around and walk back toward your dorm in the next five minutes, I will make sure you regret it.

You scoffed aloud, trying to laugh it off, even as a chill crawled up your spine. Just a threat, you told yourself. She wouldn’t actually do anything.

Still, your fingers trembled as you shoved your phone back into your coat pocket. You found the nearest bench and sat down, hoping she’d see it as a clear fuck you. A message through the GPS tracker. I’m not moving.

You checked the chat again. Nothing.

Five minutes passed. Then six. Then ten.

You swallowed hard. The cold had begun to seep through your coat, and your heart had gone from hammering to something slower, deeper, more sickening. It wasn’t defiance anymore. It was dread.

You kept checking your phone, over and over, willing another message to come through, anything.

But there was only that single, unanswered warning. Hanging in the chat like a blade. You shifted on the bench, suddenly too aware of the dark, too aware of the silence, and how very, very small you felt.

—

The cold had settled into your bones, your phone still lifeless in your hand as you debated if you should give up and go back. Every shadow looked like someone. Every sound made you flinch.

Then, suddenly, there was movement, footsteps crunching against the gravel path just behind you. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see the figure approaching, cloaked in shadows and the low light of the path. Hood up, head bowed, face largely obscured, their entire frame radiating purpose and rage.

A bolt of instinctive fear shot through your chest, and you shot to your feet, suddenly overcome with the sense that you were very much in danger. You began to move, your eyes flicking around for the clearest path out, but you didn't get far before the figure spoke.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

You froze. Her voice was unmistakable, that distinct, deep coolness edged with steel, though this time it came layered with something that struck you harder than the anger. It was fear.

You turned around slowly, your body betraying you with the smallest flinch. She walked straight up to you, steps tight and restrained, and you could see the way she was holding herself back, like she wanted to shake you, to shout, to do something, but instead she just looked.

Her eyes swept over you with that terrifying, clinical intensity, checking for injuries, for damage, for blood. It was so fast and automatic that for a second you forgot how to breathe, caught somewhere between guilt and the bitter thrill of being seen.

When she was satisfied you were physically fine, she spoke again, her tone a mixture of disbelief and fury. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

The tone of her voice struck something inside you. You were still afraid, very much so, but the sight of her like this, eyes stormy and jaw tight, hit a nerve, and that tiny voice inside you, the brat, the desperate girl who wanted to be noticed, punished, wanted, made itself heard again.

You swallowed, lifted your chin slightly, and gave her a tiny, deliberate shrug.

Her nostrils flared, and she stared at you like she couldn’t believe the gall of you. You could feel the shift in her posture, that subtle straightening of her spine, the way her arms folded over her chest as if to stop herself from reaching for you.

Then, slowly, her voice came again, firmer now. “I said, what…are you doing out here?”

You felt your heart hammering harder. She wasn’t yelling, but the low cadence of her voice, restrained and disappointed, pierced through your bravado like nothing else could. You knew she was giving you a chance. An opportunity to back down before this turned into something bigger. But some small, desperate part of you didn’t want to take it.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, chest tightening under the weight of her stare. And then, as if to keep yourself from unravelling completely, you shrugged again, a deliberately casual movement, bordering on insolent.

You didn’t look at her when you answered. “I told you, just going for a walk.” The words left your lips softer than you intended, but they carried that unmistakable edge, that deliberately sweetened defiance, like a dare dressed up in innocence.

Her gaze dropped briefly to the ground, like she was swallowing a surge of something, rage, maybe, and when she lifted it again, her eyes were dark, unreadable, and burning. Then came her voice, thick with warning, the words precise enough to cut. “You know that’s against the rules, Little Girl.”

The title landed like a stone dropped in still water. Little Girl. Not Little One, not the soft name they called you during gentle praise, check-ins, or affectionate aftercare. This one was different, used only in the lead-up to punishment.

Wanda was usually the one to wield it when you were truly in trouble. Hearing it from Natasha now made your stomach twist. Not with fear, not exactly, but with heat, with something volatile and reckless and stupidly brave.

And still, rather than shrinking under it, something inside you bloomed. The very thing you’d come out here chasing was now rising in front of you, and it made your pulse thunder.

You lifted your chin, eyes blazing with defiance, and let the words fall, slow and deliberate, each one laced with venom. “You don’t own me.”

Her hand shot out and closed around your upper arm, not harshly, but with enough weight to send your heart racing. She was close now, close enough that you could feel her body heat, the cold in her breath, the rage simmering beneath her skin.

“Move.” The word wasn’t a request. Not a suggestion. It was a command, weighted with disappointment.

She didn’t shove, instead, she stepped closer, hand still curled around your arm before it slid, slowly, deliberately to the back of your neck. Her palm was warm against your skin, firm and unyielding, fingers splaying just enough to ground you, to remind you that you now had nowhere to go.

She turned you around with that grip, directing you out of the park and towards the car like it was the most natural thing in the world, like you were hers to move.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. It barely came out. “Where are we going?” you asked, though the answer had already begun to form in your mind.

Her reply was flat. “Home. I think we need to talk. Don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. The silence pressed thick against your tongue, your mouth dry with the realisation of how far you’d taken it.

The walk was silent, but inside your head, it was anything but. Regret bloomed, not just for breaking the rule, but for how deliberately you’d done it, for how you’d baited her. But it was too late now. You could feel her eyes on you in short bursts, reading your silence, calculating what to do with you.

But underneath the guilt, the fear, the cold anticipation curling in your gut… was something else. Something reckless and alive. Something that felt horrifyingly like satisfaction. Because for the first time in weeks, Natasha was fully focused on you

She was here. She was angry. And she was going to do something about it.

—

At home, Wanda was waiting for both of you, wrapped tightly in her dressing gown, the fabric clutching her as if it could shield her from the worry etched deep across her face. Guilt hit you like a punch to the chest. She must have been asleep, or at least resting, before you’d disturbed her with your behaviour.

“Malyshka (Little One), are you okay?” Wanda’s voice was gentle, almost trembling with concern, enough to make your defiance falter for a moment.

But before you could answer, Natasha cut in sharply, her tone rougher than usual. “Don’t be soft with her. She’s fine. She’s just got an attitude.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a sharp huff, the brat inside you rising up despite the knots of fear and guilt tightening in your stomach.

Wanda stared at you, wide-eyed and clearly shocked. In all the time you’d known her, she’d never seen this side of you.

“See what I mean?” Natasha sneered, gesturing with her hand towards you.

Wanda simply nodded, the warmth in her eyes dimming, her disappointment unspoken but suffocating.

“Take off your shoes and coat, then go sit down,” Natasha ordered, her voice firm and unyielding.

You obeyed, more out of habit than willingness. The house was warm, too warm for your heavy coat, and it felt like a small relief peeling it off.

You settled onto the couch, feeling the soft cushions give beneath you. Both of them followed. Natasha perched on the coffee table across from you, her eyes sharp and unreadable, while Wanda settled on the far side of the couch.

The distance stung. Wanda never sat so far away, never kept so much space between you. She was usually the one who reached out, always touching, always close. Tonight, that familiar comfort was gone, replaced by an uncomfortable void.

“You have one chance to explain yourself, Little Girl,” Natasha sneered, her voice low and sharp, each word weighted with warning.

“Why should I?” you shot back, the defiance bubbling up before you could stop it. Wanda’s eyes went wide again, her breath catching at seeing you push back like this. Natasha’s face, however, was unreadable.

Then, unexpectedly, she let out a dark chuckle and leaned in closer, her fingers curling around your jaw with a firm grip. “You know, I don’t think I like this side of you,” she murmured, her voice almost a threat.

You pulled away, pressing yourself back into the cushions, refusing to give her the satisfaction of your discomfort. “Well, you clearly don’t like the other side either,” you shot back, a sharp edge to your words. “So, two for two.”

A flicker of shock crossed Natasha’s face. “What? What the hell do you mean?” she demanded, the cool mask slipping for just a moment.

You shrugged, but this time the gesture was less about defiance and more about uncertainty. You genuinely didn’t know how to explain it, how could you say that she did everything perfectly, except for the one thing that tore at you the most, without sounding like some needy, whiny brat?

Natasha waited, her eyes locked on you. But when you stayed silent, her gaze sharpened, cutting through the heavy stillness like a whip. “Speak to me. Stop acting like a little brat,” she demanded.

You snapped back, frustration bubbling over. “Or what? You’ll just send me off to Wanda for a punishment?” Your tone rose, raw and challenging.

A guttural growl rumbled from Natasha, dark, fierce, edged with raw anger. “Is that what this is? You want punishment? You’re craving it? Is that why you’re acting like this?” Her voice sliced through the silence, thick with heat and frustration, scorching the air between you.

And that’s when it broke, because once again she was missing the point entirely. You shook your head, voice trembling under the weight of it all. “No, that’s not it!” Your breath hitched, tears beginning to spill down your cheeks as your voice cracked open. “I want you to believe I’m enough. I want you to need me the way I need you. I want you to be in this, like I am.” The words came out ragged, raw, breaking free with all the desperation you’d been holding in.

Wanda shifted beside you, her worry carved deep into her face, but your world had shrunk to Natasha’s gaze, searching, pleading, trying to find any flicker of softness beneath the armour she wore like a shield.

And then, something shifted. Natasha’s hard edges softened ever so slightly. Her hand reached out, landing on your knee. You jerked back, instinct screaming to retreat, but she held you firmly, grounding you in place. “You are enough,” she said, voice lower now, rougher with unshed emotion.

She swallowed hard, steadying herself like she was forcing the words past a barricade. “Have I not shown you? When I drive you to school, and we sing like fools? When we curl up on the couch, just holding each other? When we sit and play your video game together? How is that not enough proof I’m in this?”

Her voice trembled, frustrated, wounded, desperate for you to see it.

“You don’t understand, Natasha,” you sobbed, your voice breaking under the weight of a thousand tangled feelings. “You don’t see what I mean.”

“Then tell me,” she whispered, voice cracked and almost desperate. “Please. Tell me what you want.”

You bit your lip, trying desperately to hold back the flood, but the dam finally broke. “I want more.” Your voice cracked. “I know it sounds selfish, needy, maybe even greedy. I love the tenderness, the quiet moments we share... but I want Daddy.”

Your hands clenched into fists as the words poured out, raw and urgent, laced with a pleading edge. “I want you to touch me, to punish me, to let me please you. I want you with me in the scenes, not just watching, or walking away like you have been lately.” The confession hung thick and heavy between you. Your voice dropped to a whisper, barely steady. “When you leave... it hurts.”

Natasha’s shoulders sagged, the weight of your words sinking into her with visible force, dragging something raw and unguarded to the surface. Her gaze dropped to her hands, jaw clenched tight. “I just…” she began, the words barely above a whisper, “I’m scared, Little One. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Her fingers twisted in her lap, restless, unsure. “I’m not used to being careful. You’re… you’re so soft. So good. And I look at you and all I can think is… what if I break her?” She paused, breath shaky, as if the confession itself wounded her.

“And sometimes… sometimes it all gets too heavy, because I want it so badly, but I can’t push past the fear, so I pull away. That’s when I walk. It’s not about you. It’s me... I’m scared.”

You watched her closely, your own heart aching now, but not with shame or anger. Just understanding. “You told me you were done being scared,” you reminded her gently. “And I’m not scared, Nat.”

Her eyes finally met yours, glassy with hesitation.

“I know I’ve struggled to use ‘red’ before,” you admitted softly, your voice thick, “but I’m getting better. Wanda and I have had scenes way more intense than anything I could’ve handled before, and I’ve called red when I needed to. I’ve used yellow, too. I’ve communicated. I’ve grown.” You reached out, fingers brushing the back of her hand. “I need you to trust that. To trust me. The way I trust you.”

Natasha stared at your hand, at the quiet, open gesture you were offering her. For a long moment, the silence stretched between you again, thick, trembling. And then, slowly, she turned her palm up, lacing her fingers through yours with a quiet breath that sounded like surrender.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her thumb tracing a circle over your knuckles. “You’re right. You’ve been growing into exactly what we asked of you. And I’ve been too scared to meet you there.”

You nodded, breath hitching as the last of your tears clung stubbornly to your lashes. “Then meet me now,” you whispered, voice small but steady.

Natasha stilled for a heartbeat. Her eyes found yours, and in them, something shifted, slow but undeniable. The fear didn’t vanish, not entirely, but it softened around the edges, tempered by something far stronger. Resolve. Acceptance. Want.

“Alright,” she said at last, voice low and certain. “No more running.”

She leaned in, her hand rising to your face, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Her touch was warm, grounding, but her eyes were lit with something far darker, deeper, a glint of control that made your pulse stutter.

“If we do this,” she murmured, her voice low and edged with warning, “we do it my way. You say you want the real me? Then that’s what you’ll get. Do you understand?”

You swallowed, nodded, lips parting as the weight of her words settled into your bones. “Yes, Daddy,” you breathed, the title wrapping around you like silk and steel all at once.

A flicker of a smirk ghosted across her lips then, subtle but deadly, the kind of look that promised things you’d only dared to imagine.

“Good girl,” she said, and the praise sent a shiver through your entire body.

She leaned in just slightly closer, her voice dipping into that tone that curled heat low in your belly. “Go upstairs,” she instructed. “Take off your clothes. Wait on your knees.” She paused, her smile sharpening as her eyes drank in the way your breath caught. “And then we’ll see, won’t we, just how much you want your Daddy.”

—

You nodded with a single, frantic jerk of your head, too overwhelmed to speak, and then your body was moving on instinct, quick, almost clumsy in your desperation to obey. All you could focus on was the wild drum of your heartbeat and the racing thoughts that flooded your head like a storm surge.

Upstairs, you fired off a quick text to Kate, fingers barely steady, then moved as if pulled by some invisible thread. Each piece of clothing came off with shaking hands, your breath catching as cool air kissed your skin. You folded everything neatly, placing the stack on the chair in the corner like a silent offering; a small, desperate proof that even if you’d slipped today, even if you'd been bad, you still wanted, needed to be good for them.

And then you dropped to your knees. The position was second nature by now, knees pressed into the carpet, thighs spread just enough, spine long and straight, shoulders relaxed but not slouched. Hands rested lightly on your thighs, palms down, fingers splayed slightly. Your head bowed low in submission.

You didn’t dare fidget, didn’t shift or speak. You simply waited, every nerve on fire, every breath shallow, until finally the door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t lift your head.

“She’s very well trained, my love,” Natasha said eventually, her tone cool and measured, discussing you rather than addressing you. “But she still made the choice to disobey.”

Silence followed, thick and weighted until Wanda finally spoke. Her voice was softer, edged with sorrow rather than anger, but the pain in it was unmistakable. “She scared me.”

The words sliced through the room like a knife, lodging somewhere deep in your chest. Yet you didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare interrupt.

“I know,” Natasha murmured, taking a slow step forward. The sound of her boots was almost echoing in the quiet. “She scared me, too.”

Then her hand was in your hair, threading through it from crown to nape in a way that was far from comforting. She gripped you just tightly enough to tilt your head upward, to force your eyes to meet hers. “Look at me.”

You did. You had no choice. Her eyes were fire and stone, and though the fury had dimmed, the disappointment was still there, etched into every line of her face. You felt like you might fall apart just from looking at her.

“We gave you rules,” she said, slowly, carefully, as if daring you to pretend otherwise. “And you broke them.”

Your voice caught in your throat, and all you could do was nod, shame coursing through you like poison.

“And now,” she said, as her presence shifted into something sharper, more commanding, “you’re going to show us exactly how sorry you are.”

Then came the sound, it was unmistakable, the low slide of leather slipping free from its loops. Natasha’s belt.

Your heart stuttered, catching mid-beat. The room was still, that single sound landing like thunder between the three of you. Her footsteps moved again, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I’m not like Wanda,” Natasha said evenly, her gaze steady. “I don’t often give out spankings or lashings... but after today, I think you need that, don’t you?”

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

“I’ll be using my belt,” she went on, tone clipped, precise. “You will count each strike. And you will thank me for it.”

Your mouth felt dry as dust; your hands trembled faintly where they rested, but when your voice came, it was steady, quiet, and certain.“Yes, Daddy.”

Natasha stood before you, quiet for a moment, the belt coiled in her hand like a promise. Her eyes searched your face. You could feel her gaze digging through the layers of your submission, past the trembling anticipation and the guilt still curling tight in your chest, looking for anything that might signal hesitation or fear you hadn’t voiced.

Then she knelt, and that alone made your breath hitch. You never expected her to kneel, not when she was in control. But tonight, she needed you to see her. Not as the distant, unreadable force you'd grown so used to. Not as someone just watching from the sidelines. She needed you to understand that she was here, fully and completely.

One hand lifted to cup your jaw, thumb brushing just under your eye where the dried tracks of earlier tears lingered. You leaned into it instinctively.

“Colour,” she asked quietly, voice low and deliberate. Her gaze was sharp but not unkind. “Right now. Speak it.”

You swallowed hard, your voice small but certain. “Green.”

“Good girl,” she said softly, but the weight of it sent a shiver down your spine. “You tell me if that changes. Understood?”

You nodded, then corrected yourself immediately. “Yes, Daddy.”

She rose in one smooth movement, the belt now unfurling in her hand as she stepped back around behind you. “You’ll take ten,” Natasha said, voice firmer again now. “Five for the disobedience. Five for the attitude.”

Your fingers curled slightly against your thighs, nails biting into your skin just enough to focus you.“Yes, Daddy.”

“Up,” Natasha said, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up. As you rose, Natasha glanced over at Wanda, giving the smallest nod. It was permission, an invitation to let her join in.

Wanda stepped forward, her touch gentle as she guided you to the edge of the bed. “Hands on the mattress, knees apart, back straight,” she whispered, her tone soothing yet firm.

You positioned yourself carefully, muscles taut beneath your bare skin, vulnerable and exposed as you bent forward at the hips. Your bottom lifted just enough for Natasha to take aim. The air between you thickened, every breath heavy with a charged expectation that made your pulse race.

Natasha gave a few slow, deliberate practice swings through the air, the belt hissing softly as it cut through the quiet.

Then she stepped closer, her hand gliding over your bare skin with a touch so gentle it nearly undid you, a final stroke of calm before the storm. “You ready?” she murmured, her voice low and controlled.

You nodded, already breathless. “Yes, Daddy.”

She hummed, almost in approval, and then the belt struck.

A sharp, clean crack shattered the stillness, the leather snapping against the curve of your right cheek with devastating accuracy. The pain bloomed instantly: white-hot, searing, a jolt that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with fire. It rippled through you, lighting your nerves with something that felt just a hair’s breadth from too much.

You gasped, muscles tightening reflexively, heart pounding wildly. “One,” you whispered, breath trembling, cheeks flushed with a warmth deeper than the sting alone. “Thank you, Daddy.”

The belt snapped down again, landing clean against your left cheek with a cruel crack that made your whole body jump. This time, a soft whimper caught in your throat, the sensation sharper, deeper. But an involuntary shiver rippled through your body as pain began to mingle with an unexpected, tantalising pleasure.

“Two. Thank you, Daddy,” you breathed, voice breathy, almost lost beneath the rush of sensations flooding through you.

Three. Four. The belt traced searing lines of fire across your skin, each lash both agony and ecstasy, sending sparks through your muscles and igniting a blaze deep inside you. The heat spread, radiating outward, consuming and thrilling, your senses alive with every crack.

By the fifth strike, tears welled unbidden in your eyes. The pain was intensifying with every lash over the already tender skin; the pleasure was threatened, pushed to the edge. You were just about to call yellow when Natasha paused, pulling back slightly.

“You’re halfway there, Kotenok (kitten),” she said, her voice thick with pride and heat. “You’re doing so well.”

The brief reprieve and her gentle praise dulled the sting, and suddenly the ache softened. You felt steady again, caught between resistance and surrender, pain and delight, a heady cocktail that left you dizzy, breathless, desperate for more.

After a moment, the final lashes came faster, harder, each one a burning punctuation searing deeper into your flesh and soul. Your breath hitched in ragged gasps, low moans slipping free on the ninth and tenth strikes, before you finally whispered, “Ten, thank you, Daddy,” voice cracking as a shudder rippled through your body. Tears streamed freely now, pain fierce and unrelenting, skin flushed hot and humming with fire.

Behind you, Wanda’s hands were gentle and steady, soothing your trembling back with tender caresses that gradually melted the blaze to warmth. “Good girl, you did so well, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with affection.

You remained bent forward, breath shallow and ragged, every nerve alive and buzzing with a fierce, aching bliss. The pain had broken you open, cracked you wide, and beneath it all burned an exhilarating, desperate hunger.

Natasha lifted you carefully, mindful not to touch your sensitive skin, and eased you face down onto the bed, a soft pillow cushioning your head. Her fingers stroked the side of your face, warm and steady, before she pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You look exquisite, Kotenok (kitten). Your ass is such a beautiful shade of purple and red,” she praised softly.

“That was the first time you’ve taken a belt, wasn’t it, sweetheart?” Wanda’s voice was filled with pride, gentle and amazed.

You hummed softly in response.

Natasha’s chuckle was low and indulgent, her eyes glinting with something between adoration and pride. “You knew you wouldn’t get off with just a normal spanking from me,” she murmured, tracing the outline of the belt’s work. “But you took it beautifully, Printessa (princess). You were perfect.”

You let out a breathy, dreamy little giggle, face half-buried in the pillow. Your body felt loose, heavy, but warm all over, floating somewhere between bliss and exhaustion. “Didn’t break,” you whispered, the words lilting with smugness even as your voice slurred just a little. “Told you, Daddy.”

Natasha smiled, slow and fond, brushing her knuckles along your cheek. “No, you didn’t. Tough little thing, aren’t you?” Before her hand drifted back down to gently stroke the heated swell of your ass. The touch still made you flinch, the burn raw and aching, but it was grounding, anchoring, laced with something that made your stomach flutter again.

Wanda returned with some lotion, her steps soft and measured. “Nat, you take the edge off, I’ve got this,” she said, nodding toward the bed. Natasha climbed up beside you, cradling your head in her lap, one hand carding through your hair while the other cupped your jaw.

“Lotion’s coming, baby,” Wanda murmured as she settled behind you, warming it in her hands. “Ready?”

“Mhm, yeah…” You breathed. Your hips twitched when the first touch landed, cool and tender, Wanda’s fingers expertly massaging the sting away. Your thighs parted instinctively, knees shifting wider for no reason at all, just a gesture of pure submission. Wanda said nothing, just smiled behind you, pleased by the automatic surrender.

Meanwhile, Natasha was stroking her fingers through your hair, whispering soft reassurances about how good you were. It made you smile, you felt held, so safe. “You can be soft,” you murmured, nuzzling into Natasha’s thigh with a sleepy grin. “You try to be scary, but you’re soft, Daddy. So soft.”

Natasha chuckled darkly. “You’ve got quite the mouth for someone still trembling and glowing red, Printessa (princess),” she murmured, her voice silky but edged with warning, clearly not thrilled that you were seeing her as soft after she’d just whipped your ass with a belt. “Maybe you need more, huh?”

You let out a soft, drowsy little laugh. “Nooo,” you groaned dramatically, drawing out the syllable with petulant flair. “I’ll be good now. Promise. My butt’s on fire…”

“Oh, you definitely earned that fire, Little One,” Wanda said, though you could hear the smile in her voice. “I’ve never seen you act out like that,” she added, continuing to smooth the lotion over your skin with slow, practiced care. Each gentle stroke sent a fresh, cooling wave over your burning flesh, only to leave behind a new warmth, softer, deeper, impossible to ignore, and your body gave a faint, involuntary shiver.

You turned your head slightly, cheek pressing against Natasha’s thigh, blinking at her through heavy lashes. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” you murmured, your voice syrupy and slow, thick with the weight of submission. “Didn’t mean to…” You trailed off with a pout, though your tone made it clear the apology wasn’t entirely sincere.

Natasha snorted quietly, amused, and her fingers slid through your hair, combing gently. “Don’t give us that act,” she said with that wicked little twist to her voice. “You absolutely meant to. You were poking the bear on purpose.”

You giggled again, dreamy and far too pleased with yourself, nuzzling into her hand like a kitten drunk on affection. “Okay… yeah, I did,” you admitted, cheek pressed to the sheets. “But I got what I wanted, sooo… clearly I should be a brat more often.”

Wanda let out a soft gasp of mock outrage and landed a light, open-palmed swat to your thigh, her skin still slick with lotion. The sensation made you jump, but not from pain. Your breath caught on a whine, your hips giving the smallest, shameless wiggle.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Wanda teased, palm pausing to stroke along the back of your thigh in lazy arcs. “You be our good girl, or you’ll be wearing welts like these every day of the week.”

“Mmm…” You squirmed again, an indulgent little sound escaping you, high and heady. “Maybe I liked it,” you whispered with a hazy smile, too dazed and floaty to even try masking the way your voice trembled at her touch. “Felt…good.”

Natasha leaned down slowly, her body brushing yours just enough to feel the weight of her attention, and you stilled completely, lips parting as her breath ghosted against your ear. “You’re lucky you’re adorable when you’re like this,” she murmured, voice a velvet growl. “Otherwise, I’d start again.”

The words slid down your spine like warm honey, thick and sinful, and before you could stop it, your toes curled tight and a soft, breathless moan escaped your lips, small and accidental, but full of exposed, aching need.

Wanda chuckled behind you, one hand still resting low across your backside, her thumb now stroking gently just under the curve. “Thought you said you didn’t want more, Little One,” she teased lightly, though her voice was already laced with something warmer, deeper.

“I don’t…” You mumbled, your face flushed, trying not to squirm beneath both their eyes. “No more hits anyway…”

Natasha tilted her head, her fingers slipping down to trace over your jaw with a feather-light touch. “Is there something you do want?”

You nodded, once, shy and breathless.

“Words,” Natasha said, her tone still wrapped in that low, velvety timbre, but sharpened with command. “Tell us what’s happening in that pretty little head of yours.”

You swallowed hard, struggling to gather your scattered thoughts as Natasha’s voice curled around you, turning everything inside into a slow, smouldering fire, and Wanda’s fingers traced their deliberate, torturous path across your skin, the soft pads gliding slowly over the raised, welted ridges.

“Mommy’s hands…” You breathed, barely able to get the words out, your voice catching and cracking as your thighs trembled, your hips shifting restlessly beneath the weight of their attention, “they’re making me… everything’s so sensitive, feels good, Daddy… I wanna be touched…wanna cum…”

The last word left you on a broken whimper, fragile and pleading, not even a full breath of sound, but it was enough.

“Who do you want, Little One?” Natasha asked, her voice was still on the gentle side, and you could feel her thumb brushing deliberately against your temple, grounding you, holding you, even as the rest of her loomed like a storm waiting to strike. “Me? Wanda? Or both of us?” she asked, and you could hear the smirk in her voice, the way she already knew the answer.

Your lashes fluttered, and your face burned, and you couldn’t stop the grin that pulled at your lips even through the haze, cheeky and unrepentant. “Both,” you mumbled, your voice thick with need, your whole body thrumming with it. “Wanna feel both of you…”

Behind you, Wanda chuckled, the sound low and indulgent as she let her nail trail with sudden, shocking pressure along one of the rawer welts across your ass. “Greedy little thing,” she purred. “Didn’t we just finish punishing you?”

“Mhmm,” Natasha murmured, her voice dark with amusement, and her grin only widened as she let your head slip from her lap and lowered it gently onto the pillow. “And now she’s begging for her reward like the little brat she clearly is.” She rose smoothly, her body uncoiling behind you with slow, predatory grace.

Wanda climbed fully onto the bed, her body close, her thigh pressing warmly against yours as she knelt beside you, a steady presence at your side.

Natasha moved behind you, lowering herself until she could pry your legs open further. Her breath hitched as her gaze fell between them, and any lingering restraint she had vanished in an instant.

You were drenched, unmistakably aroused despite the punishment, and the sight of it lit something deep and primal in her. “Look at you,” she said, her voice cold and amused, “So wet from being hurt.”

Her fingers finally made contact, just the barest drag of her fingers between your slick folds, slow and cruelly restrained. Your breath hitched hard, your body pushing backwards into her before her hand slammed down against your thigh with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the room and left your skin burning.

“Beg,” she ordered, and you whimpered, already on the edge of falling apart.

“Please…” you whispered, barely more than a breath.

Another slap came down, sharper this time. “Louder,” she demanded, her voice firm and unwavering.

“Please, Daddy,” you gasped, your voice hoarse and broken, tears stinging your eyes already. I want your fingers, need you so bad, please—”

“Better,” Natasha growled, and then she gave you exactly what you’d asked for, two fingers plunging into you with no warning, a raw yelp tearing from your throat as she pushed into you. Wanda’s nails raked down your spine again in long, devastating lines that made your whole body twist and writhe, pleasure and pain tangling so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Brats don’t get soft,” Natasha snarled, her breath hot against your skin. There was no gentleness, just her fingers working you over, every thrust designed to split you open. “Brats get used.”

“And you love it, don’t you?” Wanda whispered against your ear, her lips brushing the shell of it as she slipped a hand beneath you, and to your chest, cupping your breast and teasing your nipple with her thumb.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Natasha’s fingers were hitting deep inside of you and the mattress below you was just slightly stimulating your clit with each thrust, every nerve in your body was screaming, burning, begging for release already.

Clearly, Natasha could tell, too. “Hold still,” she barked, voice sharp and unforgiving. “Don’t move a fucking inch until I say. And don’t even think about cumming.”

Wanda’s hand was soft against your chest, a twisted counterpoint to the violence behind you, her touch gentle and slow, grounding you as your whole body trembled violently beneath them both.

You tried to obey her, to stay still, to keep your hips steady even as your body screamed with the effort, but you were falling apart, unravelling beneath their hands, beneath her voice, beneath the hot, wet drag of your own tears against your cheek where your face pressed into the sheets.

The moans slipped out, soft and broken, catching in your throat like sobs, and your fingers clawed uselessly at the bedding, trying to anchor yourself to something while Natasha kept fucking you with those unrelenting, merciless strokes that hit so perfectly deep you could hardly remember what breathing felt like.

“Daddy,” you gasped, voice hoarse and shaking, “Please, Daddy. Fuck! Please—” You weren't exactly sure what you wanted, you think it was for her to never stop, to live inside you, but you couldn't be sure, considering your body was begging for release at the same time.

Her grip on your hip only tightened, holding you exactly where she wanted you, making sure you couldn’t squirm away, couldn’t fuck yourself down harder to chase what she was refusing to give, and her other hand kept moving, curling inside you just right.

Wanda’s hand moved to your jaw, cradling it gently, her thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free, her voice achingly soft by contrast, a warm thread through the storm. “You’re doing so well,” she whispered, her lips brushing your temple, “Let her hear it. Show her how much you need her.”

Your mouth opened again, but the words caught on a sob this time, raw and full of surrender, your chest heaving beneath the weight of everything you felt, need, shame, longing, adoration, so thick and tangled inside you it made your throat ache to speak.

Wanda watched carefully, ensuring you were both safe in this intense moment. Her fingers tightened around your jaw, holding your head still as she kissed your temple, again and again, whispering encouragement against your skin in a voice like balm, gentle, grounding, loving, everything Natasha was not in that moment, and it made the contrast all the more unbearable.

“That’s it,” Wanda murmured, her lips brushing your ear as Natasha’s rhythm grew more punishing. She knew you physically couldn't last much longer, after all, she had more experience with your body than Natasha did. So she gave you the permission you needed. “Come on, baby. Let go.”

And you did. You released around Natasha’s fingers with a raw, keening cry that spilled from your throat, your body convulsing with the force of it, the orgasm tearing through you like a wave too big to fight.

Your whole body trembled under the weight of it, hips jerking, legs shaking, tears spilling freely now as Natasha held you steady and fucked you through it, relentless until your sobs turned into whimpers, until your cries dissolved into breathless, broken moans.

Even then, she didn’t stop.

You cried out, high and sharp, your thighs trying to close instinctively, but she forced them open with her legs, her breath hissing between her teeth as she leaned into you like a predator cornering its prey.

“Oh no,” she murmured, almost laughing, her voice husky and low, thick with dark delight. “You don’t get to run from it now. You begged for this, remember?”

And then Natasha leaned forward, her body pressing flush against your back, and the pace of her fingers changed again, faster, harder, brutal in their precision as they fucked into you with relentless, single-minded force, every thrust driving the air from your lungs and making your eyes roll back. “So now you’re gonna take it, shlyukha (slut). You’re gonna take everything I give you until I say you’ve had enough.”

You sobbed, unable to help it, your voice catching in your throat as your whole body jerked with the sensitivity. It burned, every nerve raw and open, as her fingers were working that throbbing spot deep inside you, dragging more pleasure out of you than your body could handle, pushing you toward a second high before the first had even finished crashing over you.

“I c…can’t,” you gasped, words broken by ragged breath, your hands scrabbling uselessly against the sheets as the pressure built again with terrifying speed. “It’s too much, Daddy! Please…please I can’t—”

“You can,” she snarled, cutting you off with a vicious curl of her fingers that made you scream into the mattress, your legs kicking uselessly as she pinned you down. “You will. If I want more, you will take more. Don’t care if you’re crying. Don’t care if you’re shaking. You either safe word, or you take it like the whore you begged to be.”

Her voice was steel, but Wanda’s hands remained soft where they cupped your face, her fingers stroking your cheeks, catching your tears as they kept falling, her thumbs brushing them away with unbearable gentleness. She kissed your brow, your temple, the tip of your nose, her voice a slow, steady rhythm of quiet reassurance in your ear.

“You’re okay,” Wanda murmured, again and again, her lips barely moving against your skin. “You’re safe. You can do this, darling.”

You were trembling violently now, sobbing openly, but you didn’t ask her to stop. You didn’t want her to stop. Not really. Somewhere deep beneath the overwhelm, beneath the overstimulation and the ache spreading through your thighs and belly and chest, was the desperate part of you that needed to be taken apart, to be used and ruined until there was nothing left.

Natasha added another finger, her fingers soaking wet as they filled you again and again, her palm slapping wetly against you with every thrust.

“Pathetic,” she growled, mouth against your ear, teeth scraping your skin. “Fucking sobbing. Crying like you hate it, but you’re clenching around me like you’d die if I stopped.”

And she was right, you were so close again it hurt, so full of her, so overstimulated and desperate that every thrust felt like fire, like drowning, like you couldn’t tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began anymore.

You screamed her title, a ragged, half-broken wail into the mattress, but Wanda’s voice answered yours like a balm. “That’s it, sweet girl,” she whispered. “Let it break you. Let her take you all the way down.”

Natasha’s fingers continued moving, curling and thrusting deep inside you, each movement sharper, harder, more demanding than the last, her grip on your hip like iron as she drove you closer to that edge where everything blurred and shattered at once.

Your breath hitched, short and desperate, your body trembling so violently that your fists clenched the sheets until your nails bit into the fabric, white-knuckled and raw. “Please… please, Daddy…” you gasped, voice fading at the edges, “Please!”

Wanda kissed the crown of your head, her hands drifting over your back, tracing slow, tantalising paths along the scratches she’d left behind earlier.

“Hmm,” Natasha murmured, voice thick with amused cruelty. “You think you deserve a second, brat? After what you did today?”

You tried to steady yourself, to keep control, but your hips jerked involuntarily against her hand. Your voice was strained, trembling with a shameful desperation. “Please…”

Natasha’s voice was low, husky, with that unmistakable edge of command laced in every syllable. “Not good enough,” she said, her tone rough, dark with expectation. “Beg like you mean it. Like you’re begging for your life.”

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning with humiliation and want, eyes closing as the heat swirling through you turned into a frantic ache. Your voice broke, ragged and raw, spilling out all the trembling need you’d been holding inside. “Please, Daddy… Please let me come. I’ll be your good girl. I’ll do whatever you want. Please, I need you. Please…”

Natasha just chuckled, clearly not quite ready to relent just yet. Your body continued to tremble violently, every muscle pulled so tight it felt like you might shatter from the strain, every inch of you writhing under the pressure that had been building, aching, begging for release for what felt like hours.

Your voice broke free again, hoarse and raw, a sob ripped straight from your chest, laced with helpless surrender. “I’m gonna…I can’t, Daddy, I can’t hold it, I’m sorry, I can’t, please—”

It had stopped being a plea altogether. It was more like a confession, you were going to cum whether you were given permission or not; you just desperately hoped that permission would arrive before you lost control.

The air went still, like the world itself was holding its breath. Then she leaned in again, breath hot and steady against your ear, her voice low and terrifyingly gentle. “Okay. Cum for me, good girl.”

The words struck like lightning. It was immediate, devastating; the second her permission registered in your mind, your body detonated. You shattered with a scream that tore straight through your throat, every muscle seizing in violent spasms as the orgasm ripped through you, too intense, too much, more than you’d ever felt or imagined. You couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Your vision went white, then grey, then black around the edges as the release overwhelmed you completely.

Your eyes rolled back, your mouth open in a silent cry, and for a terrifying, beautiful moment, you felt yourself slipping under, deep and dark, the world narrowing to a pinprick of light before it vanished altogether.

Your limbs were limp and twitching in the aftermath, your face buried in the sheets as tremors rocked you. You were barely conscious, breath stuttering in shallow, uneven gasps. Your skin was flushed and fever-hot, soaked in sweat and tears, but your mind had gone blissfully quiet.

Natasha didn’t speak for a long moment; she just stayed with you, her fingers gentle now, drawing back from your trembling body with care, her presence still heavy and grounding. When her voice came, it was thick with pride, yet soft enough to make your chest ache.

“That’s it, krasivaya devushka (pretty girl),” she murmured, brushing damp hair from your face with slow, reverent fingers. “You did so fucking well.”

You couldn’t respond. You barely had the strength to breathe, let alone form words. Your body twitched again, the aftershocks still pulsing in deep, involuntary waves, and even those were almost too much. You whimpered softly, tears streaking anew from the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from relief. From the sheer vulnerability of what had just passed between you.

Wanda’s hand found yours, her touch warm and steady, and you clung to it without even realising, your fingers weakly curling into hers as she whispered something soft in a language you didn’t understand, her lips brushing the crown of your head.

The room around you was silent, save for your ragged breaths. The tension had faded. The storm had passed. Natasha moved first, slow and deliberate, every gesture measured as if the wrong angle might break you. She eased her hands beneath your slack body and gently coaxed you upright, murmuring soft nothings as she guided you with infinite patience into her lap.

She avoided the welts with careful skill, her fingers splaying wide to support your back as she shifted you until you were curled against her, your thighs folded over hers, your cheek resting against the firm plane of her chest.

Wanda was already there beside you, moving in tandem with Natasha, like this was something they’d done a hundred times before. Her hand brushed gently along your jaw, the backs of her fingers featherlight against your cheekbone, and her voice was barely more than a breath. “Little One… you’re so quiet,” she whispered. “Can you look at me, hm? Just a little?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed half-lidded, unfocused, your mouth parted slightly as if words might try to come, but nothing did. You were weightless, full of warmth and pressure, and not a single coherent thought. You didn’t even know whose hands were where anymore, only that you were held, and the world outside their bodies didn’t matter.

Natasha shifted behind you, her arms curling around your middle, and she leaned in close, her voice low, coaxing. “You with me?” she murmured against your temple, her breath warm and even. “Need you to give me something, yeah? Nod. Blink. Anything.”

Silence. You blinked once, but it was slow, lazy, so drawn-out it almost didn’t count. Your body was limp in her arms, small twitches still ghosting down your thighs, but there was no tension, no fear. Just exhaustion. Deep, beautiful, bone-heavy exhaustion, the kind that only came when you’d given everything and there was nothing left but this.

Wanda’s hand paused, just briefly, her eyes flicking up to meet Natasha’s. Her tone stayed soft, but there was the barest note of surprise in it, and something warmer beneath that, something almost admiring. “I’ve never seen her this far gone before,” she said gently, brushing your damp hair back from your face with careful fingers. “Not like this.”

That made Natasha pause. You felt it in her breath, the faint hitch against your neck, the subtle stiffening of her muscles where they cradled your back. Her grip didn’t tighten, but her stillness said enough, that flicker of something sharp and anxious just beneath her skin.

“She’s too quiet,” Natasha murmured, and for the first time her voice held a sliver of unease, something she couldn’t quite mask. “She usually… I mean, even when she’s out of it with you, she—”

Wanda cut her off with a look, her voice calm and even, as grounding as the touch she kept smoothing along your jaw. “You know she’s okay,” she said, not a question, but a gentle reminder. “Look at her. She’s breathing slow, she’s not flinching, her body’s soft. She’s not gone. Just… deep.”

Still, Natasha looked down at you, searching for something, anything behind your eyes. “She didn’t even flinch when I moved her. Not even a wince.”

“She trusts you,” Wanda said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s not a problem. That’s a gift.”

Natasha let out a slow, quiet breath, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, holding you more tightly now, tucking your face into the crook of her neck as if the closeness might coax you back into the light a little faster. “She gave me everything,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I didn’t mean to take too much.”

“You didn’t,” Wanda said gently, but with absolute certainty, her voice calm and grounding. “She’s fine, Nat. I promise. You’ve seen me drop just as deep, you know this space, don’t start second-guessing yourself now. I was watching the whole time, making sure you both stayed tethered. No one went too far. It’s alright. Just breathe and be with her, yeah?”

Natasha exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders softening just a fraction, but not all the way. Her arms tightened around you instinctively, protective and quiet, holding you as if her steadiness alone could pull you back to shore. And then your fingers curled in the fabric of her shirt. A barely-there twitch, not even deliberate, but enough. Natasha’s breath caught, and something melted in her expression as she leaned down, pressing a kiss into your hair like a prayer.

“That’s our girl,” she murmured, voice low and rough, barely more than a breath, but full of fierce, aching relief.

You didn’t answer. But your cheek nudged against her collarbone, just a little, a lazy, dazed nuzzle, and Natasha exhaled fully, like she could finally breathe again.

Wanda leaned forward, tucking herself in against your other side, her hand now holding one of yours, thumb brushing rhythmically along your knuckles. “Let’s let her drift a bit longer,” she whispered. “She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

And so they stayed like that, holding you between them. You didn’t know how much time had passed. It could’ve been minutes, could’ve been an hour, the soft thrum of Wanda’s thumb on your knuckles and the slow rise and fall of Natasha’s chest beneath your cheek made everything blur, timeless and quiet, like the world had narrowed to the exact point where their bodies cradled yours.

Then, at last, something shifted. It started in your chest, a quiet ache of emotion that bloomed outward like warmth returning to numb skin. You blinked slowly, the world still soft and blurry at the edges. You made a small noise, mostly a whimper, and Natasha’s arms instinctively tightened around you, the motion firm but soothing.

“Hey,” she whispered, and the relief in her voice wasn’t masked. It wasn’t even tried. “There she is. That’s it, Detka (babe)”

You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry. You swallowed hard and tried again, your voice barely more than a rasp, a breath caught on the edge of tears. “I’m sorry…”

Natasha shushed you immediately, her hand smoothing down the back of your head, her other arm tightening at your waist, still careful not to touch the angry red welts across your backside. “You don’t need to talk yet,” she murmured. “You just rest. You’re safe, I promise.”

Wanda leaned in, brushing a kiss just above your brow, her hand never letting go of yours. Her voice was warm and low, like the first glow of a fire in a quiet room. “You came back really slowly, darling. Gave us both a scare, hm?” There was no edge to it, no reprimand. Only concern, soft and absolute. “I’ve never seen you drift that far before.”

A tiny breath escaped your lips, almost a laugh, though too fragile to shape itself. “Didn’t mean to,” you murmured, your voice brittle and fading.

“It’s okay if you’re a bit out of it,” Natasha said quietly, her lips brushing the crown of your head. “Daddy and Mommy have you, baby. You’re so good for us.”

You whimpered, barely a sound, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of it all pressed down. You’d been bad before, you remembered just how far you’d pushed. The guilt still pulsed inside you, raw and unsteady. You wanted to apologise, to fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness, but somehow… they were already offering it.

Being told you were still good, hit you like a balm, cool and sweet and stinging all at once. Your lip trembled, your voice breaking the silence in a small, uncertain whisper. “Still… Little One?”

Even to your own ears, the question sounded fragile, wavering with that desperate need for reassurance that only they could offer. It wasn’t the first time you had asked that question, and it surely wouldn’t be the last.

Natasha’s breath caught faintly, and then she kissed your temple with aching gentleness. “Our Little One. Forever.”

Wanda’s voice joined hers, soothing and rich as she stroked her fingers through your hair. “You’re stuck with us now, malyshka. No escaping.”

You nodded faintly, eyes sliding shut again. The fog still clung to you; you hadn’t fully come back yet, but it didn’t feel frightening now. You were floating just beneath the surface, not lost, just… surrendered. And their voices tethered you. Their hands held you. You didn’t have to move. Didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to earn this.

A small silence followed, warm and deep, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the weight of being kept. Then Wanda stirred with a soft kiss to your shoulder. “I’m just going to get something for her,” she murmured gently. “Some water, maybe a snack.”

Natasha gave a small nod, her cheek still pressed to your hair, as if she couldn’t bear to lift her head. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice raw with gratitude. “Thank you.”

Wanda rose slowly, her fingers brushing over yours one last time before she left, a silent promise not to be long. Then the room was quiet again, just you and Natasha in the hush, her touch steady, grounding as she pulled a blanket over you.

When Wanda returned, it was quiet and swift, a bottle of water in one hand, a small biscuit wrapped in a napkin in the other. She knelt beside the bed, watching your face like she was reading something in the way your lashes fluttered.

Natasha adjusted you gently, raising you just enough to coax. “Alright, Detka (babe),” she whispered into your temple. “Time to try. Just a little something, and then you can rest again.”

You blinked slowly, the world still foggy and distant. But you let her guide you, let her bring the straw to your lips. Your lips parted slowly around the straw, the cool water slipping in like a balm against your dry throat.

You sipped tentatively, eyes fluttering as the water trickled down. Natasha’s fingers never left you, her thumb brushing along your cheekbone with a softness that made your heart ache and your eyelids flutter heavier.

“That’s it,” Natasha murmured, her voice thick with pride and relief. “Such a good girl, taking care of yourself. I’m so proud of you.” Her words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, steady and unshakable, grounding you further into this moment. “You’re doing so well. You don’t have to rush.”

From beside you, Wanda’s hand slipped to your face, fingers tracing gentle circles over your cheek, cradling your jaw like you were the most precious thing she’d ever held. “Look at you, malyshka (Little One),” she breathed softly, voice low and filled with awe. “Such a perfect girl.”

You blinked again, the fuzziness lingering but softening, your chest rising and falling a little more evenly with each soothing stroke of Wanda’s hand. The biscuit was pressed lightly into your palm, warm from her touch, and with gentle encouragement, your fingers curled weakly around it.

“Try a little bite,” Wanda coaxed, her smile tender and patient. “Just a small one.”

Your jaw worked slowly, the crumbly biscuit breaking apart in your mouth, sweetness blooming faintly against your tongue. Natasha’s voice was a steady hum in your ear, praise threading through every word. “That’s it, just like that.”

You swallowed, the taste grounding you more than you expected. Your eyes drifted closed again briefly, your body sinking deeper into Natasha’s embrace, Wanda’s hand never leaving your face, their presence a constant soft anchor in the swirling haze.

Wanda offered the water again, and you took it without hesitation, the coolness soothing the ache in your throat and the exhaustion in your limbs.

“You’re doing so well,” Natasha whispered, voice soft and full of wonder.

It took a little while to come back down, the world around you slow to settle. But once your limbs stopped trembling and your head stopped spinning, you turned into Natasha’s arms and curled there without hesitation, your voice quiet but full of truth as you murmured, “Thank you.”

She smiled, her fingers trailing lazy patterns across your back. “For what? The belt, or the orgasms that nearly killed you?”

You gave a tired, breathy laugh, hiding your face in her neck. “For listening. For wanting me.” You paused, then added with a grin. “And… maybe a little bit for the orgasms.”

Wanda chuckled behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. Natasha huffed a laugh of her own, sounding more relaxed than she had all night. “Not too much?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her tone, though the question beneath was genuine.

You shook your head, smiling. “It was a lot,” you admitted softly, “but not too much. Just… I think I might need soft, sometimes, though?”

Natasha tilted her head, pretending to think. “Hmm… soft. I’ll need a manual for that one.”

You grinned. “You’ve got Wanda. She’s an expert.”

Wanda kissed your cheek and hummed, “Lucky for her, I take apprentices.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too, warm and open in a way that made your chest flutter. “Well then,” she murmured, “I guess I’m all in.”

And that, more than anything, made you melt, safe and certain in the arms you’d craved for so long.

Eventually, Natasha and Wanda gently helped you up, guiding you carefully to the bathroom where they cleaned you with tender patience, every touch considerate of the welts on your skin.

Once you were freshened, they dressed you in a soft, oversized T-shirt that hung loosely, deliberately leaving you without underwear or trousers to avoid anything rubbing or irritating your tender backside. They took extra time to apply more soothing lotion, their fingers slow and careful, lingering on every sensitive spot with quiet affection.

Afterwards, one by one, they each prepared for bed, never once leaving you alone, both silently ensuring you felt safe and held. Before long, the three of you were curled together, you nestled snugly in the middle, wrapped in a warm, protective cocoon of love and care. Your eyes drifted closed, sinking into a peaceful sleep, tired, a little sore, but deeply content and completely fulfilled.

—

Next part

Taglist: @angelicbrats @chansawrelier, @brooklyn-r-dawson (If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know!)

#natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff smut #wanda maximoff smut #mommy wanda #daddy natasha #wlw smut #marvel fanfic #marvel smut #Bishovapls Fics #kate bishop #yelena belova #our little one

933 notes · View notes

sidemari · 2 months ago

Text

• Claimed •

NSFW headcanons of how having sex with them would be.

Characters included: John "Soap" MacTavish, Keegan P. Russ, König and Simon “Ghost” Riley [separately] x Fem!Reader

TW: Bondage; breeding kink; choking; creampie; edging; hate sex; jealousy sex; marking (hickeys, etc); masturbation; sub/dom dynamics; oral sex (F/M receiving); riding; slapping; praise kink, unprotected sex. Let me know if I missed anything.

A COD post you may like.

John "Soap" MacTavish

He's the perfect balance between dominant and submissive.

Usually when he comes home from a mission, exhausted and just wanting to spend time with you, he'll happily accept that you take the reins — sex will be calmer, more intimate and romantic in this case. But if he is well rested or even frustrated or riled up enough, he will be the one in control and will put aside his chill personality for a few moments. His main goal is to show he's the one in charge, the one exploiting your every weakness until you're broken.

Still on the subject of coming back home after missions, he gets clingy and horny when he's sleepy. There were many times when his hands roamed your hips and thighs as you cuddled, his fingertips slowly stimulating the right spots to make your desire awaken. Your hand, in turn, began to stimulate his already hard cock — restricted only by his sweatpants and nothing else — while you kissed his neck. A few seconds tended to pass before his hand guided yours inside his pants, allowing you to touch his cock: long, throbbing, dripping with pre-cum and crying out for attention.

He has a thing for positions where he can see your back and ass. His hands usually settle on your thighs as he pulls you against him, firm, rhythmic, and with each thrust, the sound of your bodies mingled with the muffled moans and the muffled sound of the bed beneath you. A soft smack would echo in the room — a tender slap, but full of desire, causing you to beg him to keep going. He would repeat it, more eagerly, watching your skin flush beneath his fingers. This isn’t about sex anymore — it is about dominance mixed with affection, intensity tinged with respect.

You were lying on your side, the sheets pulled up to your waist, and the curve of your body cast soft shadows in the low light of the lamp. He approached you from behind, his fingers slowly sliding over the skin of your back, tracing silent paths.

“I like seeing you like this.” He murmured, his voice husky against the back of your neck. “All mine...”

You sighed, closing your eyes as he wrapped his body around yours, fitting himself inside of you slowly, as if each movement had weight, intention. One of his hands held your waist firmly; the other moved down your arm, until his fingers intertwined with yours, sealing their intimacy in silence.

You squeezed his hand tighter, and he understood the message.

The thrusts became deeper, harder and faster — until you both were a moaning mess.

"Yeah, give it all to me, love..."

"J-Johnny— Fuck..." Your body obliged his words.

Keegan P. Russ

He likes to physically restrain you during sex so that he has complete control of you. If you get frustrated with his need for control, it only makes him even more satisfied.

If he chose to use ropes, he would start with your wrists. Bondage wasn't just about restraint; it was about trust. His fingers would slide firmly but gently, wrapping your arms behind your back. Each knot was tied with care and tested with delicacy. By the time he was finished, you’d be already panting, even without a more intimate touch.

Definitely uses his praise kink skills to his advantage. He would mumble compliments and sweet nothings while doing the most sinful things to you. Every time you obeyed his orders without blinking, every time you made an effort to make him feel good, you would be rewarded.

Jealousy is a common cause of intense sex scenes between you. Keegan is a healthy boyfriend, but jealousy can quickly develop within his heart, and often the most effective way to resolve these feelings is by fucking the frustration away. Many times he wouldn't see you as the sweet girl he asked out, but as someone who deserves to be punished, especially if someone looked at you with ulterior motives or touched you without him expecting it. He knows that it is not your fault, but the need to show the world that you belong to him speaks louder. This leads him to mark your body in many different ways, whether with hickeys — you've had situations like someone from the squad asking you where those marks came from more times than you'd like to admit — or even with his own cum — several times you had to pretend that everything was under control while talking to your superiors as you felt his cum dripping out of you.

You belong to each other, and no one can change that.

You had argued due to his stupid jealousy once again.

He approached slowly, stopping behind you. His hands rested firmly on your waist. You didn’t move away. The air between you was charged — with anger, with desire, with unspoken love. When he pressed his lips to your bare shoulder, you shivered. It was the kind of touch that said “listen to me” without words.

“You annoy me deeply.” He murmured, his voice hoarse, restrained.

You answered him still harshly, but your eyes already betrayed your surrender.

“Then show me.”

The kiss came like a snap — urgent, deep, desperate. He pulled you tightly by the waist, pressing your body against his. His hands slid down your thighs, lifting the fabric of your clothes carelessly. There was frustration there, yes. But more than that, there was a desire to resolve this in the most primal way you knew how.

He turned you against the wall with a sure movement, his body pressing against yours from behind, the penetration coming quickly, full of urgency as you surrendered yourself, pushing your hips back, seeking more, feeling alive under the dominion of his touch.

“You are mine… only mine.”

Your bodies were slamming against each other, your moans were being muffled by kisses, his hand, and the way his mouth claimed yours.

When you came, it was as if all the rage evaporated. Keegan came soon after, buried deep inside of you, still pressing you against the wall, your hearts beating as one.

“You better don't let anyone else touch you again.” He muttered seriously.

König

This man is a sucker for going down on you. He loves the way you shiver every time his tongue stimulates your clit while his fingertips keep brushing against the most sensitive spot within you. You arched your body as you felt his tongue teasing, firm and attentive, as if it knew exactly what you needed. He watched you break as he brought you over the edge again and again, savoring every sigh, every tremor. When you pulled him to you, there was no more distance, just the fusion of the two of you — skin against skin, desire against desire.

He definitely has a thing for cumming inside you. He finds it so intimate, so warm and so delicious that it's hard for him to hold back. You didn’t take long to start suspecting that maybe, just maybe, he may have a breeding kink, and you keep teasing him about it, not only by allowing him to fill you up completely with his cum every single time you two have sex, but also by preventing him from pulling out of you (the few times his self control wins) by wrapping your legs tightly around his waist as you whisper to him that you need to feel his seed inside of you.

Edging is common with him. He kisses your neck, your shoulders, the curve of your breasts, while his hands explore the contours of your body with care and firmness. His fingers touch you with a calculated rhythm, alternating softness and intensity, exploring limits. And every time you thought relief would come, he would stop — just for a few seconds — just to hear you beg for more as you became more sensitive, more surrendered, more vulnerable to pleasure. He wouldn't let you escape — his eyes fixed on yours, attentive to every reaction. When he finally penetrated you, you were already trembling. Each movement of his passed through you like a wave, and your body responded with broken moans and meaningless whispers. He smiled against your skin — he knew the power he had. And then, when the climax arrived, it was as if the world had dissolved. You came undone in his arms, your body writhing in spasms of pleasure, your mind blank, filled only with the sensation of his touch — present, absolute, necessary.

The night was advancing in silence, and the room was all darkness and slow breathing. The sheets were warm from the heat of your bodies, and there you were, intertwined, naked, cuddling each other, as if you didn't want time to pass. You felt his chest pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around you carefully, his legs tangled with yours.

Still half asleep, you smiled when you felt his lips brush the back of your neck — a light kiss, almost shy, but full of intention.

There were no words, just a gesture. He gasped, trying to stifle a moan that insisted on leaving his lips as you stimulated the tip of his cock with your index finger — slowly, steady and hot.

"Fuck, that's good—"

"Shh, let me make you feel good while you relax." Your hands stroked his cock as his moans were soft, lazy, mixed with low chuckles of disbelief and stray kisses on the shoulder.

"I... I don't deserve you…" His cock throbbed, you knew he was close.

"C-Can I cum inside you? Please, I-I..." He whimpered, a sincere plea written in his words. You smiled with a half smile, straddling his lap before burying him completely inside you.

“Fill me up completely… I want to feel you dripping out of me later.”

“F-Fuck, liebling—” He pulled you against his body as he came while your own orgasm slowly faded as your walls accepted his essence. “I love you, meine Liebe.”

Simon “Ghost” Riley

He is still relatively reserved even after months of relationship, but there is no lack of intensity and connection between you.

Having sex with him is not only a carnal experience, but an emotional one. Every sensation, stimulus, kiss, touch, and word makes you experience the best that life has to offer: pure satisfaction.

Among the habits he has during sex, the delicious way he squeezes your neck with his hand or even with his biceps is by far one of the best sensations he can give you. It is absurdly good to feel lightheaded while you see his blurred figure above you due to the tears of pleasure as he pounds his cock inside you just the way that makes you melt under him.

He changes the rhythm, depth, and strength of his thrusts without failing with his movements even once. Maybe he has become addicted to seeing how you whimper and shudder when the thrusts that were until then slow and deep become shallower, stronger, and faster.

Any position that allows him to see your face while you have sex is ideal for him. It’s not uncommon for Simon to pull you in for a slow, intimate kiss when he’s close to cumming, filled with silent adoration

He tends to be more dominant in bed; let’s face it, that’s his personality. But if you ever feel like taming him is a good option, he won’t hesitate to obey you: he welcomes every stimulus you give him with pleasure, making sure to be a good boy for the one he loves so much.

He hugged you from behind, murmuring something unintelligible in your ear before picking you up and placing you on the kitchen counter.

“S-Simon…” He took you by surprise. You were cooking breakfast for the two of you when he showed up, wearing only sweatpants, his hair disheveled, his eyes full of sleep, and his voice hoarse.

“You got out of bed...” He murmured again, and this time you understood it perfectly. “...and left me there, alone.” Your boyfriend pressed wet kisses against your neck, moving down to one of your breasts. The tip of his thumb caressed your nipple above the fabric of your shirt, making it hard and sensitive enough to make you whimper.

“The pancakes… they’re going to get cold.” You murmured, squirming in anticipation as your shorts were pulled down with absurd ease. You didn’t care about that food; you just wanted to have sex with him right there. It was bizarre how he could get you in the mood in a matter of seconds.

Kneeling down, he kissed the inside of your thigh before murmuring against your skin.

“I feel like eating something else before breakfast.” You blushed, avoiding eye contact with him. “Look at me,” He asked, his voice low and firm.

“I want to see your face while I eat you out.” You obeyed. And right there, on the kitchen counter, he began. His tongue was precise, careful and, at the same time, full of intention. He explored every part as if he had all the time in the world — as if he were memorizing your taste. You moaned, your fingers going to his hair, gripping it as if that anchored you to reality. But he only chuckled softly against your folds.

You tried to close your legs as the wave of pleasure began to take over, but he held you even tighter, his dark eyes fixed on you.

“Don't. I want to see everything. I want to feel you cum in my mouth.” The cold marble contrasted with the heat of the moment, and between sighs, contained moans and the firmness of his hands, you knew — you would never be able to touch that counter again without remembering how he made you cum there.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost x reader #ghost smut #soap x reader #soap smut #konig x reader #konig smut #keegan x reader #keegan smut #cod x reader #cod smut #cod x you #masktok #ghost x y/n #soap x y/n #konig x you #keegan x you #what am i doing with my life

491 notes · View notes

xoxomilesteller · 2 months ago

Text

daddy’s girl

father figure!beau arlen x reader | MDNI

cw: daddy kink (daddy, dad), mentions of a toxic dad, unprotected p in v (no balloon no goon), praising, pet names (doll, sweet girl), dacryphilia (i think?), legal age gap (on a role w these ones lmao), finger sucking, fingering, kinda rushed

def has grammar mistakes!

inspired by @honeyroots and this!

wc: 1.8k

growing up, you always had troubles with your dad. you used to be such a daddy’s girl when you were younger but when you became a tween, your relationship started to change. fights became a common thing and he’d always yell at your for everything you did.

you just missed the man he was when you were younger.

you missed being in his arms, feeling like he can and will protect you from anything.

so when you met beau, you knew you were in deep trouble.

and it only got worse since you guys started dating.

beau didn’t mean for it to happen, you were drastically younger than him and had so much energy, but he loves it. he loves the adrenaline rush you give him because he never knows what’s going to happen around you, and he’ll just go with it.

beau is the embodiment of a perfect dad. he’s protective, sweet, mannered, has grey hairs growing on his chin. you tend to piss him off a lot because he gets irritated, but he doesn’t yell at you. he sits you down, talks about it in his dad voice, and that’s it.

but the dad voice just does something to you.

and beau does know about the issues your father has given you. however, you try to steer clear of even talking about him because you’ll end up in tears and beau would want to console you, only making everything worse for you.

you haven’t introduced them yet, you didn’t want to hear your dad shame you or try to insult beau. but beau being the family man he is, he’s been begging and begging you to meet him.

so you gave in.

you’ve stressed clean the entire house, even scrubbed the gout from the bathroom tiles, you cooked enough food for the entire neighborhood, you paced around in the kitchen, chewing nervously on your lip until he came.

the dinner was going good.

then your dad raised his voice at you, which sent you back to your younger years. beau didn’t yell at your dad, but simply and politely asked him to leave since you got up and walked away from the table to cry.

you don’t like crying in front of beau because again, he’d try to console you, making things much worse because your boyfriend is a much better authority figure than your own father ever was.

when beau sees your dad out, he walks to the room, his face instantly softening at the scene in front of him. you’re laying down, face buried into the pillow to silence your sobs, your body shaking with each one.

“doll?” he rubs your back

you flinch, not expecting him, but you just shake your head.

beau frowns, “let me be there for you doll,” he whispers softly

and it just does something to you.

you nod.

he wastes no time in settling down next to you, back against the headboard and picking you up, settling you down on his lap and wrapping his big arms around you. you bury your wet face in the crook of beau’s neck, clinging onto him.

“don’t listen to what he had to say doll,” he whispers and pulls your head back to look at you.

he knows it’s bad timing, but you look so beautiful. your lips are swollen and pouted, eyes are glassy and wide, lashes look extra long. he is flexing his thigh to the point it will start cramping because he dick cannot stop twitching.

“let dad take care of you, yeah?”

you sniffle and nod.

he smiles and leans over to the nightstand, grabbing a tissue to wipe your tears clean, “prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he mutters, using his left hand to hold your face steady.

“thank you for not yelling back at him,” your voice cracks and your gaze lands on his eyes

“i know doll, i know,” he coos, “not gonna stoop down to his level”

you bury your face again onto his skin, feeling more tears come out at his words. you didn’t realize how healing this is, freely sobbing in his arms without the fear of getting yelled at for it, which only makes you cry more. beau holds you, flush against him, feeling your body shake.

he ignores his hard on, which cannot be avoided now that you’re shaking on top of him. you feel it growing too, but you also ignore it. you know beau gets hard easy, you tease him a lot about it, but right now, you just want to stay in his arms.

beau loves his skin to skin, so he slips off the straps of your dress and bra, which you allow and you sit back, to let him remove his shirt. then he pulls you in, which automatically makes your heart beat quicker. the warmth of his skin against yours, the smell of him, the way he just heals you.

“it’s okay doll,” his hands massage your skin, “jus’ let it all out,” he drawls, “daddy’s gotcha”

you nod, coating his chest in your tears. you tilt your head up to look at him and he softly smiles, bringing his hand to wipe incoming tears out of the corner of your eyes, “whatever y’need, i’ll give, ‘kay?”

beau cannot stand the fact that you’re anything but happy, but it’s impossible to not think about how pretty you are. with every sob, he wants to fuck you, but in the most gentle way possible. he wants to take care of you, make you feel loved and protected, make you happy.

“i just need you,” you sniffle

he nods and pulls you in tighter.

God. he fucking loves you.

all you can think about is how your dad yelled at you, and all the other times he’s yelled at you. the worst times were when you were crying, like this. you don’t want to think about it anymore.

you don’t want to think. period.

“i want you to make me feel better daddy,” you mumble into his chest

“that’s what my doll wants?”

you nod and he sits you up right, to get a better look at your tear stained face, “such a daddy’s girl aren’t you?”

“yes,” you whisper, his thumb trailing over your pouted lips.

you kiss the pad of his thumb and take it into your mouth, tasting the saltiness of his skin and your tears.

“my sweet girl,” he coos, rubbing the back of your head with his other hand, “that’s it doll,” he praises when he feels your tongue swirl over the tip of his finger, “that’s it,” he trails his hand down to where your dress is all bunched up. you lift your hips, providing easier access for him to slip it off. his hand cups your heat, feeling how wet you are through your panties, “my poor doll,” he kisses the side of your face, “must be so uncomfortable, yeah?”

you remove his thumb from your mouth, pouting at him, “it is,” your voice is still wavering

“lay on your side, facin’ me, i’ll take care of you”

while you do that, beau removes his pants and lays on his side too, turning to you. beau has to see your face, he feels so messed up for thinking it, but he needs to see you come apart while you cry, he feels like it just might be the most beautiful thing to witness.

he scoots closer to you, taking one of your legs and placing it on his waist to open you up. he slips a hand under your panties, “this what you need doll?” his middle and ring finger tease your swollen and wet lips

you gasp when he finally slides them in, your nails clawing his chest. each thrust of his fingers makes tears fall out of your eyes.

“let’s keep those pretty eyes open and on me, okay?”

beau can cum right now, with the sounds of your tight cunt taking his fingers, your soft moans, the way you look. your eyes. and he just watches your face, watches the tears roll out of your eyes, your mouth drop open, the way you struggle to keep your eyes open.

it’s embarrassing how easily with just his fingers he can fuck the sense out of you. with every curl of them and hits your gummy spot, you forget more and more on what happened earlier with your dad.

“gonna cum f’me doll?”

you nod frantically, “please”

he groans when he feels your walls tighten around his fingers, along with your leg around his waist, his cock throbbing at the sight of you.

he desperately needs to be inside of you, so his thrusts his fingers harder, “let go doll”

at his command, you instinctively close your eyes and let your hips roll on his fingers, riding your orgasm out. while you’re still recovering, he slides off your panties and with no warning, pulls you in closer and shoves his cock inside of you, causing you to scream his name.

“sorry doll, couldn’t help myself,” he kisses your forehead, “jus’ had to have you ‘round me again,” he places a hand on your hip, squeezing the flesh, his hot breath fanning over your face

he slowly rolls his hips, leaving just the tip, then sliding back in with more force that leaves your eyes rolling back.

“daddy,” you sob

“If it’s too much y’can tell me doll,” he pants

you shake your head, “d-don’t stop”

each roll of his hips, remind you of how thick he is, just when your walls get used to his size, he just slides back in, hitting that spot. you thought he was going to fuck you, hard and fast, but this is way better. you can really feel him, feel every vein, every ridge. and his hand just travels around your body, like he owns it, because he does. no one can make you feel this good, this full, not even yourself.

only beau.

he watches you, feels you. feels you clench around him, how your nails dig into his skin, continues watching the tears roll out of your eyes and kisses them away.

“dad’s gotchu doll, i gotchu,” he pulls you in for a bear hug, flush against his body

it only heightens the intensity more, being so close to him, but your brain is mush. the only thing in your head is beau’s cock and you don’t ever want it to leave.

beau starts moving your hips on him, guiding them gently on his cock, the base of it rubbing your clit. the pace of his own hips start to falter, so he’s close.

“i’m gonna-“

“yeah?” he grunts, “go ‘head doll”

your walls seal him in, tight, and you cum around his cock, moaning his name as loud as you can, tears spilling. he follows right after, feeling him shoot inside of you.

“you want me to stay in ‘ere doll?” he pants, chest heaving and brushes hair out of your face

you nod “please”

he kisses you, “forgot why you were cryin’ didn’t you?” he chuckles

“thank you,” you say softly

“anythin’ for my sweetest doll”

AN: THIS WAS SO RUSHED SORRY LMAO

banner by: @dollywons

tags: @redhairedgardenfairy

613 notes · View notes

badathumanemotions · 3 months ago

Note

hi can you write a fic about the team is at a bar ( spencer and the reader are “enemies” ) and the readers ex shows up so she makes spencer act like her bf (they kiss 😛) and it results in them getting freaky because they realise their real feelings for each other

Friction (Part 1)

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI MasterList Catergory: Smut CW: Enemies to Lovers, Petty Arguments, Fighting, Mean Break Up With Ex, Girl's Night, Background/Foreground Case, Usual Criminal Minds Warnings, Fake Dating, Smut, Sex Up Against The Wall, Oral, Dom/ Sub Undertones, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex. WC: 25,106 [Total Count 52,733] Part Two (AN: I got carried away with this one. It was too long for one post so I had to split it. I know it's not exactly what you asked for but I hope you don't mind. Not Proof Read) From the moment you joined the BAU, you and Spencer Reid had been at odds.

At first, you thought it was just an adjustment period. Everyone had warned you about his quirks—his brilliance, his social awkwardness, his resistance to change. It wasn’t personal, they assured you. He just needed time.

And you had no problem with that. You had seen how he interacted with the rest of the team, how he softened once he settled into a rhythm with someone. You figured it would be the same with you.

But it wasn’t.

Time passed, but Spencer didn’t warm up to you. If anything, he seemed to grow colder.

At first, it was subtle. You’d say something, and he’d respond in clipped, uninterested tones, like he couldn’t be bothered to engage. You’d offer a theory, and he’d shoot it down with a rapid-fire recitation of statistics before moving on without a second thought. It wasn’t just that he was socially awkward—it was that he was dismissive.

And then, as the weeks went on, it became something more.

You noticed the way his jaw would tense when you spoke, the way he interrupted you more than he did anyone else. His corrections became sharper, more pointed, like he was trying to undermine you. And when you gave him back the same energy, he only doubled down.

It made no sense.

You had been nothing but friendly to him in the beginning, even a little in awe of him. You liked him—or at least, you had wanted to. You had made an effort, asking him about his interests, trying to engage him in conversation. You wanted to be his friend.

And yet, from the start, Spencer had been intent on keeping you at arm’s length.

It irritated you more than it should have. Maybe it was because you had seen glimpses of the way he could be—laughing with JJ, bantering with Morgan, engaging in quiet conversations with Emily. He wasn’t incapable of warmth. He wasn’t incapable of connection.

So why was it so impossible with you?

You didn’t understand it.

It was one of your first weeks on the team. The case had wrapped up early, and back at Quantico, the team—minus Hotch and Gideon—had been lingering in the bullpen, half-working, half-making conversation.

“You know what sounds good?” Morgan had said, stretching in his chair. “A drink. A real drink. None of this coffee and jet pretzel diet we’ve been on for four days.”

JJ hummed in agreement. “Ooh, yeah. Emily?”

“I’m in,” Emily had said immediately, swivelling in her chair. “Reid?”

Spencer had hesitated for a second before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

It wasn’t his usual scene, but the team had been encouraging him to get out more, and he figured one night wouldn’t hurt.

Then, almost without thinking, he glanced in your direction.

You were focused on something at your desk, jotting something down in a file, oblivious to the conversation happening around you. He knew you hadn’t heard Morgan’s suggestion.

And before he could think better of it, the idea formed.

Ask her to come too.

It shouldn’t have been such a big deal. It was a casual invitation, nothing more. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t even hesitate.

But it wasn’t anyone else. It was you.

Spencer shifted in his seat, pushing his hair behind his ear as he tried to work up the nerve to get your attention. His fingers tapped anxiously against his desk.

He ran through the words in his head. Something simple.

Hey, we’re going for drinks. You should come.

He swallowed hard. No, too eager.

The team is going out tonight. You’re coming, right?

Better. Casual. Not like he cared whether you came or not.

Spencer inhaled, finally ready to speak—

“Hey!”

Your name rang out across the room, bright and familiar.

Spencer’s mouth snapped shut.

You looked up, your face breaking into an easy smile as a man approached. He was tall, broad-shouldered, walking toward you with the kind of confidence that suggested he belonged there.

“Hey,” you greeted warmly as he reached you, and then, without hesitation, you introduced him to the team.

Spencer barely heard the words, but they echoed in his head regardless.

My boyfriend.

The realization had hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn’t know what he had been expecting—didn’t even know why he had been gathering the nerve to ask you to come out with them. But he knew, with startling clarity, that whatever fleeting thought had been in his head had been stupid.

Of course, you had a boyfriend.

Of course, you weren’t interested.

And from that moment on, Spencer had kept his distance.

Now, nearly a year later, you and Spencer Reid were still locked in a cold war of snide remarks, tense silence, and a mutual refusal to back down.

The team had learned to tolerate it, brushing past your constant clashes like background noise. Morgan smirked whenever you two were forced to sit together, JJ raised an eyebrow when one of you cut the other off in a briefing. Emily, ever entertained, had once called it weirdly impressive, the way you could turn even the most mundane conversation into a battlefield. Even Hotch had raised an eyebrow once, as if puzzled by how two otherwise competent agents turned every conversation into a sparring match.

And maybe it was.

Because for all the ways Spencer frustrated you, for all the ways you swore you hated him—there was something about your dynamic that you couldn’t ignore.

Something that made you fight back, instead of letting it go.

Something that made it matter.

And that was what irritated you the most.

Like the case in Detroit.

The house was eerily quiet. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting sharp slashes of light across the living room floor. It was the third crime scene in a week, and you were already exhausted.

Three women. All strangled. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. The only thing missing was their jewellery.

You and Spencer had been sent to the latest victim’s house to comb through the scene one more time. Just the two of you.

Fantastic.

“I don’t think the unsub is a stranger,” you said, scanning the room. “There’s no sign of forced entry. He’s either charming his way in or she already knows him.”

Spencer, crouched near the coffee table, didn’t even look up. “That’s not necessarily true. He could be posing as a maintenance worker or a delivery person. It’s common for serial offenders to gain access under false pretenses.”

You exhaled through your nose, forcing yourself to stay patient. “That’s possible. But if he were posing as a worker, wouldn’t the victims have mentioned expecting someone? None of them had appointments scheduled, no maintenance requests, nothing out of the ordinary on their call logs.” You gestured around. “And there’s no sign of a rush. No hesitation. He didn’t need to convince them. They let him in without question.”

Spencer finally stood, crossing his arms. “It’s still an assumption. People let in strangers all the time.”

You turned to him, incredulous. “So, you’re saying three women, in completely separate parts of the city, all just happened to let the same random guy inside?”

Spencer let out a sharp breath through his nose—the closest thing to a scoff you’d ever heard from him. “You’re conflating correlation with causation. Just because the method was the same doesn’t mean the victims knew him.”

You crossed your arms. “And you’re assuming you know everything just because you read a couple dozen studies on serial offenders with no forced entry.”

His eyes narrowed. “A couple dozen? Try over a hundred.”

You huffed a humourless laugh. “Wow. That explains so much.”

He tilted his head, gaze sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “It means, Dr. Reid, that maybe you should try thinking like a person instead of a goddamn textbook for once.”

His expression flickered—just for a second. A tiny crack in the mask. Then it was gone, and his voice was back to its usual, infuriatingly calm tone. “And maybe you should try thinking with logic instead of gut feelings.”

You stared at him, pulse thrumming.

God, he was insufferable.

It wasn’t just that he disagreed with you—it was the way he dismissed you. Like you were foolish for even suggesting a different perspective. Like your experience, your instincts, meant nothing next to his IQ and encyclopedic knowledge of criminal behaviour.

“Fine,” you said, stepping back. “You think I’m wrong? Prove it.”

Spencer blinked, clearly thrown by the challenge. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, crossing your arms. “If you’re so sure I’m wrong, prove it. Give me one solid piece of evidence that definitively rules out a personal connection.”

He hesitated.

Just for a second. But you caught it.

And that hesitation? That tiny, almost imperceptible pause?

It was a win.

Because for all his facts, all his stats, he couldn’t definitively prove you wrong. Not yet.

But instead of admitting that, he just clenched his jaw and turned away. “We should get back to the station,” he muttered, already moving toward the door.

You let him go, but the smug satisfaction in your chest was short-lived.

Because as much as you hated to admit it, as much as you wanted to believe that this was just a rivalry, just workplace tension, there was something else beneath the surface.

Something that made your heart race a little too fast whenever he challenged you.

Something that made it hard to ignore the way his eyes darkened when he was frustrated, or the way his voice got quieter when he was trying to prove a point.

Something that you both refused to acknowledge.

Because it was easier to fight.

Easier to pretend that this was just a clash of personalities and not something deeper.

So, as always, you buried it down, shoved it behind sharp words and colder stares.

And if Spencer Reid was doing the same? Well. That wasn’t your problem.

Monday came with the usual post-case lull, the team settling back into routine at the bullpen. The scent of Garcia’s latest flavoured coffee wafted through the air as she perched on your desk, legs swinging.

“You never told me how date night went,” she chirped, tapping at her keyboard with one hand while stirring sugar into her mug with the other.

You barely looked up from your paperwork. “Huh?”

“With the boyfriend,” she prompted, stretching out the word. “You two went out Friday, right? Fancy dinner? Wine? Come on, give me details, woman.”

There was a beat too long before you responded, your pen hesitating against the page. “Oh. Yeah. It was... fine.”

Garcia’s brows lifted at the lacklustre answer. “Fine? You usually get all dreamy-eyed when you talk about him.”

You forced a smile. “I guess I’m just tired. Case drained me.”

She didn’t push, but she noticed.

By Tuesday, the change in your demeanour had spread through the team like a quiet ripple in a pond. There was still no mention of your boyfriend. No lighthearted comments about your life outside of work. The usual sparks of your personality felt dimmed, and no one could deny the shift.

The day was long, and by the time you were all back in the bullpen, trying to catch up on case details, Morgan stretched his arms over his head with a loud groan.

“Man,” he muttered, “I can barely remember the last time I went to bed before midnight.” He dropped back into his chair and looked around. “Anybody else feel like they need a little work-life balance?”

Emily rolled her eyes but smiled. “For sure. We work in shifts, but we never really sleep at the same time.” She paused, glancing at you, and then back at Morgan. “I think we could all use a little more balance.”

JJ nodded in agreement, giving a slight chuckle. “Yeah, I hear you. We all need to find a way to make the job fit into our lives, not the other way around. That’s something I’d like to find in a relationship.”

You froze at her words, your fingers momentarily stilling on the case file in front of you. The word relationship hung in the air, and you could feel your walls instinctively rise. You hadn’t mentioned your boyfriend in weeks—not even to the girls, and now the topic of relationships felt like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Yeah, sure," you muttered, giving a tight smile as you kept your eyes on the case. “We’ll find a way to make it work.”

JJ caught the tightness in your tone, and she exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Emily. But they didn’t press you. Not yet.

By Wednesday, the rhythm of the bullpen had returned to its usual hum, but there was a subtle shift in the air. You were still going through the motions, keeping your focus on the case, but something about your presence was different. It wasn’t obvious, not to Spencer anyway. To him, it was the same as it always had been—just another day of your usual jabs and back-and-forth.

“Did you get those files for me, or do I have to send a reminder?” Spencer’s voice cut through the quiet, his usual tone of detached sarcasm filling the air as he stood next to your desk.

You didn’t even look up, your pen still scratching across the paper. “You’ll have to send a reminder, because clearly I don’t work on your schedule,” you said, your words sharp as ever.

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Right, because we all know how important your time is.”

You met his gaze for a brief second, then rolled your eyes, going back to the case file. “I’m glad you remember,” you muttered.

Spencer gave a small sneer, and shook his head. “Guess I’ll just wait, then.”

Your response was quick, as expected, and just as biting. You didn’t miss a beat. Everything about your interaction with him seemed normal to him, no different from the usual back-and-forth. You responded in the same sarcastic manner, throwing out your usual jabs.

But the team had started noticing. It wasn’t that you were acting differently around Spencer, but that there was something off about you overall. A quiet distance that you had put between yourself and the others, even when you were still doing your job.

Garcia was the first to pick up on it. After your usual banter with Spencer, she dropped by your desk, leaning against it casually.

“Hey, you alright?” she asked gently, her eyes scanning your face. She didn’t push, but she could see that something was different. You were still going through the motions, still interacting with Spencer like everything was fine, but there was an emptiness to your energy.

You didn’t meet her gaze right away, keeping your focus on your work. “Yeah, just tired,” you muttered, pushing a stack of papers around.

Garcia wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t press it. “Uh-huh. You’re always tired,” she said, her voice laced with concern. “But I haven’t heard you mention your boyfriend in a while.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t that you hadn’t noticed the silence about him—it was just that hearing Garcia bring it up made it painfully real. You forced a tight smile, a fake one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. We’re fine,” you said, hoping it didn’t sound as hollow as it felt.

Garcia gave you a knowing look, but didn’t push any further. Not yet. She could see it in your eyes—you weren’t fine, and she knew the silence wasn’t a coincidence.

Meanwhile, Morgan and Emily exchanged a glance across the bullpen. They were both catching onto the shift, seeing how your energy had dimmed. It wasn’t a massive change, but it was there. You weren’t the same. They could tell something was off.

But to Spencer, everything was still as it had been.

By Thursday, the subtle changes in your behaviour had settled into a noticeable pattern. You weren’t sure if it was exhaustion from the week or the simple fact that you didn’t have it in you to keep up appearances anymore, but your usual efforts to deflect and keep things light were slipping. It wasn’t just Garcia who had picked up on the shift—Emily and JJ had started to notice, too.

You weren’t avoiding people, not exactly. You still engaged in conversations, still laughed when the moment called for it, still contributed to the team dynamic like always. But there were cracks in the performance. Little things, like the way you hesitated before answering when someone asked about your plans for the weekend. The way your phone stayed face-down on your desk, as if you were avoiding something—or someone.

It was nearing the end of the day when JJ stretched in her chair and sighed. “I feel like this week has been a month long,” she said, rubbing her temples.

“You and me both,” Emily muttered. “We need a reset before the next case.” She looked over at you and JJ. “Drinks?”

JJ hesitated for half a second before nodding. ��Yeah, I’m in.”

Emily turned to you next, eyebrows raised.

You considered it. The idea of being out with them, surrounded by the normalcy of your team, was tempting. But you also knew that too much proximity to them meant a higher risk of them prying, and you weren’t sure you were ready for that yet.

Before you could answer, Garcia’s voice cut in from across the room. “Ooh, actually, I was thinking—we haven’t had a proper girls’ night in forever. We should do one this weekend.”

Emily perked up at that. “That’s a good idea.”

JJ nodded in agreement before looking at you expectantly.

You hesitated. If there was ever a time they were going to corner you about what was going on, it would be then.

But you were also tired. Tired of holding it all in, tired of pretending like nothing had changed when everything had.

“…Yeah,” you finally said. “That sounds good.”

“Perfect,” Garcia beamed. “Saturday it is.”

You forced a small smile in return, but the weight in your chest remained. You had a feeling this weekend was going to be harder than you were ready for.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to this.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to spend time with them—you did. Garcia, Emily, and JJ were some of the best people you knew. But you also knew they had been watching you all week, waiting for the right moment to ask the questions you weren’t ready to answer.

And tonight? Tonight was the perfect setup for it.

Garcia’s apartment was warm and inviting, lit by a mix of fairy lights and flickering candles. The scent of vanilla and something floral lingered in the air, blending with the buttery smell of popcorn on the coffee table. The couch was crowded with throw pillows, and an impressive spread of snacks covered the table—chips, chocolate, and a cheese board that was far too fancy for a casual girls’ night.

Emily flopped onto the couch, popping a grape into her mouth. “You know, Pen, normal people don’t make charcuterie boards for a casual hang out.”

Garcia huffed, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “First of all, I don’t surround myself with ‘normal’ people. Second, I’ll have you know that a well-balanced snack selection is crucial to the experience.”

JJ laughed as she curled up on the other side of the couch, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m not complaining. This is way better than the sad bag of popcorn I would’ve made at home.”

You gave a small smile, settling into the cushions with your own drink in hand. It was nice—being here, being with them. The easy conversation, the laughter, the warmth of it all.

For the first hour, everything felt normal.

Garcia kept the energy light, regaling you with a dramatic retelling of some office gossip she had overheard, complete with hand gestures and exaggerated gasps. Emily and JJ threw in their own commentary, and for a while, it was easy to pretend that this was just like any other night.

But you weren’t oblivious.

You caught the way JJ glanced at you when she thought you wouldn’t notice, the way Emily’s usual sarcasm softened just a little, the way Garcia kept the conversation moving, giving you space to settle in.

They weren’t going to push. Not right away.

Still, you knew it was coming.

It started subtly. A shift in the conversation, the way the air in the room seemed to change.

JJ leaned back against the couch, swirling her wine in her glass. “It’s nice,” she mused, “just us girls. It’s been a while since we did something like this.”

Garcia nodded, nudging you playfully. “Yeah, sweetness, you’ve been kinda… MIA lately.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “It’s just been a busy few weeks,” you said, keeping your tone light.

Emily gave you a look. Not pushing, not prying—just… waiting.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the rim of your glass. The words felt heavy, tangled in your throat. You had spent weeks keeping this locked up, pretending like everything was fine.

But they weren’t going to let you keep pretending.

So you said it.

“We broke up.”

The words felt strange, final in a way they hadn’t before. Like saying them out loud made them more real.

There was a beat of silence before JJ reached over, squeezing your hand. “I’m sorry.”

Garcia’s face crumpled in sympathy, and Emily didn’t say anything, just watching you carefully, waiting to see if you’d say more.

You swallowed hard, forcing a small shrug. “It was… coming for a while. I just didn’t want to see it.”

Garcia scooted closer, resting a hand on your knee. “Was it… bad?”

You hesitated. “Not in the way you’d think. But he had this way of making me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like no matter what I did, I was always… falling short.”

JJ frowned. “That’s not love.”

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “I know that. I do. But when you’re in it, when it’s happening… it doesn’t feel like that. It just feels like trying harder. Like maybe if I was a little less sensitive, a little less difficult, a little more—” You broke off, shaking your head.

Emily’s voice was quiet but firm. “More what?”

You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples. “He used to say I was too much. That I was exhausting to deal with.” Your voice wavered slightly, and you forced a breath through your nose. “He made me feel like I had to tone myself down all the time. Like I had to be easier to handle.”

Garcia’s grip on your knee tightened. “That is—" She sucked in a breath. "That is absolute garbage.”

JJ’s eyes were shining, and she reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are not too much,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Emily leaned forward, her gaze steady. “You know that, right?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I want to.”

Garcia made a wounded noise and pulled you into a hug, wrapping you up so tightly you could barely breathe—but you didn’t mind. You clung to her, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting of tears.

“It wasn’t just that,” you admitted after a long moment, your voice muffled against Garcia’s shoulder. “It was the way he’d say things that just… got to me. Like he knew exactly where to hit, even when he wasn’t trying to be mean.”

JJ rubbed your back gently. “What did he say?”

You swallowed hard. “One time, during a fight, I told him I was tired of feeling like I was never enough for him. And he just… looked at me and said, ‘I don’t think you even know how to be easy to love.’”

The room went silent.

Garcia pulled back just enough to cup your face in her hands. “That is not true,” she said fiercely. “Not even a little bit.”

JJ’s eyes were wet. “That is a horrible thing to say to someone.”

Emily shook her head, her jaw tight. “That’s not about you. That’s about him.”

You blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling to keep the tears from falling. “I think the worst part is… I believed him.”

Garcia let out a wounded noise, and before you knew it, JJ was pulling you into another hug, Emily shifting closer, a solid, steady presence at your side.

“You are not hard to love,” JJ whispered. “You are kind, and funny, and strong, and you care so much. Anyone who made you feel like you weren’t enough didn’t deserve you.”

Emily rested a hand on your knee. “You never had to make yourself smaller for him. And you don’t have to make yourself smaller for anyone else, either.”

Garcia sniffled, squeezing your shoulders. “And if anyone ever makes you feel that way again, we will make them regret it.”

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head.

It still hurt. It would probably hurt for a while. But sitting here, wrapped in their warmth, their unwavering support—you didn’t feel quite so broken anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

Monday came too soon.

The sun hadn't even come up yet when your phone rang. The sound cut through the stillness, waking you up and the second you saw Hotch’s name on the screen, you knew it was urgent.

By the time you arrived at Quantico, the rest of the team was already trickling into the bullpen, some looking more awake than others. Spencer had his satchel slung over one shoulder, a book tucked under one arm. Emily cradled a travel mug of coffee like it was a lifeline, and Gideon stood near Hotch, arms crossed, already in work mode.

You adjusted the strap of your go-bag, exhaling slowly as you made your way towards them. The weight in your chest—the one you hadn’t fully acknowledged until the other night—felt a little lighter now.

Girls’ night had been good for you. It had been painful, but it had been necessary. JJ, Emily, and Garcia had given you space to lay it all out, to speak the words you had been holding in for too long. And in return, they had given you their warmth, their support, their unshakable certainty that you were worth more than what your ex had made you believe.

You weren’t magically healed—far from it. But for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t carrying it alone.

Unfortunately, self-reflection had to wait. Work never stopped. The briefing room was heavy with tension, the kind that settled deep in your chest. The urgent call had come in barely an hour ago, pulling you all in earlier than usual with little time to process anything beyond getting here as fast as possible. Now, with the jet waiting, Hotch stood at the head of the table, his expression grim.

“We’ve got a spree killer in Louisville, Kentucky,” he said, his tone clipped. “Eight confirmed victims in the last thirty-six hours. The attacks have been spread out across the city—parking lots, convenience stores, even at traffic stops. No clear connection between the victims so far.”

JJ scanned the file in front of her. “Louisville PD is stretched thin. They’re struggling to keep up, and local news is already running with it. People are panicking.”

Emily leaned forward, tapping a finger against one of the locations on the map. “Spree killers usually burn out quickly, but this guy isn’t stopping. If anything, he’s escalating.”

Gideon nodded. “Which means either he’s building toward something or he’s completely out of control.”

You flipped through the reports, searching for a pattern. “He’s not staying in one area for long. No indication that he’s targeting specific people.”

“That’s what we need to figure out before he strikes again,” Hotch said. “Wheels up in twenty.”

By the time you touched down in Louisville, the city was already on edge. The latest victim had been killed barely an hour before your plane landed, and with no clear pattern to the attacks, it felt like you were already two steps behind.

The team split up immediately—Hotch and Gideon heading to the precinct to coordinate with Louisville PD, while the rest of you started canvassing the crime scenes. The killer had struck all over the city, never hitting the same kind of location twice. A gas station, a strip mall parking lot, a quiet suburban street. No connection between the victims. No clear timeline. Just chaos.

And the longer it took to find something solid, the worse it got.

Day one was spent chasing ghosts. Every lead fizzled out before you could get anywhere, every theory dismantled as soon as you thought you were onto something. Tensions in the precinct were high, exhaustion creeping into the edges of every conversation.

By day two, the frustration had settled into your bones.

“Nothing about this makes sense,” you muttered, rubbing your temples as you stared down at the whiteboard. “He’s not following a spree killer’s usual pattern. There’s no emotional trigger we can see, no connection between the locations—he’s just killing at random.”

Spencer, who had been pouring over geographic profiling data at the table, scoffed under his breath. “That’s what we’ve been saying for the last twenty-four hours.”

You shot him a sharp look. “I’m aware, Reid.”

The way he rolled his eyes set something off in you. Normally, you’d just snap back with something just as sharp, but with the exhaustion pressing in, patience was a luxury you didn’t have.

“Would you like to contribute something actually useful, or are you just going to sit there and be an ass?”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I am contributing. Maybe if you actually paid attention instead of complaining—”

“Okay,” Emily cut in, stepping between the two of you before it could escalate. “Let’s all take a breath, yeah?”

Your jaw was tight, fingers digging into the back of a chair as you forced yourself to look away from Spencer’s infuriating face. You could feel him doing the same.

It wasn’t just the case getting to you. It was him. It was always him.

And you were starting to get really sick of it.

Three days in Louisville, and the case was going nowhere. The spree killer was still out there, and you were all running on fumes, chasing leads that kept slipping through your fingers.

You stared at the whiteboard, scanning through the scattered crime scenes and victim profiles, trying to make sense of something that refused to fit together.

“This isn’t working,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We need a new angle.”

Spencer, hunched over the geographic profile, barely glanced up. “That’s been obvious since yesterday.”

Your patience was already razor-thin, and his tone was the last thing you needed. “Wow, thanks for the insight, Reid. Maybe next time, say something useful instead of just being a condescending ass.”

Spencer sighed, finally looking at you. “I’m saying we’ve been through these patterns already. Multiple times.”

“And? You want to just sit here and wait for the guy to strike again?”

“No, but maybe you could stop acting like you’re the only one frustrated!” His voice sharpened. “We’re all exhausted, we all want answers, but snapping at me isn’t going to magically make one appear.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back. “I don’t expect you to magically solve it, genius or not.”

He scoffed. “Right, because you’d rather argue with me than actually get anywhere.”

“You are impossible to talk to.”

“Likewise.”

The tension between you was suffocating, neither of you willing to back down. Your pulse was hammering in your ears, your whole body wound tight.

Spencer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “God, you’re just—” His voice was tight with frustration as he muttered, “You’re exhausting to deal with.”

It hit like a punch to the ribs.

For a moment, you just stood there, thrown off balance. The fight inside you flickered, then went out completely.

Spencer expected another snap back, another glare, another biting remark. Instead, all he got was silence.

You swallowed, your throat tight, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. But it wasn’t enough. Spencer saw it—the way something in your eyes dimmed, the way your grip on the edge of the table tightened just a fraction before you let go.

The weight in his stomach dropped.

This wasn’t like before.

The arguments, the back-and-forth, the push and pull—there was always an edge of exhilaration to it, something sharp but controlled. But this? This didn’t feel right. There was no rush, no victory, no satisfaction.

It just felt wrong.

You took a slow breath, keeping your voice steady. “Excuse me,” you said quietly.

Then you turned and walked out.

Not storming off. Not slamming doors. Just… leaving.

Spencer sat back, gripping his pen a little too tightly, his jaw clenched.

The silence left in your wake was heavy.

JJ let out a quiet breath, shaking her head. Emily was already pushing herself up to follow you.

Spencer stared at the table, trying to convince himself he didn’t care.

So why did it feel so wrong?

Emily found you in one of the empty offices, the dim light from the desk lamp casting long shadows along the walls. You sat in the chair closest to the window, arms crossed, staring blankly at the parking lot outside. The door creaked slightly as she leaned against the frame, but you didn’t look up.

She knocked lightly, just once. “Figured you’d be in here.”

You huffed, a weak attempt at a laugh. “Yeah, well. Needed a minute.”

Emily stepped inside, closing the door halfway but not shutting it completely. She wasn’t cornering you in, just giving you space. “I get it.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Emily knew better than to push. She leaned against the desk, hands bracing the edge, watching you carefully without making it feel like she was studying you.

You wanted to brush it off, to tell her you were fine. But the words felt too heavy, too hollow, and Emily wasn’t the kind of person you could lie to so easily.

She spoke first. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. “Not really.”

But the words were already pushing at the edges of your teeth, restless and aching. Emily just nodded, like she knew you’d say more when you were ready.

Your fingers curled around the hem of your sleeve. “It shouldn’t have gotten to me.”

Emily tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. But it did.”

You let out a slow, frustrated breath, pressing your fingers into your temples. “It wasn’t the same as before, but it still—” You stopped, jaw tightening, shaking your head as if that would loosen the feeling lodged in your chest. “I don’t know. It still hit.”

Emily studied you for a moment before speaking, her voice quieter but sure. “Sometimes it doesn’t have to be the same to hurt the same.”

That shouldn’t have made your throat tighten, but it did. Your ex’s words had been cruel, calculated. Spencer’s had been careless, tossed out in frustration. But they had landed in the same place, re-opening something you hadn’t realized was still raw.

You inhaled sharply, blinking hard as you turned your gaze back to the window. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “I should’ve just snapped back like usual. I don’t know why I—” You hesitated, trying to find the right words, trying to make sense of your own reaction.

Emily didn’t fill the silence for you. She let you sit in it, in the weight of it, before she finally said, “Because sometimes, it’s not just about the words.”

That hit too close. You swallowed. “I don’t even think he realized what he said.”

“He didn’t,” Emily agreed. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

The confirmation made your chest ache. You could deal with Spencer being an ass. You could deal with the usual biting remarks, the way you two pushed and pulled at each other like it was second nature. But this was different. And maybe that was the worst part—he hadn’t even known what he’d done.

You dragged a hand down your face. “I just—God, I hate feeling like this.”

Emily’s mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t pity either. “I know.”

Another moment of silence, but this time, it felt a little easier to breathe. Emily wasn’t pushing you to move past it, wasn’t telling you to toughen up or act like it didn’t matter. She was just here. A steady presence in the middle of a storm you hadn’t expected.

You let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

Emily nodded. “Anytime.”

After a moment, you straightened in your chair and rubbed a hand over your face. “I think I just need a little time.”

Emily studied you for a beat before nodding. “Okay. I’ll let the team know you’re taking a minute.”

You gave her a small, grateful smile. She didn’t press for more, didn’t tell you to shake it off or come back before you were ready. She just squeezed your shoulder lightly before slipping out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You sat there for a long time, staring out at the parking lot without really seeing it. The argument played on a loop in your head, over and over, like pressing on a bruise just to see if it still hurt.

It did.

Spencer’s words echoed, rattling around in the space between memory and old wounds, landing exactly where they shouldn’t have. You had taken hits before—verbal, emotional, professional. You had always given as good as you got, pushing back, meeting force with force.

But this?

This had made you fold in on yourself before you could stop it.

That’s what gnawed at you. Not just the hurt, but how easy it had been to slip back into it.

Eventually, you exhaled sharply and pushed yourself up. Hiding wouldn’t change anything.

When you stepped back into the main workspace, you caught the way the team registered your return.

Emily glanced your way but didn’t say anything, just subtly shifting to give you a spot near the table. Gideon and Hotch barely looked up from the geographic profile, their focus locked in on the case. JJ offered a quick, understanding smile before turning back to her notes.

And then there was Spencer.

You felt his gaze before you saw it.

He was watching you—not in the usual sharp, assessing way, but with something else flickering behind his eyes, something you couldn’t quite place.

You ignored it.

You sat, pulled the case files toward you, and focused.

It didn’t take long before Spencer tried to bait you.

“So, are you actually going to contribute this time, or just—”

JJ turned a page in her notebook with a little more force than necessary, but Spencer didn’t seem to notice.

He was still waiting for your usual sharp retort.

But you didn’t bite. You didn’t even look up.

Spencer hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before shifting in his seat. “Because if you’re done sulking, we could use a second opinion on this.”

JJ tapped her pen against her notes—light, rhythmic, controlled. The kind of thing someone might do to keep themselves from interrupting.

You exhaled slowly through your nose and kept reading.

His brows knit together, irritation flashing across his face. That was usually all it took—a little push, a sharp edge, and you’d shove back just as hard. The rhythm was predictable, expected.

But you gave him nothing.

Something about your lack of response made him sit up a little straighter. He tried again later, dropping a pointed remark about one of your old theories, the kind of thing that would normally spark another round of arguing between you.

JJ cut in before you could even think about answering. “We should figure out how this changes our approach.” Her tone was casual, effortless—redirecting before anything could spiral.

All you did was give a clipped, neutral answer before moving on.

It wasn’t normal.

And Spencer felt it immediately.

The back-and-forth between you had always been sharp, but undeniably electric. It was how the two of you worked—pushing, challenging, throwing words like weapons but never really cutting too deep. It was infuriating, and yet…

Yet, without it, something felt off.

At first, he told himself it was fine.

You were being more professional. That was good, wasn’t it? It meant less wasted time, fewer distractions.

So why did the space between words feel so hollow?

By mid-afternoon, he felt it more keenly. He found himself waiting for something—for you to roll your eyes at him, for you to cut into one of his statistics with some half-formed anecdote, for you to press into a point just to see if you could make him slip.

But you didn’t.

You weren’t mad at him—not in the way he was used to. There was no sharp edge in your tone, no fire behind your eyes when you spoke to him. You were just… distant. Like you had already decided he wasn’t worth the energy.

The realization sat uneasily in his chest.

It wasn’t just that you weren’t arguing.

It was that, for the first time, he was starting to understand just how much he had come to rely on it.

And worse—just how much he missed it.

He tried again.

“Your profile from yesterday doesn’t hold up,” he pointed out, knowing full well that wasn’t true. It was a weak, low-hanging argument, the kind of thing you would normally jump on without hesitation.

JJ’s pen stilled for just a second before she wrote something down, her expression unreadable.

You barely spared Spencer a glance. “Noted.”

And that was it.

No scathing rebuttal. No pointed counterattack. Just two syllables and nothing more.

Spencer felt his stomach twist.

He should have been relieved. He should have been glad to be free of the back-and-forth, the constant tug-of-war.

Instead, it felt like missing a step on the stairs—like something fundamental had shifted beneath him.

He had spent almost a year convincing himself that you were nothing but a thorn in his side, an unnecessary complication. That your arguments were exhausting, that you were too much to deal with.

But now, without that sharp edge of friction, without the tug-of-war of words and challenges—without you pushing back—

It wasn’t the relief he had expected.

It was unsettling.

It was hollow.

And he didn’t like it.

But instead of sitting with that realization, instead of acknowledging it, Spencer pushed it aside.

He told himself it was temporary.

He told himself he didn’t care.

But deep down, in a part of his mind he wasn’t ready to examine, the truth settled in like a weight in his chest.

He missed it.

The case hadn’t broken yet, and frustration was starting to settle over the team like a heavy fog. The profile was solid, but nothing new had come up to push them forward. Eventually, Hotch checked his watch, then let out a slow breath before looking up at the team.

“We’ll pick this back up in the morning,” he said. “Get some rest while you can.”

There wasn’t much discussion after that—just the quiet shuffle of files being stacked, chairs scraping against the floor as everyone gathered their things. The exhaustion was evident in all of them, not just from the case but from the weight of the day itself.

Spencer barely glanced up when you left with Emily and JJ, keeping his focus on the files in front of him. He had tried multiple times throughout the day to provoke you, to get a reaction, but you had remained distant, detached. It wasn’t what he was used to. It wasn’t how things were supposed to go between you.

And it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, everyone was running on empty. Goodnights were murmured in the hallway before doors closed one by one, leaving the corridor quiet.

JJ lingered.

She had been watching Spencer all day, watching how he had pushed and pushed without realizing just how deep he had cut. And now, standing outside his door, she wondered if this was even a conversation worth having.

She sighed and knocked.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and Spencer blinked at her, clearly surprised. “JJ?”

“Can I come in?”

He hesitated for a beat, then stepped aside.

The room was neat—predictably so. His go-bag was partially unzipped on the dresser, a few books stacked beside it. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, dim glow over the space.

JJ took a breath, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Spencer sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “If this is about earlier—”

“It is.”

His expression tightened. “I don’t understand why everyone’s so upset with me. I didn’t do anything different.”

JJ leaned against the desk, choosing her words carefully. “Spence… did you even notice how off she was today?”

Spencer frowned. “She was upset. I got that. But she was already upset before I said anything, so I don’t see how this is my fault.”

JJ exhaled slowly. “I never said it was your fault. I’m saying you made it worse.”

Spencer folded his arms, clearly bracing himself. “How?”

JJ hesitated. She really didn’t want to be the one to tell him this. It wasn’t her place, and she hated the thought of betraying your trust. But Spencer was stubborn, and without the full picture, he wasn’t going to understand.

She tried one more time to get him there on his own. “Spence, think about what you said to her today.”

“I was just trying to keep things normal,” he insisted. “She’s always throwing things at me, always pushing. I thought—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t think it was any different than usual.”

JJ studied him for a long moment. He really didn’t get it.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “She and her boyfriend broke up.”

Spencer blinked. “Okay?”

JJ clenched her jaw. “Recently.”

There was a flicker of something in Spencer’s expression—maybe surprise, maybe something else—but it passed quickly. “I didn’t know that.”

“No, you didn’t,” JJ said, voice quiet but firm. “But the rest of us did.”

Spencer opened his mouth, but JJ wasn’t done. “She didn’t just break up with him, Spencer. It was messy. It was bad.”

She hesitated. Once she said it, there was no taking it back. But Spencer wasn’t getting it, and if she didn’t lay it out for him, he never would.

JJ took a slow breath and met his gaze. “Do you know what he said to her? The exact words?”

Spencer’s throat bobbed. He didn’t answer.

JJ held his gaze. “He told her she was exhausting to deal with.”

Spencer exhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the wind out of him.

JJ let the silence stretch, letting him sit with it.

His jaw tightened, fingers curling at his sides. “I didn’t know,” he finally said, voice quieter than before.

“I know,” JJ said, her own voice softer now. “But now you do.”

Spencer sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his mind clearly working through it in real time. JJ could see the moment the realization settled in, could see the way his breath went just a little shallower.

“She’s always thrown things at me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “We argue all the time. I didn’t think—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I was trying to keep things normal.”

JJ’s expression softened. “Maybe she didn’t need normal today.”

Spencer looked down, hands clasped together. His fingers twitched, restless.

JJ sighed. “Look, I know you didn’t mean it. I know you weren’t trying to hurt her.” She paused. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

Silence stretched between them again.

JJ stepped toward the door. “Just… think about it, Spence.”

She left him sitting there, alone with the weight of what he had done.

Spencer sat on the edge of the stiff hotel mattress, staring at the carpet as if it held the answer to everything that had gone wrong today.

He hadn’t meant what he said.

You’re exhausting to deal with.

It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t even true. It was just the first thing that had left his mouth, a careless response thrown out in frustration, the way someone might swat at an insect buzzing too close. And yet, it had landed with an impact he hadn’t expected, hadn’t anticipated.

He knew he had upset you. He wasn’t oblivious. But he had assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that it would pass, that you would snap back at him, that the sharp-edged dynamic you two had built over the past year would continue as it always had. But instead, you had stopped. Just shut down entirely. And that was what confused him the most.

You didn’t do that.

Until now.

And then JJ had pulled him aside, her expression wavering between exasperation and reluctant sympathy.

"Do you know what he said to her?"

"He told her she was exhausting to deal with."

The words had lodged themselves into his brain like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit, and yet, the more he sat here, the more it sank in, settling into place in a way that made him feel almost sick. He didn’t know. He should have known. Everyone else had figured it out, after all. But he had been too caught up in his own frustrations, too caught up in you, to see it.

Spencer inhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. His mind was spinning, and no amount of logic, no statistical breakdown, could make sense of what was happening inside him.

It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t exasperation.

It was never any of those things.

Because the truth was, you were gorgeous when you were fired up.

He thought of it now, and the image came so easily, so vividly, that it sent a fresh wave of something unnameable crashing over him. The way your eyes gleamed with challenge, how you lifted your chin ever so slightly when you stood your ground. How, in the heat of an argument, you would step closer, and closer, and closer, until he could feel the warmth of you in the space between them, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had told himself it was adrenaline. That it was simply the thrill of the debate. But if that were true, why did he feel that same pull in moments of quiet?

Because he noticed you. Always. He noticed the way you walked into a room, how his eyes would flicker toward you before he could even stop himself. He noticed the way you took your coffee, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused, the way your lips pressed together when you were trying to suppress a reaction.

And worse—worse—was the way he needed you to notice him.

How if your attention was on someone else for too long, irritation curled in his chest before he even understood why. How he would find himself throwing out a fact, a statistic, an argument—anything—to drag your focus back to him.

And now, sitting here in the dim glow of the hotel room, he couldn’t deny it anymore. He couldn’t twist it into something else, something easier, something safer.

It was never about frustration.

It was never about annoyance.

It was never about proving a point.

He had fallen for you.

The next morning, the team gathered in the local police station, running through every last detail of the case.

They were close. They all knew it. But close wasn’t good enough.

Spencer sat at the edge of the table, hands folded, watching as the others debated their next move. He should have been adding to the conversation, throwing out statistics, challenging theories—but his mind kept drifting.

To you.

You weren’t avoiding him, not exactly. But you hadn’t spoken to him directly since yesterday. No sharp remarks, no challenging looks. And for the first time in months, Spencer had no idea where he stood with you.

Should he apologize? Would that even help? Maybe he should just acknowledge the breakup, offer his condolences, or—no, that didn’t feel right either. JJ had told him that in confidence. He wasn’t even supposed to know.

He didn’t know what to say, and the more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed to figure out.

So he said nothing.

He just kept glancing over at you, tracking your movements from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge if you were okay. You looked… normal. You were focused, leaning over the map spread across the table with Emily, lips slightly parted in concentration as you traced a path with your finger. No hesitation, no faltering. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought nothing had changed.

Except it had.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

"Alright," Hotch’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. "Let’s go over everything again. We’re missing something."

The table quieted as everyone focused in. They had been circling the same theories, re-examining the same evidence, and yet the unsub was still out there. It wasn’t enough to understand how he operated—they needed to know where he would strike next.

Spencer forced his thoughts into order, pushing away everything unrelated to the case. "The geographical profile suggests he’s moving in a pattern, but the locations aren’t random. Each site is within a specific radius of the last, but the distances vary slightly."

Morgan nodded. "Which means he’s picking locations based on something else. He’s comfortable in these areas. Familiar with them."

"But he’s not returning to the same place," Emily added. "He’s not risking going back to where he’s already been."

"Maybe not physically," you said, tilting your head slightly, "but what if he’s revisiting them in another way?"

Spencer glanced at you, waiting.

You tapped your fingers against the table, thinking out loud. "His attacks have been escalating, and he isn’t sticking to a cooling-off period anymore. If he’s a spree killer, that means he’s running out of time—he knows he can’t keep this up forever. But his locations aren’t random. He’s picking spots with security cameras, but ones that don’t give a clear line of sight to him. He isn’t avoiding surveillance—he’s using it."

Garcia’s eyebrows lifted. "Oh, I like where you’re going with this, sugar. If he’s keeping an eye on potential targets—checking security feeds, traffic cams, maybe even livestreaming footage—then that means there’s a digital footprint."

Garcia’s eyebrows lifted. "Oh, I like where you’re going with this, sugar. If he’s been scouting locations through security feeds, traffic cams, maybe even livestreams, then that means there’s a digital footprint."

"Can you check for any unusual access to local surveillance systems?" Hotch asked.

"My dear, I thought you’d never ask." Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her monitors flickering as she sifted through data. "Let’s see… ah-ha! Someone’s been remotely accessing surveillance feeds at irregular intervals over the past few weeks, and a lot of them line up with where he’s already struck."

Morgan leaned forward. "Can you trace where he’s accessing them from?"

Garcia’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "I can try, but he’s been careful—using different networks, bouncing signals. But…" She trailed off, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Then she gasped. "Oh. Ohhh. Oh, you arrogant little—gotcha!"

"Garcia?" Hotch prompted.

"He accessed a security feed less than an hour ago from an internet café downtown. And guess what? He didn’t even bother masking his location properly this time. I’ve got an address, sending it now!"

Hotch didn’t hesitate. "We’ll split up. Morgan, Prentiss, Reid—you’re heading to the internet café. The rest of us will head to the location of the security feed he accessed. Move out." Everyone was in motion within seconds, adrenaline cutting through any lingering fatigue. There was no telling how much time they had before the unsub struck again—but if they were fast enough, this could be the break they needed.

Morgan pushed open the glass door of the internet café, stepping inside first, with Reid and Prentiss close behind. The scent of burnt coffee and stale air filled the space, the hum of outdated computers blending with the occasional click of a keyboard. The lighting was dim, casting a dull yellow glow over the handful of patrons scattered throughout the small room. Most were hunched over their screens, headphones in, lost in whatever they were doing. A few sat with their arms crossed, scrolling lazily.

Prentiss took a slow, surveying glance around the space. “Not exactly a high-tech setup,” she muttered under her breath.

Morgan tapped his earpiece. “Garcia, tell me you’ve got something.”

“I wish, hot stuff, but this place is a technological ghost town,” Garcia replied, frustration creeping into her normally chipper voice. “No security cameras, no membership logins, and judging by the routers I’m picking up, this café is basically running on dial-up speeds. There’s no digital footprint I can track back to him. He picked a place designed to stay off the grid.”

Morgan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Of course he did.”

Reid stepped forward, scanning the room with meticulous detail. He wasn’t just looking at the patrons—he was analyzing them. Body language spoke louder than words, and if the unsub had been here recently, someone in this space should be reacting to it. Anxious glances, fidgeting hands, tense shoulders—signs of discomfort, of someone trying to bury a memory of something that unsettled them.

But as he moved through the café, his frown deepened.

“No one looks nervous,” he said finally, voice quieter, thoughtful. “No one’s agitated or distracted. If he was here recently, he likely didn’t draw attention to himself. He didn’t rush out. He finished what he was doing and left on his own terms.”

Morgan glanced at the empty stations, his jaw clenching. “So he’s already gone.”

Prentiss approached the counter and flashed her badge at the disinterested employee leaning against it. “FBI. We need to know if there’s any way to see who used which computer in the last hour.”

The man barely looked up from his magazine. “People pay in cash, sit wherever’s open. No reservations, no check-ins. They log in as guests, and once they leave, that’s it. No records.”

Reid’s fingers twitched at his side. The unsub had been here. Sat at one of these computers. Chosen this place specifically. But he was already gone, and they had nothing to track him with.

Morgan hit his earpiece again. “Hotch, we came up empty. He’s gone.”

A beat of silence. Then Hotch’s voice, steady and sharp. “Understood. Get to the next location. We’ll regroup there.”

Morgan’s frustration was evident in the hard set of his jaw, but he didn’t waste another second. “Let’s go.”

Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid stepped out of the SUV into the midday sun, the heat pressing against them as they scanned the busy city square. The crowd was dense—office workers on lunch breaks, tourists snapping pictures, street vendors calling out their deals. It was the perfect place for a spree killer to strike. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Too many people, too many obstacles.

Before stepping into the mass of bodies, the three of them discreetly stripped off their FBI vests and tucked them into their bags. The unsub couldn’t know they were there. If he got spooked too soon, he could vanish into the crowd—or worse, start firing.

Hotch’s voice crackled in their earpieces. “Stay sharp. We don’t know what he looks like, but he’s here for a reason.”

Gideon’s voice followed. “He’s not just wandering—he moves with purpose. Watch for someone scanning the crowd, someone looking for opportunity.”

From the other side of the square, you adjusted your stance, eyes sweeping over the mass of people. JJ stood nearby, appearing casual but doing the same—observing, waiting. Neither of you could afford to look like you were searching for a killer.

The team spread out, moving through the crowd as naturally as possible. Morgan weaved through street vendors, blending in as another pedestrian. Prentiss adjusted her posture, walking with purpose in the wave of foot traffic. Reid moved slower, his gaze analytical, picking apart every movement, every expression.

Minutes passed. Observations fed through the comms. “Man in a blue hoodie, but he’s just waiting for someone.” “Woman near the fountain keeps checking over her shoulder—just on a call.” Nothing solid.

Then, Reid saw him.

A man, mid-30s, walking against the flow of foot traffic. He wasn’t heading toward a food stand or looking for a place to sit. He wasn’t engaged with the environment—he was watching it. His gaze moved from person to person, lingering too long on individuals who had stepped away from the main crowd. Isolated people. Easy targets.

Reid’s stomach twisted.

“I’ve got him,” he murmured. “Moving east through the square. Black T-shirt, dark jeans. He’s watching people, not engaging. He’s not lost—he’s hunting.”

Hotch’s response was immediate. “Do not approach alone. Everyone converge.”

But the mass of people were too tightly packed.

From your position, you could see the problem immediately—there was no easy way to get to him. The city square was packed with bodies moving in all directions, some stopping to talk, others oblivious to the tension unfolding around them. If any of you ran outright, it could tip the unsub off. But if you didn’t move fast enough…

Prentiss pushed forward, murmuring, “Move, excuse me,” as she wedged past pedestrians. Morgan took a different approach, using his size to nudge through gaps. You manoeuvred in the opposite direction, trying to cut off the unsub’s escape route without drawing attention.

Then—

The unsub stopped.

His head tilted, scanning.

He knew.

Reid saw it first—the shift in posture, the tension in his shoulders. A second later, his hand moved, reaching into his waistband.

“Gun!” Reid shouted.

The square exploded into chaos.

Screams rang out. A stampede of bodies surged in every direction—people shoving past each other, knocking over chairs, sending tables crashing to the pavement. Vendors ducked behind their carts, tourists abandoned their bags, running blind in the panic.

You pushed forward, fighting against the wave of bodies. JJ did the same, one hand raised to flash her badge, but no one was looking—everyone was running.

Morgan broke through first.

The unsub’s gun cleared his waistband—he was going to shoot—

Morgan lunged.

The impact sent both men crashing to the pavement. The gun skidded across the ground, lost in the rush of feet. The unsub snarled, thrashing under Morgan, throwing wild elbows, twisting hard.

Prentiss dove in, grabbing his wrist as he reached for something else.

“No, you don’t,” she gritted out, shoving his arm down.

You finally reached them, helping Morgan keep the unsub pinned as he bucked wildly, nearly dislodging them both. Reid snatched the discarded gun, securing it, while JJ moved to control the thinning crowd.

The unsub thrashed once more before finally going slack, panting hard, his fingers clenched into shaking fists.

Hotch and Gideon arrived seconds later, weapons still drawn but lowered.

“Secure?” Hotch asked.

Morgan, breathing heavy, nodded. “Yeah. He’s done.”

Prentiss snapped the cuffs onto the unsub’s wrists, voice firm. “You’re under arrest.”

The tension didn’t ease right away—sirens wailed in the distance, and people were still running, voices frantic—but the worst of it was over.

They had him.

An hour later, back at the station, the energy had shifted.

The unsub was in custody, locked away in interrogation, and the team was wrapping up.

Morgan sat at the table, rolling his shoulder where he’d taken a hit during the fight. Prentiss dropped into a chair, exhaling as she pulled off her boots. Reid stood near the whiteboard, absently running over the information they’d mapped out.

Gideon leaned against the doorway, watching as the adrenaline finally started to fade.

Hotch surveyed the team. “Good work today.”

JJ, still coordinating with the press, gave a tired thumbs-up from her spot on the phone.

Garcia’s voice filtered through the speaker. “Please tell me you’re all intact, because watching that play out through traffic cams nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Morgan smirked. “We’re good, baby girl.”

Prentiss stretched, shaking her head. “One hell of a takedown.”

Hotch checked his watch. “Jet’s waiting. Wheels up in twenty.”

With that, the team packed up their case files, exhaustion settling in. The weight of the chase was lifting.

Another case closed. Another killer off the streets.

The team boarded the jet, the familiar hum of the engines filling the cabin as they settled in. The rush of the day had passed, but something else lingered—something you couldn’t quite shake.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftermath of the case or if it was him.

Spencer had barely spoken since they left the station, but he was there—close enough to notice, too far to say anything. You were hyper-aware of him in a way that hadn’t faded with the tension of the job. Every movement, every glance that lasted just a second too long before darting away, kept you on edge.

Across the cabin, Morgan stretched, groaning slightly as he leaned back in his seat. "I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink after today."

Emily smirked. "Pretty sure that’s non-negotiable at this point."

JJ chuckled as she pulled her hair from its tight ponytail. "The question is: quiet drink or bad decisions drink?"

Morgan shot her a look. "What’s the fun in quiet?"

Emily shook her head. "Translation: We’re gonna regret this in the morning."

Laughter rippled through the space, the weight of the day lifting just enough. The idea of unwinding, even for a few hours, was tempting. A normal night out. Something separate from cases and killers.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Would he go?

Would you want him to?

Spencer hadn’t said anything, hadn’t joined in the conversation. But he was listening. You could feel it—how his presence never really left your periphery, how he seemed to shift slightly when Morgan mentioned the bar.

You weren’t sure if the hesitation you felt was about him or about yourself. Because if he went, if you went… then what?

Back at the BAU, the team moved through the office with the easy rhythm of routine. Files were dropped off, final reports checked over, and goodbyes exchanged with the late-night staff. The case was officially over.

You lingered near your desk, your thoughts still tangled. The bar. Spencer. The way he’d been watching you on the jet, the way neither of you had said a word to each other. You didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know what you wanted it to mean.

Emily was sorting through some paperwork at her desk when you walked up. She glanced up as you stopped beside her.

“What’s up?” she asked.

You hesitated. “I don’t know if I should go tonight.”

Emily’s expression shifted slightly. “Because of Spencer?”

You exhaled. “I don’t know if I want to be around him right now.”

Emily set down her pen and leaned back in her chair. “That’s exactly why you should come.”

You frowned. “Emily—”

“Look,” she cut in, keeping her voice casual. “You’ve been stuck in your own head about this all day. Skipping out isn’t going to change anything.”

You crossed your arms, not totally convinced.

She gave you a knowing look. “Come out, have a drink, take a break from thinking about it. If you don’t want to talk to him, you don’t have to. But don’t sit at home just because he’s going to be there.”

You thought about it. She wasn’t wrong. Maybe getting out for a while was what you needed.

After a beat, you sighed. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Emily grinned. “Good. Let’s go before they leave without us.”

The bar was alive with energy, a steady pulse of music humming through the air as the team settled into their usual post-case routine—drinks, conversation, and letting go of the weight of the job for just a few hours. The booth they’d claimed in the corner was already cluttered with half-empty glasses, a testament to how easily they were falling into the night.

Garcia was in the middle of an animated story, hands gesturing wildly as she recounted something that had happened in the tech lab earlier that week. JJ was leaning into the table, laughing, while Prentiss smirked behind her glass. Morgan, already a drink in, was hanging onto every word with an amused grin.

Spencer was quieter, sipping his drink as he listened to the conversations, though his attention wasn’t fully on them. It kept flickering toward you.

You weren’t looking at him. Or, at least, you were doing a very good job of pretending not to. But he noticed the way you seemed hyperaware of his presence, how your fingers curled around your glass a little too tightly whenever he shifted in his seat.

Something was different between you two tonight. And you both knew it.

Garcia suddenly clapped her hands together, pulling everyone's attention. “Alright, my loves, this has been fun, but the dance floor is calling.”

Morgan smirked. “You lead the way, baby girl.”

“As if there was ever a question,” she said, grabbing his hand before her gaze zeroed in on you. “And you. No backing out. You’re coming.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? I didn’t—”

“Nope,” she cut in, already reaching for you. “We’re celebrating. And I refuse to let you sit in this booth all night pretending you don’t want to shake what your momma gave you.”

JJ laughed, nudging you as she stood up. “She’s not going to let you say no.”

Prentiss raised her glass. “Might as well accept your fate.”

You exhaled in surrender, setting your drink down. “Fine, fine.”

“That's the spirit!” Garcia cheered, leading the way toward the dance floor with Morgan at her side.

You followed, letting yourself get swept into the easy energy of the moment. The beat of the music was loud, the air warm with the press of moving bodies, but Garcia was electric, pulling you right into the centre of it. Morgan spun her with a laugh, and she threw her hands up, pulling you in with her.

For a moment, you let go.

Back at the booth, Spencer’s gaze never left you.

Prentiss arched a brow at him, sipping her drink. “You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you stare at her a lot.”

Spencer tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. “I was just—”

Prentiss smirked. “Yeah. Sure.”

He huffed but didn’t argue. Because honestly, what was there to say?

After a few songs, you finally broke away from the dance floor, laughing as Garcia dramatically fanned herself. “That was necessary,” she declared. “Now go hydrate before I drag you back out here.”

You shook your head with a smile, turning toward the bar. But first—you needed the restroom.

You wove through the crowd, still feeling the lingering buzz of laughter and music as you made your way toward the hallway. But the light mood vanished the moment someone stepped into your path.

You had barely made it past the dance floor when someone stepped into your path.

Your stomach twisted.

Not him. Not now.

“Wow,” he drawled, looking you up and down with a smirk. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Your breath went shallow, but you forced your expression to remain neutral. “Didn’t think I’d see you either.”

Your ex let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real. “C’mon, don’t be like that. We don’t have to be weird, do we?”

"We." Like you were both responsible for the unease curling in your stomach.

“I’m actually just heading to the bathroom, so if you’ll excuse me—”

Before you could move, he reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek.

You froze.

It was casual. Familiar. The kind of touch that once would have made you lean in without thinking. But now?

Now, it made your skin crawl.

You took a step back, heart hammering, but before you could say a word, warmth enveloped you—an arm sliding around your waist, steady and certain.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Spencer.

His voice was smooth, easy, but there was something deliberate beneath it—something razor-sharp. His breath ghosted against your temple just before he pressed a kiss there, the barest brush of lips against your skin.

Your ex’s expression shifted from smug amusement to disbelief. “No way.”

Spencer didn’t acknowledge him. His fingers rested firmly at your side, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs—a grounding touch, steady and real.

Your ex let out a scoff. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly. “Oh, you must be the ex-boyfriend.” He emphasized ex, and something in his voice was just polite enough to be cutting.

Your ex huffed. “I mean, you could just say my name.”

Spencer smiled. “I could.”

A beat of silence. You could feel the way Spencer held himself—calm, unshakable, like he’d already won whatever battle was unfolding here.

Your ex’s gaze flicked between you and Spencer. “You’re serious?”

Spencer turned to you, his eyes warm, questioning. “Are we serious?”

Your breath caught.

This was supposed to be pretend. Just a way out.

But the way he was looking at you—like the answer was already written in the way you leaned into him, in the way your fingers had instinctively curled around his forearm—made your pulse stutter.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “We are.”

Your ex laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. There is no way you two are together.”

Spencer’s fingers flexed slightly against your waist, the heat of his palm pressing into your side. “And why’s that?” he asked, tone pleasant.

Your ex gestured vaguely between you. “Because you hate each other.” He looked directly at you now, his smirk widening. “I mean, come on. How many times have you gone off about him? You can’t stand the guy.”

Spencer exhaled a quiet laugh of his own, shaking his head. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong.” His fingers brushed against your hip again, slow and deliberate, just enough to make your breath hitch. “You mistook sexual tension for hatred.”

Your ex’s smirk faltered—just for a second.

You felt it.

Your pulse jumped, heat creeping up your spine. Spencer had said it so easily, so casually—like it was obvious. Like it was something he’d already figured out.

And maybe he had.

The thought sent a shiver through you, your fingers tensing slightly against the fabric of his shirt. You were too aware of his touch now, of the slow drag of his thumb tracing lazy circles along your side.

His stance had shifted closer, his body angled toward yours like it belonged there.

And, for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were just pretending anymore.

Because the truth was…

You liked this.

And from the way Spencer’s grip tightened ever so slightly at your waist, from the way his breath hitched just barely when you leaned in the slightest bit closer—maybe he did too.

Your ex’s smirk faltered—just for a second.

The shift in his expression was slight, barely there, but enough for you to recognize it. A flicker of doubt.

But then—he scoffed, shaking his head with a short, humourless laugh. “That’s cute.”

He said it like he didn’t believe it.

Like he refused to believe it.

His gaze flicked between you and Spencer, searching—like he was still waiting for the joke, for the moment one of you would break character. But Spencer didn’t waver, his fingers still resting against your hip, his body still angled toward yours like he had no intention of moving.

And neither did you.

Your ex’s jaw tightened just slightly, his smirk sharpening at the edges, like he was trying to convince himself he was still in control of the conversation. “Right. So you’re telling me that all that arguing, all that fighting, was really just foreplay?”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth curving up in something dangerously close to amusement. “You said it, not me.”

Your ex huffed out something that might have been a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

But you could see it now—the frustration creeping in, the way his fingers curled slightly against his drink, the way his confidence wasn’t quite as unwavering as before.

Because, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he was right about you anymore.

And that felt like a win.

“Right,” he said again, like he was resetting himself, regaining control. But then his smirk returned, sharper now, meaner. “So what, you got so desperate after two weeks that you climbed under the first guy who looked at you?”

The words were like ice water.

You felt Spencer react before you could even process it yourself.

His arm tightened around you, pulling you fully against him, but that wasn’t what made your breath catch. It was the shift in him—the sharp, immediate tension coiling beneath his carefully held exterior.

His voice, when he spoke, was nothing like before. The polite, measured tone was gone.

"That’s an awfully crude way of admitting you thought she’d be miserable without you."

The words were smooth, but there was an unmistakable bite beneath them, an edge that cut precisely where it needed to.

Your ex blinked, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying him with a faint curiosity, like he was solving a puzzle with a predictable outcome. "I’m sure it’s a hard concept to grasp, but she didn’t settle for me. She chose me." His fingers traced a slow, absentminded circle against your side before he added, "And I’d say she made the right choice."

Something hot and unsteady curled in your stomach.

Your ex’s jaw twitched. “Just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

Spencer hummed, tilting his head like he was studying something particularly unremarkable. “That’s interesting. Because from what I can tell, the only person thinking that here is you.”

Your ex let out a dry laugh, crossing his arms. “Come on, man. We both know she’s a lot to deal with. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

The breath you took in was sharp, uneven.

Because those words weren’t new.

They weren’t just some cheap, offhanded insult—he had said them to you before. At the end. Before he walked away.

Spencer stilled. You felt the shift in his body, the way his fingers froze against your side for just a moment before resuming their slow, grounding motion.

Because he had said it, too.

Not with the same venom, not with the same intent. But it had still stung, had still settled in your chest like an ache you couldn’t shake. And now, here he was—his warmth pressed against you, his voice steady, unwavering, as he met your ex’s gaze head-on.

“I don’t find her exhausting,” Spencer said simply.

There was no hesitation, no preformative bravado. Just quiet certainty.

He turned his head just enough to catch your gaze. His fingers brushed against your hip again, deliberate, his touch light but steady. “If anything,” he continued, voice softer now, just for you, “I think she’s extraordinary.”

A slow, creeping warmth spread through your chest.

This wasn’t real. This was for show. But the way he was looking at you, the way his touch lingered, the way his voice dipped just enough to make your skin prickle—

God, it didn’t feel like an act.

Your ex let out a breathy laugh, his disbelief giving way to something tighter, something closer to frustration. “You two can fake it all you want,” he said, voice lower now, rougher, “but I know her. And I know that this. This is bullshit.”

You have no idea what you threw away, do you?" Spencer asks.

The question was quiet. Almost pitying.

Your ex scoffed, but there was something defensive in the way his jaw tensed.

Spencer didn’t even blink. "That’s fine. I don’t mind proving just how wrong you were."

And then—slow, deliberate—he turned to you.

Your breath stilled as his free hand came up, fingers skimming along your jaw, tilting your chin up just slightly. His touch was light, careful. Not possessive. Just there.

The air between you crackled.

Your body moved before your brain could catch up. Your hand slid higher, resting over Spencer’s chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

He exhaled, just a little shakier than before.

And then—loudly, bitterly—your ex laughed.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The sound was sharp, cutting through the moment like a blade.

Spencer didn’t turn. Didn’t react. But you felt the subtle shift in his body, the way his stance remained firm, like he was making sure there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Your ex let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Whatever, she's your problem now,” he muttered, turning on his heel and walking away.

Spencer’s hand lingered for just a second longer before he dropped it, stepping back just enough to put space between you.

The space between you felt electric, every nerve attuned to where his fingers rested.

You swallowed, fingers still curled against his shirt, realizing only now that you were still touching him.

You should move.

But you didn’t.

His gaze flicked over your face, searching. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

You exhaled slowly. “I am now.”

But even as you said it, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye.

Your ex wasn’t gone.

Not really.

He had moved to the other side of the bar, but his attention kept drifting back to you and Spencer, his gaze sharp, suspicious.

Spencer followed your line of sight, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“He’s watching us,” you murmured.

Spencer hummed. “Then I guess we better make it look good.”

His eyes met yours, a question lingering beneath them.

Your stomach flipped.

You nodded.

“Guess so.”

Spencer’s hand was still resting lightly on your back, his fingers a steady warmth against the fabric of your shirt. You could feel the weight of his touch even through the layers—grounding, solid, a quiet reminder that, for now, you weren’t alone.

The bar was still crowded, the energy still buzzing around you both, but the confrontation had left a thin charge in the air, something neither of you acknowledged outright. Your ex had slinked back into the crowd, but you could feel his gaze drifting toward you from across the room. Spencer must have noticed too, because he didn’t move away, didn’t shift back into his usual guarded distance. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his voice low near your ear.

Spencer’s voice was low, teasing. “Think we should sell it a little harder?”

You let out a soft scoff, playing along. “What, you mean make heart eyes at you? Bat my lashes?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Might be a good start. I was thinking more along the lines of you looking at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, sure. That’s believable.”

Spencer smirked, fingers tracing a slow, absentminded pattern at your waist. “Guess I’ll just have to win you over.”

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh, a small, amused exhale against your skin. His fingers brushed the small of your back again, an absentminded motion that shouldn’t have sent heat curling through you—but it did.

The bartender stopped in front of you, and you took the opportunity to order another drink, something to keep your hands busy. Spencer did the same, sliding a bill onto the counter before you could even reach for your wallet. You shot him a look, raising a brow.

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Boyfriend duties.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, taking a slow sip from your glass. The moment settled into something quieter, less tense but still charged, like the flickering glow of a match before it fully catches flame.

Spencer shifted, glancing at you. “So. Are we supposed to look longingly into each other’s eyes now? Whisper sweet nothings?”

You snorted. “You’re assuming I’d have anything sweet to say about you.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t,” he said easily. “You’d insult me, but you’d make it sound affectionate so no one else would know the difference.”

You smirked over the rim of your glass. “Sounds like you know me pretty well.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered, something unreadable in it. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I guess I do.”

The moment stretched, something unsaid crackling between you. You cleared your throat, breaking the tension before it could settle too deeply. “We should talk about something. Make it look real.”

He nodded, considering. “Alright. Something neutral. A normal conversation between a couple who doesn’t allegedly hate each other.”

You smirked. “That’s asking a lot.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, then, after a beat, asked, “What’s the weirdest fact you know?”

You blinked. That was… not what you were expecting. “What?”

“The weirdest fact,” he repeated, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know you have to have one.”

You hesitated, watching him, but he only looked back at you expectantly, like this was a completely normal thing to ask.

You thought for a second, then shrugged. “Octopuses have three hearts.”

Spencer’s mouth curved up, just a little. “That’s a good one.”

“You?” you asked, tilting your head.

His eyes sparked, like he’d been waiting for the question. “Did you know that lobsters communicate by peeing at each other? Really sets the mood, doesn’t it?”

You stared at him, then let out a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

He grinned. “Right?”

The conversation flowed from there, effortless in a way that surprised you. Facts turned into stories, then into inside jokes. Minutes stretched on, blending into an hour, though neither of you seemed to notice. The bar’s once-lively crowd shifted and changed, people coming and going, conversations rising and fading, but you stayed rooted in place, caught up in the effortless back-and-forth. Time lost its meaning as one topic melted into another, each transition so seamless that you barely registered the shift. You weren’t paying attention to the time, weren’t keeping track of how long you had been standing there, wrapped up in each other’s words. What started as lighthearted teasing had deepened into something more, something neither of you rushed to escape. The way your fingers brushed against his when you gestured, the way you leaned in without thinking, just to hear him better, just to be closer—it all blurred together into something effortless.

You caught yourself mirroring his movements, tilting your head when he did, tracing the rim of your glass in tandem with his. It was subtle, unspoken, but undeniable—the shift between you settling into something that felt natural, something that neither of you seemed eager to pull away from. Your laughter came easier, softer, the kind that lingers in your chest even after the sound fades. His knuckles grazed your wrist when he gestured, your knee bumped against his once, twice, neither of you shifting away.

At some point, the topics shifted, the playfulness giving way to something softer. You weren’t sure who led it there, but suddenly you were talking about things you didn’t usually talk about. Favourite childhood books. Places you wanted to visit. The kind of hypothetical, wistful conversations that people had when they weren’t thinking too hard about what they were revealing.

You barely noticed when Spencer’s hand drifted to your waist again, fingers curling slightly at your hip. The touch wasn’t demanding or obvious—it was just… there. Natural. And maybe that was the problem.

It felt too natural.

Like you weren’t acting at all.

Like you didn’t want to be.

You met his gaze, and something unspoken passed between you. His eyes flickered, just briefly, down to your lips, and your breath caught.

This is dangerous, you thought distantly.

But you didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

The air between you felt charged, humming with an anticipation neither of you dared to acknowledge outright. Every second dragged out, heavy and expectant. His fingers flexed against your hip, and you knew—knew—that if you didn’t move, if you didn’t break the moment, something would happen.

Something irreversible.

Something you wanted.

Spencer exhaled, barely a breath, but you felt it ghost across your skin.

Then—slowly, like a question—he leaned in.

And you answered.

Your lips met his in a whisper of a kiss, soft and searching, like neither of you wanted to startle the other. The world didn’t stop, didn’t pause for your moment, but it felt like it did. The bar was still loud, people still moved around you, but it all faded into the background, nothing more than a distant hum against the sudden, overwhelming clarity of his mouth on yours.

Spencer made a quiet sound—something caught between surprise and something deeper—and then his fingers curled at your waist, pulling you just the slightest bit closer. Your free hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, holding on to something solid.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slow, deliberate, like you were both savouring something you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for.

And maybe you had been waiting for it.

For a long, long time.

When you finally pulled away, it was only by an inch, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

And then—softly, tentatively—you whispered, “Do you want to get out of here?”

The words hovered in the space between you, heavy with meaning. Spencer’s eyes searched yours, his thumb still making those small, steady circles against your skin.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice a little rough. “I think that’s a good idea.”

The drive to your place was a blur of city lights and racing thoughts. The tension was palpable in the car, a silent dance of anticipation and doubt. You didn’t talk—what was there to say that wouldn’t break the spell? The unspoken understanding that had settled between you was more potent than any words.

When you finally arrived, you didn’t even bother turning on the lights. The moon cast enough of a glow through the windows, painting Spencer’s face in stark, ethereal shadows as he followed you inside.

You hadn’t even fully closed the door when he pushed you against the wall, his body pressing against yours. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—there was an urgency to it, a hunger that had been building for months. Your heart was racing, the beat echoing in your ears as his hands found their way to your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw.

Your breathing was shallow, uneven, as you stared up at him, his eyes searching yours. You didn’t know what he was looking for, but you hoped he found it, because you didn’t have the words to explain. You just knew that you needed this—his touch, his closeness, the way his breath ghosted across your skin.

And then, without warning, he closed the distance between you, his mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was hot, desperate, a year’s worth of pent-up tension and unspoken longing finally given a voice. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as you tried to get closer, to erase the space that had kept you apart for so long.

Spencer’s hands found the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head, breaking the kiss only long enough to discard it on the floor. His mouth trailed down your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he kissed and nipped at the sensitive spots he had discovered in the brief moments you had allowed yourselves to touch before.

“I wasted all that time riling you up when I could’ve had you moaning for me instead,” he murmured against your neck, his voice a low, needy rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You gasped, your fingers curling into his shirt. “You’re insufferable.”

Spencer’s smile was all teeth, all arrogance. “But you like me for it, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, but your breath caught as his mouth found yours again, his tongue slipping between your lips in a silent demand for more. And you gave it. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your bodies fitting together in a way that was somehow both new and familiar. It was like a puzzle piece finally sliding into place, clicking with a certainty that sent heat flooding through your veins.

His hands roamed over your back, down to your hips, then back up again, as if he couldn’t decide where to touch first, as if every inch of you was a new discovery he needed to explore. You could feel his need, his desperation, and it mirrored yours. You hadn’t realized how much you had craved this—his touch, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

With trembling fingers, you worked at the buttons of his shirt, one by one, until you could push it open. His chest was pale in the moonlight, the planes of his body sharp and defined. You traced your fingers over the lines of his stomach, feeling the tension coiled within him, the rapid beat of his heart against your palm.

Spencer’s own hands were busy with your own shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. He stepped back just long enough to appreciate the sight of you, half-dressed and flushed, before his eyes drifted down to the swell of your chest, the rise and fall of your breasts with every rapid breath. The urge to touch was overwhelming, and he didn’t resist it. His palms brushed over your skin, the heat of his touch making you shiver, making you arch into him.

Your fingers found the button of his pants, tugging it open with an eagerness that had been simmering below the surface for too long. He stepped back again, allowing you to pull them down, his boxers following, and you took a moment to appreciate the sight of him—his erection straining upward, his thighs taut with restrained power. Your gaze lingered on his body, memorizing the lines and planes, the way the shadows danced across his skin.

Spencer’s gaze never left yours as he reached behind you, deftly unhooking your bra. It slipped down your arms, leaving you bare to him, and his gaze dropped, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of your breasts. He stepped closer, one hand cupping one, his thumb brushing over the hardened nipple, and you couldn’t help but gasp, the sensation shooting straight to your core. He leaned down, capturing the peak in his mouth, his tongue flicking against it. You felt your knees wobble, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. His other hand slid around to your back, holding you upright as he kissed and sucked, his teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. Then he was dropping to his knees, his hands sliding down your stomach to the button of your jeans. You watched, half-dazed, as he unzipped them. He kissed his way down your stomach, his breath hot. You stepped out of your shoes, letting him tug the pants and your underwear down in one smooth motion, leaving you naked and trembling in the moonlit room. He didn’t miss a beat, his hands sliding back up to cup your ass, pulling you closer, his mouth pressing against your sex. You moaned, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groaned, his hands tightening on you as he kissed and lapped at you, his tongue tracing a wet line against your clit.

Your fingers tangled in his hair before you even realized you were reaching for him, gripping tight as his mouth finally met you where you needed him. The first stroke of his tongue sent a shudder rolling through your spine, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips before you could catch it. Spencer hummed at that, like he was pleased with himself, like he was committing the sound to memory.

He started slow, like he was savouring you, his tongue tracing soft, teasing circles that made you whine, your hips twitching forward instinctively. He tightened his grip on your thighs in response, pressing you more firmly against the wall, keeping you right where he wanted you. "Stay still," he murmured, his voice low with something dark and satisfied before he licked into you again, this time with more intent, more purpose.

The first few strokes were exploratory, unhurried, as though he was mapping out every reaction, every little sound that spilled from your lips. But the patience didn’t last. The moment he found what made you gasp the loudest, he focused in, his tongue pressing, flicking, teasing in an unbearable rhythm. Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breath coming in uneven, needy bursts.

Your head tipped back against the wall, your breath ragged, your body already trembling under his attention. Every deliberate flick of his tongue sent another spark of heat curling low in your stomach, winding tight. His hands slid up, fingers digging into your hips just enough to anchor you, to hold you there while he devoured you like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d imagined this a thousand times before and now that he had you, he wasn’t going to waste a single second.

"Spencer—" His name came out broken, half a gasp, half a plea, and the sound made him groan against you. The vibration of it sent a shock of pleasure through you, your legs threatening to give out. If not for his firm grip, you might have slid right to the floor.

He didn’t stop. If anything, your desperation seemed to spur him on, his tongue pressing deeper, his mouth working you over with a slow, devastating precision. Like he was unravelling you piece by piece, like he was determined to reduce you to nothing but gasps and shudders and the sharp, needy ache of wanting more.

Your nails scraped against his scalp, your hips bucking forward despite his earlier command to stay still. He let out a sharp breath through his nose, hands flexing against your skin before he pulled back just enough to murmur, "I said stay still."

The way he said it, rough and commanding, sent another jolt of heat through you, your breath hitching as you fought to obey, as you forced yourself to remain still while he resumed his slow, torturous pace. Every movement of his mouth was deliberate, every flick of his tongue calculated to push you further toward the edge. You were shaking, barely holding yourself up, your thighs threatening to clamp around his head with every overwhelming wave of pleasure.

"You should’ve been doing this instead of running your mouth all this time," you managed, your voice breathless, teasing despite the way your body trembled under his touch.

Spencer pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his lips glistening, his expression dark with something utterly wrecked and unbearably smug. "Oh, believe me, I’m making up for lost time."

He didn’t waste another second. His mouth was back on you, determined, insatiable, working you over with relentless focus. The pressure inside you was building unbearably, a coil winding tighter and tighter, and every sound that spilled from your lips seemed to drive him on. His grip on your thighs tightened, his nails pressing into your skin, anchoring you there against the wall like he wasn’t letting you go until he’d completely undone you.

It didn’t take long before you were trembling, your body tight with the effort of holding yourself together. But he wasn’t letting up, wasn’t giving you a second to breathe, his tongue relentless, his grip unyielding. The pressure built higher and higher, every muscle in your body locking up as pleasure coiled deep inside you, ready to snap.

And then he did something—something devastating, something perfect—and you shattered, your body arching, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you came undone against him. He didn’t pull away, didn’t stop until you were shaking, until your fingers loosened in his hair and your gasps turned breathless and spent.

He didn’t let go of you right away. Instead, he kissed you through every aftershock, his lips brushing against sensitive skin, his tongue tracing soothing strokes where he had just driven you over the edge. Like he wanted to memorize the way you trembled, to savour the way you broke apart under him.

Only then did he ease up, his lips pressing soft, almost reverent kisses against your inner thigh as you struggled to catch your breath. His fingers trailed lightly over your skin, soothing, grounding, while he watched you, his gaze dark and unreadable.

When he finally looked up at you, his pupils were blown wide, his mouth wet and glistening, his expression dark with satisfaction. There was something else there, too—something deeper, something bordering on something almost tender.

"You’re incredible," he murmured, voice low, unsteady.

You let out a breathless laugh, still dazed, still trembling. "You’re ridiculous."

His lips quirked up, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he pressed one last kiss to your thigh before he rose to his feet, his hands still firm on your waist, steadying you as your legs threatened to give out beneath you.

"Can you stand?" he asked, his voice softer now, a flicker of concern beneath the teasing edge.

You swallowed, nodding, even as your knees felt weak. "Yeah. But you might have to give me a minute."

His smirk returned, slow and smug. "Take all the time you need. I’m not done with you yet."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat curling in your stomach, your breath catching as his hands skimmed over your sides, his touch still lazy, still teasing. He hadn’t let go of you yet. He wasn’t pulling away. And when you finally dared to meet his gaze, the intensity in his eyes nearly undid you all over again.

"Spencer—"

His smirk deepened, his hands pressing just a little firmer against your waist, holding you in place. "I told you, I’m making up for lost time." You reached out to stroke him, your hand sliding down the length of his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. His skin was warm, smooth, and he sucked in a sharp breath when you brushed against his erection. He was already hard, a clear sign of his desire, and the knowledge sent a thrill through you. This was what you both needed—to finally break down the walls that had kept you apart.

You took your time, dragging your fingers along his length, teasing, feeling every twitch and pulse. Spencer let out a low groan, his hips jerking slightly into your touch as his hands tightened against your waist. "You're enjoying this," he murmured, voice rough, laced with restraint.

You smirked, leaning in to press your lips against the hollow of his throat, letting your teeth graze the sensitive skin before whispering, "I think you are too."

His response was immediate—a growl deep in his chest, a surge of movement as he spun you, pressing you up against the nearest surface. The cool wall met your heated skin, a stark contrast that sent a delicious shiver through you, the sensation amplifying the awareness of his body pressing into yours. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips as he pressed himself flush against your back. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he breathed, his voice thick with need.

You turned your head slightly, catching his gaze over your shoulder, your lips curling. "Then stop talking and take it."

That was all the permission he needed.

He reached between you, guiding himself against your slick heat, teasing you with shallow, deliberate rolls of his hips. The anticipation built with every second, the frustration of years of tension finally boiling over into something raw, something uncontrollable. His fingers dug into your hips, the teasing, shallow rolls of his hips only increasing the frustration coiling inside you. Then, in one fluid motion, he thrust forward, stretching you, filling you completely. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your hands pressing hard against the wall for balance as the overwhelming sensation stole the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck," Spencer groaned, his forehead dropping to the curve of your shoulder for a brief moment before he pulled back and drove into you again, harder this time. "You feel better than I ever imagined."

You couldn't hold back the moan that tore from your throat, the pleasure sharp, overwhelming. "Didn't know you thought about it."

He let out a breathless laugh, one hand sliding up your body, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled your head back just enough to murmur against your ear, "Are you kidding? I’ve thought about fucking you senseless every time you opened that smart mouth of yours."

A shudder ran through you, your body clenching around him in response. "Is that why you were always such an asshole?" you shot back, panting, barely able to hold onto the thread of conversation between thrusts.

He groaned, his grip tightening on you, hips snapping forward at a brutal pace that made your legs tremble. "Maybe. Guess we’re finding a better way to work out our issues."

You laughed—though it was breathless, desperate—before another deep thrust stole the sound from your lips. He was relentless, fucking you with everything that had been left unsaid between you, with every argument, every lingering glance, every moment you’d spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

The wall was rough against your palms, each textured ridge imprinting against your skin as Spencer drove into you, his hips snapping forward with an unrelenting pace. Every thrust sent shudders rippling through you, your body caught between the steady press of the wall and the consuming heat of him. The slick sound of skin meeting skin filled the space between gasps, every movement pushing you closer to the edge, every deep stroke setting you ablaze.

His hands never stopped moving—gripping your waist, trailing up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing teasingly over your nipples before sliding back down back down to spread you open for him. His name spilled from your lips in a broken moan, and he groaned in response, his breath hot against your shoulder.

"You like this," he rasped, his voice unsteady. "Being taken like this—rough, unrelenting."

You nodded, lips parting, but words failed you. How could you even begin to articulate the way he felt—the way his touch untraveled you, the way he filled you so perfectly it left you trembling? Every snap of his hips sent pleasure coiling tighter inside you, and the intensity of it all—of him—was almost too much. But god, you didn’t want him to stop. You never wanted him to stop.

His hand slid down between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, teasing circles that had you arching back against him with a gasp. "Spencer—"

"I know," he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your neck, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. “Cum for me. I want to feel every inch of you tighten around me while you fall apart.”

The words alone sent you spiralling. Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tight before breaking apart in waves that left you shaking. Your moan was swallowed by his lips as he turned your head and kissed you, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release, his body shuddering against yours.

When he finally stilled, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, you both stayed like that for a moment—pressed against the wall, tangled together, bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks.

Spencer let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. “I think we just found a much more effective way to settle our disagreements.”

You laughed, breathless, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze. "Yeah? So what now?"

His smirk was slow, lazy, utterly satisfied. "I think we might need to revisit this… for the sake of teamwork, of course."

You grinned, pushing back against him just enough to make his breath hitch. "Then we better get started." You smirked, adding, "All in the name of teamwork, of course."

He let out a breathless laugh, his hands still roaming lazily over your skin, grounding both of you in the moment. Neither of you moved right away, too caught up in the heat still buzzing between you. His lips brushed the back of your neck, a slow, lazy kiss that made you shiver. "You keep teasing me, and we’re not leaving this wall anytime soon."

Your smirk deepened as you reached back, your fingers trailing along his thigh. "Maybe that’s exactly what I want."

Spencer groaned, his grip tightening at your hips again, his breath coming in short, unsteady bursts. "You’re insatiable."

You laughed softly, tilting your head to the side as his lips found your jaw, then your pulse, then the shell of your ear. "And you love it."

His only response was another deep thrust, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He had you pinned against the wall, but you didn’t mind—you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Time blurred between kisses, between whispered taunts and shared breaths. Every inch of space between you had disappeared, every lingering frustration burned away in the fire you’d both finally let consume you. And when Spencer finally pulled back, his eyes dark with something that sent another rush of heat through you, he exhaled a slow, satisfied breath.

"Round two?" you teased.

Spencer smirked, his fingers brushing up your spine, igniting sparks along your skin. And with that, he pulled you back in, claiming your lips again, refusing to let the night end just yet.

You led him toward the bedroom with deliberate steps, your fingers laced with his, the heat between you still burning from the moments against the wall. The air was thick with anticipation, a silent challenge hanging between you—one that neither of you was willing to back down from. Spencer followed without hesitation, his pupils blown wide, his breath uneven, and his grip on your hand just tight enough to betray how much he wanted this, how much he wanted you.

As soon as you reached the edge of the bed, you pushed him. He fell back onto the mattress with a surprised breath, eyes flashing with something dark and eager. Before he could adjust, you were straddling him, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your palms. You rocked against him, slow, teasing, watching the way his breath stuttered in response.

He let out a breathless chuckle, his fingers flexing against your hips. "You always have to be on top, don’t you?"

You smirked, pressing your hands more firmly against his chest, keeping him pinned. "That’s cute. You actually think you have a say in this?" Your fingers trailed down his chest, nails scraping lightly, leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. "Tell me, Doctor, does it drive you crazy? Having to let go? Not being the one calling the shots?"

His breath hitched, but he didn’t back down, his hands flexing against your hips. "I think you like testing me."

"I think you like being tested," you countered, leaning down until your lips hovered over his. "And I think you’re going to let me win. Just this once."

His breath hitched as your hands trailed lower, nails lightly scraping down his torso, savouring the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. You kissed him—slow, teasing—before pulling back just as he tried to deepen it. He groaned in protest, his hands gripping your hips in an attempt to pull you down onto him, but you weren’t ready to give in just yet.

"Patience, Doctor," you murmured against his jaw, your lips grazing his skin as you made your way down his neck, leaving a path of kisses and nips that had him shuddering beneath you. "I want to take my time. Unless you can’t handle it?"

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into your hips as if grounding himself. "You're gonna regret taunting me."

You chuckled, rolling your hips against him in response, feeling the sharp inhale it pulled from him. "I hope so."

His head tipped back against the mattress, exposing more of his throat to you, and you took advantage, biting down just hard enough to make him gasp. His grip on your hips tightened, his entire body tense beneath you, desperate for more friction, more anything.

"You're enjoying this way too much," he said, breathless.

You grinned against his skin. "And you’re not?"

His only response was a low groan as you slid lower, kissing and biting your way down his chest, your fingers tracing every inch of exposed skin, committing him to memory. His body was lean, all long limbs and subtle definition, but the way he responded to your touch—the way he trembled, the way he gasped whenever you hit a sensitive spot—only made you want to push him further.

Your fingers trailed lower, tracing over his bare skin, feeling the warmth of him beneath your touch. His breath stuttered, his body already strung tight beneath you. "You gonna be good for me? Or are you going to put up a fight?"

His breath stuttered, his lips parting slightly, but there was something challenging in his gaze, something stubborn. "Wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t."

Your smirk deepened as you leaned in closer, letting your breath ghost over his skin, relishing the way he tensed at your touch. Time blurred, the world outside this moment ceasing to exist as every nerve in your body focused on him, on this, on the way he trembled beneath your fingertips. He was already hard, aching, and the sight of him—so undone beneath you, so desperate despite the fight still lingering in his expression—made something hot and insatiable curl inside you.

"You're so damn cocky," you mused, dragging your nails up his thighs, watching as his hips jerked involuntarily at the sensation. "Wonder how long that’ll last."

Spencer opened his mouth, maybe to throw another challenge your way, but whatever retort he had died on his lips the moment you leaned down and wrapped your mouth around him. His sharp inhale, the way his hands flew to your hair, fingers tightening but not pushing, told you everything you needed to know.

You took your time, setting a slow, torturous pace, revelling in the way he fell apart beneath you, the way his cock twitched in your mouth every time you hollowed your cheeks, the way he bit down on his lip like he was trying to keep from begging. But you wanted to hear him. You wanted to break him down until he was nothing but gasps and moans and your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

"Fuck," he choked out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against your cheek, a silent plea. "Please—"

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, lips glistening, eyes dark with intent. "Please what? Say it."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his control slipping with every second. "Please, don’t stop."

You grinned, dragging your tongue along the length of him before taking him back in, deeper this time, until his head tipped back against the bed, a ragged moan escaping his lips. You hummed around him, satisfied, and his entire body tensed beneath you.

"God," he gasped, his fingers tightening in your hair, his hips twitching upward before he caught himself. "You're—fuck—you're gonna ruin me."

You let him feel the smirk on your lips before pulling off of him slowly, savouring the way his breath hitched, the way his hands fisted the sheets like he was barely holding himself together. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, climbing back up his body, letting your lips hover over his.

"That’s the plan. Unless you think you can stop me."

His response was immediate—his hands were on you in an instant, flipping you onto your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His pupils were blown wide, his expression wrecked yet determined.

"My turn," he murmured, voice hoarse, before claiming your lips with a hunger that sent another bolt of heat straight through you.

His hands were relentless, sliding down your body, gripping your thighs as he spread them, as he settled between them. His lips traced a slow, torturous path down your torso, his breath hot against your skin. You shuddered as he kissed lower, dragging his tongue over sensitive flesh, marking his way down until you were trembling beneath him.

"Let’s see how patient you are now," he mused, voice laced with wicked amusement.

You smirked, your fingers threading through his hair. "Try me."

Neither of you had any plans of stopping now.

With a steady, commanding grip, you pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips before he could even think to regain control. His breath was uneven, hands skimming up your thighs, but you caught his wrists, pinning them down against the mattress. His eyes darkened, lips parting slightly, as if caught between resistance and surrender.

"You don’t get to take over that easily," you murmured, leaning down, your lips grazing against his jaw. "You wanted me in charge—so take it."

Spencer swallowed hard, his pulse pounding beneath your fingers. "You’re really not going to make this easy, are you?"

You smirked, rolling your hips against him, feeling the sharp inhale it pulled from him. "Not a chance. Now, be good for me, Doctor."

You guided him inside you with an unhurried confidence, revelling in the way his body shuddered beneath yours. His fingers twitched, desperate to move, to touch, to grasp at any control left to him, but you kept his wrists pinned, watching as he came apart under you. Every roll of your hips pulled another breathless sound from him, each movement deliberate, dragging out his pleasure until his composure cracked entirely.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice raw. "You’re going to be the death of me."

You laughed softly, leaning down, your lips brushing over his ear. "And yet, you wouldn’t have it any other way."

Spencer’s eyes followed the path of your breasts as you moved, the way they swayed and bounced above him, and it was all he could do to not reach out and touch. It was a dance of dominance and submission, one that had him utterly transfixed. The way you controlled the rhythm, the angle, the depth of every thrust, had him writhing beneath you, desperate for more, for any little piece of control you’d allow him. He could feel every inch of you around him, warm and slick, gripping him so perfectly it made his head spin.

With a smirk, you leaned down, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss, your movements never faltering. He moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your chest, setting your nerves alight. You felt his hands tense against the mattress, the muscles in his arms flexing, his whole body begging to touch, to hold onto something, anything. His knuckles were white against the sheets, his body trembling with the effort it took not to grab you, not to flip you over and claim you the way you knew he wanted to.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned back slightly, the shift in angle sending a fresh wave of pleasure through both of you. "You can look all you want," you murmured, dropping your hands to his chest, your nails digging in just enough to leave marks. "But you don’t get to touch."

Spencer's jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. Not yet. His eyes remained on you, watching every move, every shift of your body, the way your muscles flexed as you began to ride him slower but harder. Each time you slammed down onto him, his eyes rolled back, the sensation of you taking him in so completely, so deliberately, had him fighting for control. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his restraint slipping further with every motion.

You could feel him getting closer, his body tightening beneath you, his hips jerking upward in a silent plea for more. So you gave it to him—faster, deeper, until he was nothing but a symphony of need and want, his breath coming in sharp pants. His fingers twitched, his muscles coiling beneath you, his body shaking with the sheer force of his pleasure.

Your combined juices flooded his pelvis, creating a deliciously raunchy sound with every slap of skin against skin, each movement echoing through the room. The wetness was a testament of desire, a slick reminder of how much power you had over him in this moment. And with each roll of your hips, each deep, deliberate thrust, the sound grew louder, more intense, a symphony of passion that had you both on edge. The smell of sweat and sex filled the air, intoxicating, adding to the hazy, feverish heat of the moment.

Spencer’s eyes were squeezed shut now, his teeth digging into his lower lip, his entire body taut with tension. You watched him, revelling in the way he trembled beneath you, the way his abs clenched with every movement, the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath. You could feel him getting closer, the pulse in his cock growing stronger, the muscles in his thighs tensing. Every breath he took was shaky, every exhale laced with a low, desperate moan.

With a wicked smile, you leaned in, your breath hot against his ear. "You’re so close, aren’t you?"

Spencer’s eyes snapped open, his gaze locking on yours. "I’m right—fuck—right there." His voice was strained, the muscles in his neck standing out with the effort of holding back. His fingers curled into the sheets, his whole body trembling beneath you, the strain of resisting almost painful.

You grinned, feeling a thrill at his desperation. "Good," you murmured, your voice low, a purr of satisfaction. "Because this is a fight you’re going to lose, Doctor."

With that, you leaned in and bit down hard on his neck, feeling the muscles there jump beneath your teeth. You didn’t break the skin—not yet—but the pressure was enough to leave a bruise. A mark that would be yours alone. Spencer’s eyes went wide, a surprised gasp escaping him, his body arching up into you, and you felt the moment he lost it, his control shattering like glass beneath the weight of your dominance. He let out a strangled moan, his hands clenching into fists against the sheets, his entire body going taut before he spilled inside you, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him as he came undone beneath you. And when he came, it was with a roar, his hips jerking up into you, filling you so completely it took your breath away. The warmth of him, the pulsing of his cock inside you, it was almost too much. Your own orgasm was a surprise, a sudden explosion of sensation that had you crying out, your nails digging into his skin.

You pulled back just enough to watch him, your own eyes hooded with pleasure. His gaze was hazy, pupils blown wide with arousal. His hands, once fisted in the sheets, now reached for you, trying to find something to hold onto, trying to claim some semblance of power. But you didn’t let him. You kept his wrists pinned to the bed, keeping him beneath you, revelling in the aftershocks that had him trembling beneath your touch.

Spencer let out a long, shaky breath, his body sinking into the mattress, utterly spent, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His flushed skin glistened with sweat, his lips parted, still trembling slightly from the force of his release. You smirked, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips before pulling back and sitting upright, keeping him inside you just a little longer, just to revel in the sensation of still having him beneath you, completely at your mercy. He let out a soft, broken groan, and you grinned, knowing you had him exactly where you wanted him.

For once, he had no words. And that, more than anything, was the ultimate victory. You had spent so long locked in battles of wit with him, always feeling like you were a step behind, always scrambling to match his sharp mind and quick tongue. But now, with his breath stolen, his thoughts scattered, and nothing left in him but you—this was a triumph like no other. You traced your fingers over his heaving chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, knowing that you had reduced the brilliant, articulate Dr. Spencer Reid to nothing but a mess of pleasure beneath you. A victory, indeed.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable, warm. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly over his skin, mapping out the lines of his collarbone, the sharp edges of his ribs. His breath was steadying now, but his gaze remained unfocused, lost somewhere in the haze of what had just happened between you. Spencer let out a slow breath, finally gathering himself enough to meet your gaze. "That was..." he started, but trailed off, shaking his head with a soft, incredulous laugh. "I don't even have a word for it."

You smirked, tilting your head. "Speechless? That’s a first."

He let out a breathy chuckle, his hands finally finding your waist, thumbs rubbing soft, soothing circles against your skin. "You always did have a way of knocking me off balance."

Your smile softened at that, your teasing fading into something more genuine. The weight of everything that had led up to this moment pressed against your chest, making it difficult to speak. The echoes of sharp words exchanged, the nights spent simmering in unresolved tension, the way his gaze had always lingered a second too long before he forced himself to look away—all of it came together into this single, inescapable truth. The fight had never been about animosity. It had always been about everything they were too afraid to admit. "Spencer... about everything before tonight... I—"

He exhaled, his grip on you tightening slightly. "I was an asshole to you," he admitted, voice quieter now. "I didn’t handle things well when you joined the team. I—change has never been easy for me. And then, when I found out you had a boyfriend... I was jealous. I didn’t know how to deal with that, so I took it out on you. I shouldn't have."

You searched his face, taking in the sincerity in his eyes, the quiet regret there. "I gave as good as I got," you murmured, your fingers ghosting over his jawline.

His fingers traced your spine, his gaze never leaving yours. "So... what now?"

The weight of everything unsaid pressed between you, years of tension unravelling in a single moment. The walls you had built to keep him out were crumbling, and you knew, deep down, that neither of you wanted to rebuild them.

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to fight you anymore. I don't want to pretend I don’t feel this."

His breath hitched, and his hands tightened on your waist, anchoring you to him. "Neither do I."

A slow, nervous smile pulled at your lips. "Then let's stop running from it."

Spencer reached up, brushing his fingers along your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw like he was committing you to memory. His touch was delicate, reverent, as if he was afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. "Are you sure?"

You nodded, covering his hand with yours. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Relief flooded his features, and he pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his own against yours. "Then we stop pretending."

The last of the barriers between you shattered as he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss—one filled with every unspoken word, every lingering glance, every suppressed feeling that had simmered for far too long. This wasn’t an impulse or a fleeting moment of passion. This was real—the press of his lips against yours, slow and sure, the way his hands anchored you to him like he couldn’t bear to let go. It was in the heat of his breath against your skin, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers trembled slightly as they traced the curve of your spine. The weight of his gaze, filled with something deep and unshakable, sent warmth unfurling through you, settling deep in your bones. Every touch, every breath, every second of this moment cemented the truth—you weren’t pretending anymore. You never would again. And finally, neither of you had any reason to deny it.

As the kiss deepened, the world outside of this moment faded into irrelevance. His hands roamed your back, pressing you closer, as if afraid you might disappear if he let go. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him down to you, needing him in a way that felt almost desperate. His breath was uneven against your lips, and you could feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingertips.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, finding them darker, more intense than ever. "Spencer," you whispered, his name a plea, a promise, an invitation all at once. His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, reverent, awed.

He exhaled shakily, his fingers tracing over the curve of your cheek, his gaze searching yours like he was still trying to make sense of everything. "I don't want this to be just tonight," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to wake up tomorrow and pretend like this didn’t happen. Like it doesn’t mean everything."

Your breath caught, a slow warmth unfurling in your chest, because that was exactly what you needed to hear. "Me neither," you admitted, the words feeling truer than anything you’d ever said. "I want this. I want you."

Something in his expression softened, like a tension he hadn't even realized he was holding had finally eased. He cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you into another kiss—deeper this time, more certain, like he was memorizing the way you felt against him.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. "Then we don't pretend," he murmured. "We stop fighting it."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, fingers curling around the nape of his neck. "No more running."

And as his lips found yours again, slow and lingering, you knew that neither of you ever would.

Neither of you spoke for a long time after that, simply holding each other, basking in the certainty that, for once, neither of you had to run anymore. This was real.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time had lost all meaning. The only thing that tethered you to the present was the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his fingers traced idle patterns along your skin. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full—of unspoken words, of lingering touches, of breaths that synced in the quiet. The warmth of his body against yours, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, all of it grounded you in the certainty of this moment, of him. Spencer traced patterns along your bare shoulder, his touch hypnotic, grounding. "I never thought I'd have this with you," he admitted. "I spent so much time trying to convince myself that it was easier to keep you at a distance. That if I pushed you away, maybe I wouldn't have to deal with wanting you this much."

Your chest ached at his words, at the thought of all the wasted time, the hurt you had both caused in your attempts to avoid the inevitable. "I think I did the same thing," you whispered. "You were pushing me away, so I pushed back. And maybe I didn't realize I enjoyed it—that arguing with you was just another way of being close to you."

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his fingers tightening around yours. "We’re kind of idiots, aren't we?"

"Yeah," you murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of his wrist. "But at least we figured it out eventually."

His lips quirked into a smile, but there was something deeper in his gaze now—something tender, something permanent. "And we’re not going to waste any more time."

You shook your head. "No more pretending. No more running."

Spencer exhaled, his hands framing your face as he kissed you again, slow and sure. "Good," he murmured against your lips. "Because I plan on spending a long time making up for all the time we lost."

And as you melted into his arms, you knew, without a doubt, that you had found exactly where you were meant to be.

The next morning, the sun had barely crested the horizon when you awoke to the sensation of warmth and weight beside you. Spencer’s arm was draped across your waist, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. For a moment, you lay still, basking in the unfamiliar comfort of his presence, his eyes on you, watching you sleep. There was something so tender in his gaze, something that sent a warmth spreading through your body, chasing away the last vestiges of the cold loneliness that had clung to you for so long.

You turned to face him, his eyes snapping to yours with a flicker of surprise before he schooled his features back to something more neutral. "Were you watching me?" you asked, the question a teasing lilt in your voice, a smirk playing on your lips.

Spencer's cheeks flushed slightly, his gaze dropping to your bare chest where his arm lay. "I was," he admitted, his voice laced with something that could only be described as adoration. "You looked so peaceful."

You reached up, your hand brushing against the softness of his cheek. "I am now," you murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, urging his gaze back to yours. The intensity of his stare made your pulse race, the memory of last night's passion still tangible between you.

Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt or regret. Finding none, he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was both gentle and hungry. It was a declaration, a promise, a silent vow that this was just the beginning.

Your fingers danced across his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. The kiss grew more urgent as the morning light painted the room in soft hues of gold and pink. The weight of his body on yours was both comforting and exciting.

"I never knew you could be like this," he murmured when he finally pulled away, his voice thick with sleep and desire.

You chuckled softly, nuzzling closer. "What? That I could keep up with you? That I could challenge you?"

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, his nose brushing against yours as he shifted, his fingers skimming along your side. "No," he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "That you’d let yourself be this open with me."

Your smirk softened at his words, something unspoken passing between you. "Guess you bring it out of me," you admitted, your voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

His hand trailed down your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine as he hummed thoughtfully. "I like it," he said, almost as if confessing a secret. His lips ghosted over your jaw before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again. "I like… this."

Your stomach flipped at the way he said it—uncertain yet sure, like he was still processing the reality of waking up with you but already knew he wanted to do it again.

"I like this too," you said, your fingers threading through his hair, still tousled from sleep. The golden morning light caught in the strands, making him look softer, more at ease than you’d ever seen him.

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he ducked his head, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Good," he whispered against your skin, his arm tightening around you as if he wanted to make sure you stayed right there.

With a gentle nudge, Spencer shifted, rolling you onto your back before settling his weight over you. His kisses grew more urgent as he made his way down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, sending shivers down your spine. His hands slid to your breasts, cupping them with a familiarity that sent a thrill of pleasure through you. His thumbs brushed over your already-hardened nipples, and you felt your back arch off the bed, a low moan escaping you.

He paused, looking up to meet your eyes, his own dark with desire. "Is this what you want?" he asked.

You nodded, your voice a breathless whisper. "More than anything."

Spencer's gaze held yours for a long moment, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he leaned in, capturing your nipple in his mouth and flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. You moaned, your hips bucking against him, silently begging for more. He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His free hand slid down your stomach to the apex of your thighs, teasing the slick folds of your sex before he finally slid one long finger inside you. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut, your entire body tensing at the sudden intrusion.

He moved with purpose, his thumb circling your clit as he kissed a trail down your body, his tongue tracing the line of your collarbone before moving to capture your other nipple in his mouth. The feeling of his fingers moving inside you, his mouth worshipping your body, was almost too much to handle. You tangled your hands in his hair, holding him to you, needing more.

His movements grew more deliberate, his tongue teasing and taunting, his fingers curling and stroking in a way that had you panting and desperate. You could feel the beginnings of an orgasm coiling tight in your belly, and you knew it was going to be explosive.

"Spencer," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need—"

With a knowing smile, he added another finger, stretching you, filling you. The sensation was overwhelming, your body responding with a sharp intake of breath. His touch was confident, masterful, his movements a silent promise that he knew exactly what you needed.

He watched your face as he pushed you closer to the edge, reading the signs of your arousal with an intensity that made you feel both exposed and cherished. His eyes darkened, his own breath growing uneven as he watched you squirm beneath him, desperation lacing your voice with every whine. With one last, lingering kiss to your neck, Spencer pulled away, his gaze meeting yours as he slid another finger into you, stretching you even further. The sensation was exquisite, a delicious fullness that made you quiver.

Your eyes locked onto his, and you could see the hunger there—for you, for this moment, for the connection that had been building between you for so long. You could feel yourself getting closer, your body tightening around his fingers, your muscles clenching in anticipation. He swiped his thumb over your clit again, and you bit back a cry, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

"Spencer, please," you breathed, the words barely coherent as you writhed beneath him.

He didn't need the words; he could read your body's language with the same ease he read the pages of a book. His fingers moved in perfect rhythm, each stroke building the tension higher and higher.

"Spencer," you begged, your voice a breathy moan. "Please, I need you."

He pulled back slightly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Not yet," he murmured, his fingers continuing their relentless rhythm. "I want to feel you come apart on my fingers first."

You whimpered, the frustration building. "But—"

Spencer cut you off with a firm look, his eyes dark with hunger. "No," he insisted, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. His fingers didn't slow, the rhythm unrelenting, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

You struggled to keep your eyes open, to maintain that connection with him, but the pleasure was too intense, too all-consuming. Your hips began to rock against his hand, the friction building, the coil of need tightening deep within you. You could feel your orgasm approaching like a storm. "Spencer," you moaned, his name a plea as your body grew taut with anticipation.

"Cum for me," he whispered, his voice a seductive command that sent heat through you.

You moaned, your body responding instinctively to the words, the promise of what was to come. Spencer's fingers continued their relentless dance, the pressure building until you were sure you couldn’t hold on any longer. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you clutched at the bed sheets, the fabric bunched in your fists as you tried to find purchase in the world that was rapidly spinning out of control.

With a final, desperate whine, you shattered, your body arching off the bed as an orgasm ripped through you with the force of a tempest. You cried out his name, the sound echoing through the room, the waves of pleasure so intense they were almost painful. He watched you cum, his own desire clear in the way his eyes darkened, his pupils dilating to swallow the blue of his irises.

And then, with a slow, deliberate movement that had your heart racing even faster, Spencer removed his fingers from your body, his eyes never leaving yours. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his gaze locked on yours as if daring you to look away. The sight was obscene, erotic, and you couldn't tear your eyes away as he tasted you.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth again, sharing the intimate flavour of your pleasure with you. You moaned into his kiss, the sensation of his tongue against your own making your core clench with aftershocks.

And then, with a deliberate slowness that made you ache, Spencer took hold of his cock, swiping the tip through your wetness, coating himself in your desire. The contact was electric, a promise of what was to come, and you could feel the tremble in his hand as he positioned himself at your entrance.

You watched as he pushed in, the sensation of him filling you up making you gasp against his mouth. He took his time, inch by torturous inch until he was fully seated. You felt stretched to the brink, but it was a sweet agony, a feeling you never wanted to lose.

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of pain or discomfort. Finding none, he began to move, his hips rocking against yours in a rhythm that matched your racing heartbeat. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him deeper, your nails digging into his back as you matched his movements. The friction was exquisite, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you with every stroke.

Spencer groaned, his forehead dropping to yours as he began to move faster, his breathing growing ragged. You felt the tension coiling in his body, the way his muscles tightened and his grip grew more possessive. "Look at me," he whispered, his voice strained with need.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze with a hazy sort of wonder. The way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—was intoxicating.

Spencer’s strokes grew deeper, more urgent. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with the desperate sounds you were making. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you, and you couldn’t help but clench around him, urging him closer.

"You feel so good," he murmured, his voice low and raw. His eyes were closed now, his brow furrowed in concentration as he moved inside you. You could feel the tension in his body, the effort it took to maintain control.

The sound of your muffled cries filled the room, the sweet symphony of passion echoing off the walls. His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit, his thumb circling it in time with his thrusts. You bucked against him, the dual sensations pushing you closer to the edge once more.

Spencer’s eyes snapped open, the intensity of his gaze searing into yours. "I want to watch you cum," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Again."

And with that, he changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting your g-spot making your eyes roll back and your toes curl. Each movement sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, building on the remnants of your last orgasm. You couldn’t believe how close you already were, how desperate you felt for the release that you knew was just within reach.

Your breath grew ragged, your chest heaving as you met his eyes. He watched you, his own eyes dark with need, his thumb working you with a precision that had your back bowing off the bed, your cries growing louder. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, the sensation of his cock filling you, his thumb on your clit, the sound of his breath in your ear—it was all too much.

And then you were there, falling over the precipice into the abyss of pleasure. You screamed his name, your body tightening around him as the orgasm swept through you like a wave, crashing over you and leaving you trembling in its wake.

Spencer's eyes remained locked on your face, a look of awe and adoration on his face. "God, you're so beautiful when you cum," he groans out. His thumb didn’t stop moving, keeping the pleasure pulsing through you.

And then, with a final, powerful thrust, he followed you over the edge, his own orgasm ripping through him. His body went rigid, his eyes squeezing shut as he buried himself deep inside you, his release hot and intense. You felt your inner muscles clench around him, milking every last drop of pleasure from him.

When it was over, he collapsed on top of you, his breaths hot and erratic against your neck. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, your hearts beating in sync. The aftermath was a mess of sticky skin and tangled limbs, but it was the most alive you’d felt in what felt like an eternity.

You stroked his hair, your breathing gradually slowing, the sound of your heartbeats the only music in the quiet room. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow across the rumpled bed.

Spencer's head was nestled in the crook of your neck, his breathing evening out as he held onto you. The intimacy of the moment washed over you, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past few days.

You didn’t know how to navigate this new territory between you. But as his weight settled, as his arms tightened around you, you felt something unfurling within you—a warmth that had been missing for a long time.

You laid there, his breathing even and steady, his heartbeat a comforting thump against your chest. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow over the rumpled sheets. Your fingers traced idle patterns on his back, feeling the contours of his chest.

You sighed, tightening your arms around him for a brief moment before murmuring, "We should probably get up."

"Mhm," he mumbled, though he made no effort to move. He nuzzled against your neck for a lingering moment before finally pushing himself up onto his elbows. His hair was a mess, and his eyes, still heavy with sleep, met yours with something unreadable flickering in them.

Neither of you spoke as you got out of bed, dressing in the nearest clothes you could find. The air between you wasn’t awkward, but it was charged with something unspoken. The weight of what had just happened, what it meant, hung between you like an unfinished sentence.

You padded out of the bedroom, Spencer trailing behind you. The apartment was still and quiet, the only sound the soft creaking of the wooden floor beneath your feet. As you made your way into the living room, your eyes caught sight of the scattered remnants of last night—discarded clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor.

You bent down, sifting through the pile in search of your phone, and Spencer did the same. The moment your fingers closed around the device, your stomach twisted at the sight of the screen lighting up—multiple missed calls and a slew of unread messages.

"Shit," you muttered, unlocking your phone.

"Oh no," Spencer said at the same time, his brows furrowing as he scrolled through his own notifications.

The texts were from the team.

Part Two

#criminal minds #masterlist #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #mgg #mgg smut #request #ask box #enemies to lovers #angst #fluff #bau reader #part 1/2

517 notes · View notes