#running from your responsibilities be like

[i-like-loserz]

breedable

pairing: husband!san x reader

cw: explicit (18+), raging breeding-kink, unprotected sex (no condom, yes other contraceptives), needy/whiny!san, cuteness/sexiness aggression (^^look AT THOSE ADORABLE PICS), not dub-con because you're not actually forcing san to have a child - its just a fantasy and san respects the responsible day dreaming -- oh, and this is NOT beta-read.

wc: 1.6k

note: reverse breeding kink turns my mind into a slushie

masterlist

---

you have a special type of aggression when it comes to your husband.

while there's the usual cuteness aggression that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and tickle him until he's a giggling mess -- or the alternative "awe-infused-aggression," that makes you want to crawl all over him and worship his body (because he's built like a god) -- but this special aggression is a mix of the two.

you call it the "i-need-to-pass-on-his-genes-with-mine" or the breeding-aggression. you see his perfect, docile face -- the cute way his brows scrunch together whenever he's feeling too much, the way his chiseled abs clench as he holds himself back -- and it sets a fire in your horny soul.

typically, when one describes a breeding kink, it involves someone wanting to impregnate the other person in an act of love and possession. of course, the other person is wholeheartedly egging them on because they, too, want to carry their baby.

in this case, however, you work hard to fuck him to get you pregnant.

you may wonder, "is that not exactly the same thing as a normal breeding kink?," which will be responded with a, "no, because san is a smart boy and he doesn't want a child at the moment -- that is, not until you're both done achieving your dreams and settled into a family-friendly environment."

san is the sensible one in the relationship, while you play the role of a feral cat in heat. he always insists on a condom or some birth control while you immediately embrace your inner horny demon and cannot go a week without begging him to fill you up like a boston cream donut.

you often think he's just playing the role of the timid damsel, begging for mercy before getting thoroughly ravished because he always ends up giving in.

at first, this obsession started with an accidental and harmless mistake.

you forgot to get condoms.

neither of you realized it until you stuck your hand into the bedside drawer, only to come up empty handed.

san, the sweetheart he is, offered to run to the store to get some. but before he could leave, you pulled him back and convinced him that one time without it wouldn't hurt. you can always take the morning after pill. right?

and you thought that was that.

but once you saw the way his cute lashes fluttered as he entered you, eyes shiny from how lost he was in the pleasure -- maybe something clicked for you. maybe.

and maybe, when you felt how his body shivered, finally feeling your warmth without any barriers, and how his cock throbbed within you, you knew this would turn into an addiction.

a dangerous one.

then when he came inside, painting your walls in his warmth before pulling out to reveal his sloppy mess, your brain chemistry became altered in a way that would change the course of desires for the rest of your life.

and then, pushing his love back in so affectionately with his fingers, eyes glazed over in awe and hunger, you knew something changed within him as well -- as much as he'd deny it. he already started to get hard again from seeing how he dripped from your perfect cunt.

and so, after that fateful night, you tried to hold back, knowing that taking the morning-after pill often wasn't healthy (and, of course, you and san weren't ready for kids yet).

this didn't stop you from imagining how his cum would feel if there wasn't a barrier between you every time you fucked. or how pretty he'd be as your baby daddy, claiming you as his own as he gives you the perfect little family.

ok, and fine, maybe you 'forgot' to buy condoms a few more times after that. and maybe you made it a habit to make him cum a few times before fucking him so he'd be a little less attentive to the missing condoms just so you can feel him gushing out of you once more.

but that's neither here nor there.

...

ok, so, maybe it was here.

and there.

here, in the house -- on the couch during movie night, on the bed in the morning, on the kitchen counter when you saw him in that cute little frilly apron he borrowed from you, in the shower when he got back from the gym.

and there, outside the house -- messily in the car(s), in a tight dressing room, spontaneously in a lake, in a utility closet at his work (don't ask) -- so you had to find a sustainable solution quickly.

it finally got to the point where you made a doctor's appointment to get on birth control because you knew you wouldn't be able to hold yourself back anymore. the pull-out method wasn't going to work for long, and you knew san was struggling to deny your whiny begs to be filled.

now, you can say whatever you want and he'll be the obedient husband that he is.

---

"cum in me, sannie..." you whisper in his ear, rolling your hips and perfectly arching your back so you can press your hot body against his. "don't you want to make me a mommy?"

you admire how his cute face scrunches up as you speed up on top of him. he's flushed a pretty scarlet, from his chiseled chest to his cheeks -- a product of your merciless teasing and edging from earlier in the evening.

"b-baby," he meets your motions smoothly, eyes squeezed shut as his body struggles to bear with the sensations of your soft heat wrapped around him. "fuck, i-i'm..."

"...you're...?" you ask, mockingly. you lightly rake your nails against the back of his neck. the action never fails to make him shiver and buck against you. you let out a short gasp as the feeling of him suddenly fully thrusting into you nearly knocks the air out of you. he's hitting that sweet sweet spot inside of you now -- and it's making you almost as delirious as the man under you.

"p-please..."

"c'mon, hubby, i wanna feel it dripping out of me," you sigh dreamily. your lips barely brush over his neck as you speak, "then you can shove it back in and make sure it keeps, right~"

"yes, yes, anything--" he mumbles, head tilted back in ecstasy. his large hands grip around your waist, guiding your body like a glorified cock sleeve, up and down his cock just right. you swear you're starting to see white spots in your vision as he continues to use your body.

you love it when he's like this. tunnel visioned and desperate to reach that explosive feeling of stuffing you full of his cum. your eyes roll back as he continues to nudge against that soft spot inside of you.

"u-uh, san..." a familiar and addictive exhilarating heat blooms from your core and proliferates through every nerve in your body before you even realize it. you bite your lip to keep you from drooling as your body starts to shake in his hold.

the shockwave of pleasure makes you clench around him, making you impossibly tight around him as he continues to thrust into you.

"fuck," he groans at the feeling of you fluttering around him. he struggles to keep up his pace as he gives into his pleasure. you can feel his abs clench against you as his hips begin to stutter to meet yours. "take it, baby. i need you to t-take it all for me."

"give it to me. i need it."

he pulls your body down and gives one last punishing snap of his hips to press himself deep inside of you as he finishes with a broken moan.

as he cums inside of you, his body trembles, overwhelmed by his orgasm, the press of your perfect body against his, the heated air surrounding the two of you, and the panted breath leaving your precious lips.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close, as he nuzzles his face against your neck, pressing soft and sweet kisses to your sticky skin.

as you both start to calm down, san lifts his face from the crook of your neck to look up at you.

"baby?" he gently brushes some hair from your face so he can get a good look at your flushed expression, "i think i'm ready." he has such a cute little smile on his face as he stares up at you with adoring eyes.

"ready?" you ask, still trying to come down from the pleasure infused fog that has settled over your mind.

"i think we should start baby-making, for real."

a silence sits in between you as you stare at him in disbelief. you weren't expecting your sensible and responsible husband to suddenly propose such a life altering idea to you.

you're suddenly pulled out from your warm post-orgasm deliriousness.

"...san. are you sure?"

he looks down at your connected bodies, at your baby-less stomach and the sticky mess that's now dripping onto his thighs. and then you feel him twitch inside of you.

oh.

"i-- yeah."

not convincing.

(at least not in the state you're in)

"yeah, no." you shake your head, fully aware of his wandering thoughts. "let's talk about this when we're fully clothed, okay."

who knew you'd be promoted to be the sensible one?

[fawniette]

thinking about our sweetheart yuji with a mean and bitchy girlfriend, the type of girl no one would’ve expected him to be with. it even has his friends wondering why he’s with you, and yuji just replies with a hum, “well you don’t know her like i do.”

but even if your boyfriend always has your back, ready to defend you in public, he knows that your unwarranted attitude definitely needs fixing from time to time, especially when it’s directed at him - even if your words are secretly causing a growing erection in his pants that he’s struggling to hide with flushed cheeks and a hand scratching the back of his neck.

your bitchy eye rolls from before turn into ones of pleasure with the snap of yuji’s hips, his pelvis colliding with the curve of your ass while continuing to pound in and out of your pussy as your walls stretch around his thick length, causing you to cry out in pleasure, “yuji! p-please, can’t take it!”

“yeah, you can.. you’ve been so mean to me, baby. y’still need to say sorry.”, yuji breaths out with a heavy chest, watching the way your pussy swallows his length completely, bottoming out inside of you and gently kissing your cervix, “oh, fuck- you’re taking me so deep..”

you whimper in response as your gummy walls flutter around his shaft, gripping onto yuji’s bedsheets for dear life. he can’t help the whine that escapes his lips, lost in the feeling of your pussy as he continues to snap his hips with his throbbing cock abusing your walls, eager for those cries of pleasure from you. he loves fucking you like this, where you have no choice but to stop running your mouth when all you can do is form babbles and whines from your lips, struggling to take his cock.

“i’m sorry! yuji- i can’t-”, you cry with tears of pleasure forming in the corners of your eyes, with that familiar build up of hot white pleasure filling your core as your walls continuously clench around your yuji’s throbbing cock over and over.

he moans out before replying, his tone sweet despite the merciless thrusts of his hips as his hands that grip harshly onto the plush of your hips, struggling to contain himself, “yeah? you’re really sorry?”

you nod mindlessly, your eyes glossy and your lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath, the sound of clap! clap! clap! echoing throughout your bedroom walls alongside the needy and helpless whines that fall from your lips, your peak on it’s tipping point and your clit throbbing from the intense penetration.

“ah- you wanna cum, baby? i can feel it..”, yuji mutters, and all you can do is cry out with helpless nods, biting on the bottom of your lip to contain yourself and the pathetic noises you can’t hold back. you’re so desperate for your release, turning into putty as your boyfriend fucks your bad attitude out of you and turns you sweet and submissive - something his cock can’t help but twitch at.

“me too- cum with me? please, baby?”, yuji whines, his thrusts growing sloppy and uncoordinated with his throbbing cock and build up of pleasure that threatens to spill out of his leaky tip. when he has you like this, he can’t stay mad at you for long as he grows desperate for both of your highs, wanting to make you feel good even if you hadn’t fully earned it.

and with his words sending your stomach fluttering with butterflies, you feel the buck of your hips as that familiar sensation of euphoria crashes down on you, writhing and moaning while your nails claw down yuji’s back. he’s moaning alongside you, holding you close as his hips continue rutting in and out of your sensitive walls to the point of tears.

so, even if yuji’s deemed way too sweet for you, his mean and bitchy girlfriend, he always knows how to fix that attitude of yours, turning you completely submissive and needy beneath him, like you’re made of putty - and he fucking loves it.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part Three

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+), sooo in love, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like almost three years…, talks of pregnancy, reader feeling insecure -- having a hard time getting ready, boyband spencer yummm, Ethan (warning in itself), spencer's migraines, spencer snaps at reader, fights, being distant

Word count: 21.2k

a/n: hi…. this has been sitting in my drafts since april ahahahah 🫣 please don’t throw tomatoes at me i got a new job and it’s been A LOT!! this is not proof read by the way,, LOVE YOU ALL

main masterlist part one part two

Fuck.

That was the only word in your brain. Not even a full thought. Just that single syllable, echoing over and over like a heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You sat frozen on the edge of the bathtub, phone in hand, the screen still glowing from the period tracker app that now mocked you with its sterile little message: 4 days late.

You hadn’t missed a dose. Not one. You’d been on birth control for years, religiously punctual. You and Spencer were so careful—condoms every time, plan B once, after a minor scare. But it never came to anything. You were careful. Smart. Responsible.

So why the hell were you late?

You weren’t someone with irregular cycles. Since you’d started birth control, your period came like clockwork, so predictable you could plan around it down to the hour. And now?

Nothing. Not a cramp. Not a twinge. Just… a silence in your body that was starting to feel deafening.

You buried your face in your hands, dragging your palms down your cheeks before letting your head fall back against the tiled wall behind you.

Spencer.

You hadn’t told him yet. You hadn’t even tested yet.

Because if you told Spencer, it would be real. And you weren’t ready for real. You were barely holding it together through hypothetical.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the rising panic.

You imagined his face—how he’d blink a few too many times, how he’d tell you about the statistical failure rate of your specific birth control pill, how his hands might tremble just a little. But you also imagined how quickly he’d steady himself. How he’d run every possible calculation in his head and then choose you anyway.

Still. None of that changed the fact that you were four days late. That your stomach had felt vaguely wrong for days, that your breasts were sore in a way they hadn’t been before, that your body felt foreign and too aware of itself.

Fuck.

You stared down at your phone again. 

4 days late.

The screen blurred as you blinked too hard.

You were going to have to buy a test. You were going to have to take a test. And maybe you were going to have to tell Spencer something that would change both of your lives.

You exhaled, long and shaky.

Okay.

But you didn’t want to do this alone.

Even though you could have. Could have walked to the pharmacy with your hood up and sunglasses on like you were buying contraband. Could have stared at the tiny pink boxes until your eyes blurred. Could have peed on a stick and stared at the result in solitary silence.

But that wasn’t you. And more importantly—this wasn’t something you wanted to keep from him.

You hated secrets. And Spencer? Spencer was the last person in the world you’d ever want to shut out.

So you called him.

“Hello, darling, what’s up?” he answered in that sweet, soft, distracted tone he always had when he was flipping through files or bent over a book.

“Hi, Spence,” you replied, trying to sound casual. You tried to keep your voice steady like your heart wasn’t in your throat, but he clocked it. Instantly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly more alert. “Are you okay? Is it your period? Do you need anything? I can run to the store right now—”

Your heart clenched in your chest at how quickly he switched into action, how tuned in he was to even the slightest variation in your tone. “No, well… not exactly,” you said, voice soft. “But thank you, baby.”

There was a pause. “Okay…” he said cautiously. “What is it then?”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, taking a deep breath. “Can you promise not to freak out?”

“Well, no,” he replied without hesitation. “I can’t promise that.”

“Okay, fair,” you laughed, the sound small but genuine. “Can you promise to keep an open mind until you get to my apartment and we talk?”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “Yes. Can you promise you aren’t going to break up with me?”

Your heart squeezed. You sat up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. “That sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal,” you teased, hoping to lighten the sudden weight in his voice.

“Y/N,” Spencer said firmly, “I’m being serious.”

And in that moment, you matched him. Matched his seriousness. Matched his heart.

“I would rather climb aboard the Death Star than ever break up with you, Spencer Reid.”

A breath. Then a groan. “God,” he huffed. “That’s hot and romantic.”

You burst out laughing—loud and unrestrained.

“So, Spence…” you said, once your giggles died down.

“Yes?”

“Can you stop at the store, actually?”

There was a pause, curious. “Yeah, of course. What do you need?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. “A pregnancy test.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

“…Spencer?”

Another second. Then: “I’ll be there in thirty.”

And he hung up.

You stared at your phone, heart thudding, lips parted in something between a gasp and a smile.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t ask a thousand questions. He didn’t panic. He was just… coming.

Spencer Reid was on his way. With a pregnancy test.

…

The lock clicked open in that hurried, unmistakable way that told you Spencer wasn’t bothering with social graces today. You barely had time to lift your head before the door creaked open with purpose.

“Y/N?” he called, voice carrying the weight of a man on a mission.

“In here!” you called back, your voice echoing faintly through the hallway as you lay sprawled on your bed, phone held loosely in one hand, eyes glazed over from doom scrolling through every what-if scenario the internet could provide.

A beat passed. Then footsteps—quick, determined, and absolutely not the shuffle of someone easing into a sensitive conversation.

Spencer burst into the doorway like a man with a PowerPoint and a plan. In one hand, he held a crisp brown pharmacy bag. In the other, he held a plastic-wrapped box aloft like a holy artifact.

“I hope you’re hydrated,” he said without preamble, eyes wide and voice tight, “because you need to pee on a stick right now.”

You blinked at him, one brow raised slowly as you lowered your phone. “Well, hello to you, too, Doctor Reid.”

He was already unboxing the test. “Sorry,” he said, breathless. “Hi. Hello. Love you. I panicked. I bought multiple different brands.”

Your lips twitched. “Multiple?”

“Each with varying levels of sensitivity and accuracy across different testing windows,” he muttered, holding out the first one like he was presenting evidence to a jury. “I figured a data set would be more reliable… and I didn’t have time to do proper research.”

You pushed yourself off the bed, taking the box from his hand gently. “Spencer,” you said, trying not to laugh, “you know you can’t cross-compare at-home pregnancy tests like it’s a peer-reviewed study, right?”

He blinked at you. “But I can try.”

You kissed his cheek and whispered, “You're ridiculous,” before making your way toward the bathroom.

And behind you, Spencer followed. Not quietly, not subtly—he trailed you with all the tense energy of a scientist monitoring a volatile experiment.

He wasn’t breathing properly. You could hear it—those tight little inhales and uneven exhales like his brain was juggling statistics and possible outcomes in real time. You opened the bathroom door, turned to shut it, and there he was—standing in the hallway like he absolutely planned on coming in with you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?” you asked, somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

Spencer blinked at you. “Yeah?” he replied, wide-eyed and completely earnest, like you’d asked him if he planned on inhaling oxygen today.

“Why?” you asked, stepping back just slightly, toothbrush still sitting in its cup on the counter like it was silently judging both of you.

He blinked again, totally baffled by the question. “Because… we’re doing this together?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You crossed your arms. “Spencer, I have to pee.”

“I know,” he said, nodding helpfully. “On the stick.”

“Right,” you deadpanned. “The pee stick. The extremely private, slightly undignified part of the pregnancy test process.”

“But I helped select the variables,” he gestured toward the box like this was a lab study and not your actual bladder. “I should be there to observe.”

“Spencer,” you said, struggling not to smile. “This isn’t a longitudinal field study, this is me trying not to pee on my hand.”

He faltered. You could see the flicker of Oh, right, humans have modesty settle in his eyes. Then his shoulders dropped slightly. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll just… I’ll wait outside.”

You softened immediately, stepping forward to brush your hand down his arm. “Thank you for being here, Spence. Truly.” You kissed his cheek gently. “I just draw the line at having an audience while I hover over a stick.”

“Completely fair,” he nodded, still holding the instruction insert like he was preparing to proctor an exam. “I’ll wait right here. I’ll set a timer.”

“Wait!” you exclaimed, pausing with your hand on the bathroom door.

Spencer jolted, eyes wide, already halfway into what looked like a thousand-yard stare. “What? What happened? Are you cramping? Is your bladder okay? Did the test break—”

“I have an idea,” you cut in quickly, raising a hand to calm his spiraling.

He blinked. “Okay. Hit me.”

“I need a cup.”

Spencer stared at you. “What…?”

You nodded, expression completely serious now. “Can you pretty please go get me one of the disposable cups from the last time we had game night here?”

“The Solo cups?”

“Yes.”

“From under the sink?”

“Yes.”

“For… pee?”

“Yes, Spencer. For pee,” you confirmed with a smirk. “You want repeatable data, right? Control of aim, no user error? Let me pee in the damn cup and dip it like a normal, emotionally stable person.”

He looked utterly stunned. Like you’d just solved a riddle he didn’t know was in play. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “That makes so much sense. Why doesn’t everyone do that?”

You shrugged. “Because not everyone lives with a hyper-rational genius who buys five brands of pregnancy tests and wants to take notes on hormone absorption timing.”

Spencer, already halfway down the hallway, called back, “Six brands actually! I bought a digital one too!”

You laughed, shutting the bathroom door behind you. God, you loved him. Even when you were peeing in a Solo cup.

On the other side of the door, Spencer stood perfectly still—extra Solo cup in hand, timer app open on his phone, a box with its unnecessarily convoluted instructions tucked under his arm—and all he could think about was how ridiculously, profoundly, absurdly in love he was with you.

There were nerves, of course. A thousand little flutters in his chest. A low, persistent hum of what if, what now, what next? But underneath it all, grounding him like bedrock, was you.

You, who asked for a Solo cup like it was part of a science fair project. You, who teased him for his obsession with test variables but still made sure to pee with clean aim for accuracy. You, who could be carrying the most life-altering news either of you had ever received—and were still making him laugh.

He leaned his forehead gently against the cool wall beside the door and exhaled slowly, a quiet little smile spreading across his face.

It should have been terrifying. Statistically, biologically, logistically—it was terrifying.

But it wasn’t. Not really. Not with you.

Because somehow—even now, with urine samples and packaging and potential futures swirling all around him—this was fun. This was you.

And that made it beautiful. Maybe even a little sexy, in that weird, brainy, wildly specific way that only Spencer Reid could feel: That his brilliant, hilarious, grounded, radiant girlfriend was helping him conduct the most emotional, chaotic, messy, real-life experiment of his life.

He adjusted the timer. Straightened the box. And whispered to himself, barely audible—“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“‘Kay, I’m done peeing in a cup,” you called with a laugh, voice echoing off the bathroom tile. “Start the timer!”

Spencer chuckled from the other side of the door, already reaching for his phone. “Three minutes, starting now.” He heard the water running, the soft clink of soap against the sink, and then the squeak of the door hinges as you opened it and peeked out—eyes bright, hands drying on a towel, entirely casual despite the gravity of the moment.

And that’s when it hit him.

Like a slow, warm wave breaking across his chest, flooding every part of him from his ribcage out.

This was it. This was the rest of his life.

You. In the bathroom. Laughing about pee. And somehow still managing to look like the most radiant, grounding thing in the universe.

And no matter what the test said—no matter what came next—Spencer realized he would be over the moon as long as it was with you. He’d known he wanted forever with you for a long time, but this moment… it carved it into his bones. Into his soul.

He was still staring at you when you tilted your head. “What?” you asked with a grin, towel draped over your shoulder as if this were all normal Tuesday.

Spencer blinked, mouth parting slightly. “Um… can I see the tests?”

You arched a brow. “You mean the tests soaking in my urine?”

He flushed instantly, ears pink, hand flapping in half-hearted defense. “Uh, yup. For science.”

You cackled, tossing the towel at him as you turned back toward the bathroom. “You are so weird, Spencer Reid.”

And he just smiled, deeply, hopelessly, because all he could think was: 

God, I hope our kid gets your laugh.

“Wow,” Spencer said, leaning over the sink, peering at the plastic sticks with far too much clinical curiosity.

You stepped in behind him, arms crossed, eyebrow already lifted. “Wow, what?”

He didn’t even look up, still squinting at the control lines. “You’re really hydrated.”

You blinked. “That’s what you’re taking from this moment?”

“Well,” he said, finally glancing at you with the most serious expression imaginable, “the urine is unusually clear. That’s textbook optimal hydration. It’s… honestly kind of impressive.”

You stared at him for a beat before bursting into laughter, covering your face with both hands. “Spencer, I’m possibly pregnant, and you’re out here praising my pee clarity.”

Spencer smiled sheepishly, reaching out to gently touch your elbow. “I’m nervous,” he confessed.

You dropped your hands and leaned into him, letting your forehead rest against his chest. “Me too.”

“Still,” he murmured into your hair, “ten out of ten for urine quality.”

You groaned into his shirt, and he held you closer, both of you laughing—but holding on just a little tighter.

The timer went off with a sharp, chirping beep!—far too loud, far too real—and you screamed. Just a bit. A quick, startled squeak that echoed off the bathroom walls.

Spencer jumped, nearly smacking his elbow on the counter. “Jesus,” he muttered, clutching his chest with wide eyes. “You scared me!”

You blinked rapidly, heart hammering in your ears, and looked at him with a shaky laugh. “You scared me!”

You both froze, still staring at each other, caught in the moment where possibility was still suspended in the air—just for a few seconds longer.

Spencer reached out and steadied the first test with two fingers. “Together?” he asked, voice low, trying to keep it calm, like his pulse wasn’t racing.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “One… two… three.”

You both leaned in. You tilted the test toward the light. Spencer adjusted his glasses. And—

Negative.

You blinked. “Wait. That’s… one line, right?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, eyes already scanning for the legend on the box. “One line. Definitely one. That’s negative.”

Your stomach fluttered, a weird combination of panic and relief and disbelief. “Okay—okay, next one.”

And like scientists on the verge of a breakthrough, the two of you tore through every single test—all six of them—analyzing, comparing, lining them up like a chemistry exhibit.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Every last one.

You leaned against the bathroom counter, your knees nearly giving out beneath the sheer wave of relief that rolled through you. Not because you didn’t love Spencer. Not because the idea of a family with him wasn’t beautiful in its own right.

But because you weren’t ready. Not financially. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not yet.

You were relieved because you could still breathe.

Spencer looked over at you, brows furrowed, searching your face like he was trying to interpret a result of his own. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice so gentle it made your throat tighten.

You nodded slowly, a hand pressed over your chest. “Yeah. I think so.”

And then—because it needed to be said—you looked up at him and smiled through the haze of adrenaline.

“I want your kids someday, Spencer,” you whispered. “Just… not today.”

He stepped forward, arms wrapping around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “Not today,” he murmured into your hair, kissing the crown of your head. “But when the day comes… I’ll be ready.”

—

The invitation from Penelope had come a week ago—sparkly, pink, and slightly glittery, even though it had been sent via email. She was pulling out all the stops. A home-cooked, themed dinner for her “favorite humans in the galaxy,” complete with handmade place cards and “mood-boosting cocktails.” The kind of night you knew would be warm, heartfelt, and filled with laughter.

And you wanted to be excited—really. You had been looking forward to it all week, but today? Today was not your day.

You stood in front of the mirror with the fourth outfit of the evening clutched in your hands, your shoulders sagging. Everything you put on felt like a betrayal. Too tight, too loose, too bland, too loud. Your reflection stared back at you with tired eyes, frizzy hair that refused to lay flat no matter how many products you threw at it, and makeup that only seemed to exaggerate every flaw you’d tried to cover.

"Jesus Christ," you muttered, tossing the outfit onto the bed like it had offended you.

You sat down at the edge of your mattress, hands in your lap, heart pounding with frustration. 

You (thought you) knew how this looked: dramatic, shallow, selfish. You were already spiraling; now guilt joined the spiral like it paid rent.

Why are you making this about you? Penelope worked so hard. Everyone's going to be in good spirits, and you’re gonna show up like a storm cloud. Maybe don’t go. They’ll understand. You’ll just say you’re sick. Or busy. Or tired. Anything.

But even that idea felt hollow. Because you wanted to be there. You wanted to laugh at Derek’s jokes and listen to JJ’s stories. You wanted to help Penelope in the kitchen and let Spencer go on one of his tangents that no one else would ever interrupt, even if they didn’t fully follow along. You wanted to belong tonight.

You just didn’t feel like you deserved to belong right now.

Your cheeks were flushed, not from blush, but from frustration. You were hot, your eyes glossy with unshed tears, and suddenly everything—your face, your skin, your clothes—felt tight.

You dropped your face into your hands, willing yourself to breathe, to calm down. But your brain wasn’t in logic mode. It wasn’t in anything mode. It was stuck.

You reached for your phone, thumb hovering over Penelope’s name.

Should you cancel?

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, hands gripping the hem of your shirt so tightly that your knuckles have gone white. The soft sound of keys jingling, the gentle creak of the front door, the quiet thud of shoes being taken off—it all hits your ears like warning bells. Spencer is home.

And your heart drops.

You hear him moving around, probably setting down his messenger bag, probably thinking everything is fine. That you’re just down the hall getting ready. That the two of you are going to head to Penelope’s in a few minutes, and everything will go exactly as planned.

But nothing feels okay. You look and feel like a mess. Not in the cute, slightly disheveled way people in rom-coms do, either. No, you feel like some pathetic swamp creature who thought makeup and a curling iron could make her human again and failed spectacularly.

Your stomach churns as you hear him start down the hall, and you backpedal away from the door like he's a ghost, unprepared for a haunting.

"Darling?" his voice is soft, a little curious. "You almost ready?"

You practically shriek the word. “No!”

There’s a pause. Then you hear his footsteps stop right outside the bedroom door. His voice, tentative but calm, filters through. “Is everything okay?”

You want to say yes, pull it together, and say something breezy like, “I just need five more minutes!” But the words won’t come.

So, instead, you crumble.

“No,” you whisper, and suddenly, your knees give way, and you find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, covering your face with shaking hands as the dam finally breaks. “I look horrible. I feel horrible. I’ve tried on like ten different things, and none of them work. My face looks weird, my hair’s being stupid, and I don’t know why I even care so much, but I do, and now I feel guilty for making it all about me, and I just—” your voice cracks—“I just hate everything right now, and I don’t want you to see me like this, and I feel like a horrible, mean, ugly human being.”

The door opens slowly, and Spencer steps inside with that sort of quiet care he reserves for only the most delicate moments—like you might shatter if he makes too much noise.

You don’t look up.

But you feel the bed dip beside you.

And then his hand is sliding across your back in a soft, slow arc. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “we don’t have to go.”

You jerk back slightly, lifting your tear-streaked face with wide, betrayed eyes. “Oh, so you think I look ugly too?”

Spencer blinks, stunned by your sharpness. “What? No, no, that’s not—”

You stand abruptly, pacing like a cornered animal. “Because that’s what it sounds like. Like you looked at me and thought, ‘Yeah, let’s not bring that thing out in public.’”

“Hey!” Spencer rises, hands out like he’s trying to calm a skittish deer. “That is not what I said. That’s not what I meant. You looked upset like you were hurting, and I just—I wanted to give you an out. Not because you look bad. Because I love you, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to perform for anyone tonight.”

You hesitate, arms crossed tightly over your chest, throat tightening.

His voice softens again, his eyes scanning your face with the kind of reverence that makes it almost unbearable to be seen. “I think you’re beautiful. Right now. Right this second. Even if your hair’s not doing what you want it to. Even if your makeup’s a little smudged. Even if you’re crying and blotchy and pacing like you want to throw me out the window.”

That last line earns him a reluctant sniff-laugh.

He takes a cautious step closer.

“I love you when you’re confident and glowing. I love you when you’re a mess in sweatpants. And I love you now when you’re somewhere in between and spiraling a little.” He reaches for your hand, tentative. “Can I love you like this, too?”

You stare at him, eyes glassy, breath trembling in your chest. And somehow—despite everything—you nod.

He tugs you gently into his chest, holding you tightly, anchoring you.

And then, into your hair, he murmurs, “But if you did want to skip the dinner and stay in and eat cereal on the floor with me, I wouldn’t complain.”

You let out a watery giggle, and just like that… something starts to ease.

You might still feel a little like a swamp monster. But at least now, you're his swamp monster.

Your voice is muffled slightly by the fabric of his shirt as you murmur, “I do kind of want to throw you out the window, though.”

Spencer’s chest shakes with laughter, a surprised snort escaping him as he pulls back just enough to look down at you. His mouth curls into that crooked little smile he gets when he’s trying not to laugh too hard, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they always do when he’s genuinely amused.

“Noted,” he says, pretending to be solemn. “Hostile while emotionally compromised. I’ll avoid standing too close to windows.”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes as you rest your forehead against his collarbone. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person who just accused me of calling them ugly and compared themselves to a swamp creature.”

You lift your head enough to give him a look. “Still considering the window.”

Spencer leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “Joke's on you. I’m pretty sure Penelope has enchanted our windows, so I bounce back like a cartoon.”

You snicker, and this time it feels real. The kind of laugh that shakes something loose in your chest and makes the storm clouds shift a little.

He cups your face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing softly along your jaw as he studies you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been searching for his whole life. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Even when you want to commit light domestic homicide.”

Your lips twitch upward as you reach up and tug gently on the collar of his shirt. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m very aware.”

You sigh, leaning your forehead against his again. “Okay. I’ll get dressed.”

He arches a brow. “You mean re-re-re-dressed?”

“Don’t push it, Reid.”

He grins, kissing the top of your head. “Never.”

—

Spencer stepped quietly into your apartment, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His bag on the hook in its usual spot, shoes carefully untied and toed off with a bit of weariness in his bones. The case had been long, grueling—the kind that dragged down not just his body but his mind until all he wanted was to slip into the clean silence of your home and wash the world off his skin.

He moved on autopilot, following his usual ritual: drop his satchel, set his badge and keys on the hallway table, roll his shoulders once, twice.

Your office door was closed as he passed it, light leaking from the crack near the floor. No sound filtered out—just the soft glow.

He assumed you were on a Zoom call or deep in focus, so he didn’t knock or call out. Instead, he fished his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick message, thumbs moving with quiet familiarity:

Hello, my love. I just got in—I’m going to shower (& sanitize). I love you.

You didn’t see the message until your meeting ended—your eyes blurry from too many shared screens, your voice tired from too many fake laughs, and professionally polite “mm-hmm”s. But as soon as your gaze landed on your phone and you saw Spencer’s name, everything else faded.

Your heart clenched in the best way. He’s here.

It had been over two weeks since you’d last seen him. Two long weeks of texts, phone calls, voice notes falling asleep to each other, and aching to close the distance. You’d missed him in the quiet ways—like reaching for a second mug without thinking or setting aside the blanket he always stole halfway through the night. The ache had been constant.

And now he was home.

You smiled, heart racing, and quickly wrapped up your last bits of work. You typed your final message, logged off, and pushed away from your desk with a quiet squeal of excitement you didn’t even try to suppress.

You heard the soft click of the shower shutting off from down the hall. You paused for a moment—smiling at the sound—then tiptoed out of your office, not wanting to interrupt.

You knew his process by now. The shower. The sanitizing. The quiet minutes he needed to decompress, to re-enter the world at his own pace after being knee-deep in trauma and adrenaline for days.

So, instead of rushing toward him like you wanted, you turned toward the kitchen, smiling, and began preparing tea—chamomile for him and jasmine for you.

You picked his favorite mug—the one with the periodic table printed in a perfect grid, the lettering slightly faded from years of use—and set it gently on the counter. The kettle purred softly to life beside it, and you stood still for a moment, wrapping your arms around yourself and soaking in the quiet comfort of home.

He was back. Finally, back.

Clean, safe, warm, and about to walk out of the bathroom smelling like cedar and mint and everything that calmed the worst parts of your nervous system.

The second he appeared in the doorway, barefoot and toweling off the ends of his hair, you turned to greet him with a soft smile—

Only for all words to leave your mouth in an offended gasp.

“What the fuck?” you blurted, voice sharp enough to make him pause mid-step.

Spencer froze, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Uh… nice to see you too, my love,” he said, chuckling nervously.

You stared at him, pointing dramatically. “Spencer, what the fuck!”

“What?” he asked, looking down at himself like he’d maybe forgotten to put on pants.

“Your hair!” you cried as if he’d committed a federal offense.

He blinked, then self-consciously reached up to ruffle the back of it. “Oh… yeah,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I got it cut. Since the case was in Vegas, I saw my old barber. Do you—do you like it?”

“Like it?” you repeated, spitting the word like it had personally insulted you. The audacity of this man.

“Yeah…” he hedged, now officially worried. “I know you loved it long, but it was starting to drive me crazy, getting in my eyes all the time, and—”

“Spencer Walter Reid…” you said in a slow, dangerous tone, beginning to cross the kitchen with purpose.

“Yes, darling?” he asked warily, hands raising slightly as you stalked toward him.

You kept walking until he was pressed against the counter, boxed in by your body, your arms on either side of him. His breath hitched as he looked down at you, searching your face.

“I love it so much,” you said slowly, deliberately, eyes raking up and down his freshly shorn frame, “I physically cannot contain myself any longer.”

And with that—before he could stammer out another syllable—you dropped to your knees in one smooth, reverent motion.

Spencer blinked. “Oh.”

His towel slipped out of his hands.

“Ohhh…”

And the kettle shrieked from the stove, but neither of you moved an inch.

Your hands were on him before he could fully register what was happening—gripping the waistband of his lounge pants, tugging them with a kind of desperation that made Spencer's breath hitch audibly.

“W-wait—wait,” he stammered, voice already shaking as he braced his hands on the edge of the counter, staring down at you with wide eyes. “You’re—you’re really doing this right now?”

“Spencer,” you said, voice low and laser-focused as you looked up at him from your knees, “I have been patient. I have been good. I have waited for you to come home. And then you come waltzing in here with this haircut like I wouldn’t lose my mind? I warned you.”

And then, with no more time to waste, you tugged his pants—and boxers—down in one quick motion, leaving them puddled at his ankles. Spencer made a strangled noise in response, already hard, twitching slightly from the abrupt exposure.

His hands gripped the counter tighter. “Jesus—”

But you didn’t give him time to protest, didn’t give him time to retreat into his brain and second-guess your every move. You leaned in, mouth warm and eager, your tongue dragging a slow, purposeful line up his length, just to watch him tremble.

“Oh my god—” he gasped, his head tipping back against the cabinets as you wrapped your lips around him, taking him in with a hungry sort of reverence. He was already panting, already muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, one of his hands reaching down to tangle shakily in your hair.

“You look—” he choked out, voice wrecked, “so pretty like this, you always—God, you always do—”

You moaned softly around him, and the vibration alone nearly made his knees buckle.

Spencer wasn’t composed anymore. He wasn’t calculating or analyzing or trying to keep up appearances. He was flushed and unraveling, his eyes glazed as he looked down at you with a kind of stunned disbelief, his words barely coherent between gasps.

“I—I was just trying to be practical,” he managed. “I didn’t know—you’d like it that much—”

You pulled off him for half a second, stroking him with one hand as you looked up, breathless and grinning.

“I love it, Spence. And I’m gonna show you exactly how much.”

And then you went back down—no teasing this time, just heat and need and your mouth wrapped around him like he was the only thing that could possibly satisfy you.

As Spencer leaned back against the counter, moaning your name, his head tipped up, exposing his throat and making his curls—what was left of them—fall back just slightly. His mouth was slack, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, and his body trembling from the sensation of your mouth on him.

And that was fine. It was good, actually. Great, even. Except—

You couldn’t see his hair.

The whole reason you’d dropped to your knees like a woman possessed, the reason your tea was going cold and the kettle forgotten—the haircut. And now his head was thrown back, and you couldn’t even enjoy the view.

Frustration bubbled up in your chest—hot, petty, and somehow very on brand.

So, mid-suck, with him seconds from completely unraveling, you pulled back just slightly and gently flicked the inside of his thigh.

“Ah!” Spencer jerked, startled, eyes snapping down with a gasp. “W-what—”

You didn’t let him finish. You just grinned wide and smug, then winked at him from your place on the floor like the devil in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He blinked in dazed confusion—still panting, still overwhelmed—until he saw you deliberately lick a slow, noisy stripe up his length, from base to tip, saliva catching the light and your tongue curling with purpose.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, voice cracked and desperate.

And then, before he could say anything else, you wrapped your lips around him again—slow and deep—hollowing your cheeks and drawing a choked moan from his throat.

He watched you now, just as you wanted. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed, completely at your mercy.

You could feel the tension in his thighs, his stomach, the way his hips subtly shifted toward you like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed you more than oxygen.

“You’re so—so good at this,” he babbled helplessly, eyes locked to yours now like they couldn’t stray for even a second.

And you? You were thrilled. Because you had his full attention. You were in control. And Spencer Reid, freshly shorn and entirely wrecked, was yours to ruin.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

With him trembling above you, chest heaving, hair slightly damp at the edges from the shower—and now sweat—you reached one hand up and rubbed slow, teasing circles across the lower part of his stomach. Right where you knew it made him twitch. Right where the tension was coiling.

Spencer let out a punched-out whimper—high, breathless, and almost painful. The sound sent a jolt of satisfaction through your body. Poor thing, you thought, smiling around the tip of him still resting against your lips.

“Close, baby?” you asked, lips brushing against him with every syllable, the slight motion making him flinch with overstimulation.

“Hngh,” was all he could manage—his whole body shuddering, jaw slack, his hand barely managing to stay braced against the counter.

You pulled off entirely then, stroking him with your hand, watching him try so hard to keep his focus through the haze.

“Do you want to come once or twice?” you asked lightly like it was a casual question about takeout. Your voice was soft but wicked, your touch relentless.

“Huh?” Spencer blinked down at you, eyes glassy and unfocused, like he’d forgotten what language was.

You tilted your head and grinned. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

Spencer shook his head, curls bouncing slightly. “N–no, just um—can you elaborate, please?” he asked, voice cracking, and God, he was still trying to be polite. Still trying to keep up, even now.

“So polite, baby,” you purred, pressing a gentle kiss to the space just above his pelvis, your lips soft against the trail of hair leading down. “You’re going to fuck me in front of the mirror.”

Spencer made a soft choking noise.

You smiled. "So, do you want to come now and later?”

You paused, watching his face.

“Or just later?”

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I—”

You gave him a slow stroke right up the base just to ruin whatever he was about to say.

“Baby,” he whispered, completely undone, “I don’t think I can not come right now.”

“Twice it is,” you grinned, smug and devastating, as you took him back into your mouth like the promise you fully intended to keep.

It only took seconds.

Just a few more hollowed strokes of your cheeks, a well-timed swirl of your tongue, and then Spencer's hands—those long, elegant fingers usually reserved for page corners and coffee mugs—suddenly gripped your hair with urgency. Not rough. Just needy. His hips jerked forward, and his breath hitched like something inside him had finally snapped.

“Oh— God, I—I’m coming,” he gasped, voice hoarse and desperate, words tumbling over themselves as his control gave out entirely.

And then he did.

You moaned around him as the first pulse hit the back of your throat, your hands tightening at his hips, not to hold him back but to keep him close. You loved this part—this version of Spencer. The one who lost his polish, who couldn’t form sentences, who whimpered your name as he spilled into your mouth, utterly undone.

His knees nearly buckled, and his head dropped forward, curls swaying slightly as he looked down at you—looked at you, watching the way you swallowed him, the way your mouth didn’t falter once.

He groaned, something incoherent, his grip loosening as you pulled off him slowly, carefully, licking your lips as if you had all the time in the world.

When you stood, Spencer was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’d just run five miles and solved a puzzle at the same time. His hands reached out instinctively, resting on your waist, eyes wide and still dazed.

You leaned in, nose brushing his, and whispered, “One down.”

And with that, you turned toward the bedroom, swaying your hips as you went—leaving him to catch his breath and follow you.

It took Spencer a moment to move—not just because his legs were still wobbly from the most mind-melting orgasm of his life, but because his brain was still trying to reboot. You had left him completely spent in the kitchen, looking like he'd been hit by a truck driven by a succubus.

When he finally managed to walk to the bedroom, half-dazed and barefoot, he paused in the doorway like he’d just walked into another dimension.

You were at the end of the bed, repositioning the mirror—the standing mirror—the one you always joked you only had so he could adjust his ties with mathematical precision. You were angling it with purpose, adjusting the tilt just right, your sweatpants already low on your hips and your shirt riding up as you stretched to fix the frame.

He blinked. “Jesus.”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, eyes dark and amused. “Took you long enough,” you teased, running a hand down your side. “Starting to think you passed out in the hallway.”

Spencer’s throat worked as he swallowed, trying to form a coherent thought, but you were already stepping toward him, your smile just this side of dangerous.

“You gonna help me out of my clothes, handsome?” you asked sweetly, standing in front of him now, your hands hanging loosely at your sides—open, inviting, already daring him to touch.

Spencer looked down at you like you were a gift he hadn’t done enough to deserve. His hands reached out almost reverently, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, eyes flickering up to yours.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough, lips parted, finally catching up. "Yeah, I am."

And then he got to work—slow at first, but certain—because if you were going to give him the privilege of watching you come apart in front of that mirror…

He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

As soon as your clothes hit the floor, Spencer’s breath caught—and something in him shifted.

Whatever had been fogging his mind—the daze, the post-orgasmic haze, the stunned reverence—was gone. Replaced by sharp, focused intent. His eyes raked down your body with a hunger he didn’t even try to mask, and for a second, he just stood there, drinking you in.

Then he tore off his shirt like it was offending him.

And you? You moved like you had choreography in your bones.

You climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, the air charged with the promise of what was about to come. You planted your hands firmly at the edge of the mattress, then your knees, shifting until you were arched just right—back curved like a bow, ass up, thighs parted, and your gaze fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You knew what you looked like. You knew what you were doing to him.

You swayed your hips once—just a little—to emphasize the view, a soft smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. “Well?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, “You just gonna stand there and stare?”

Spencer blinked like you’d pulled him from a trance. His hands flexed at his sides, and he stepped forward like a man possessed, crawling up behind you onto the mattress, his body humming with tension.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing along your spine as he got into position behind you, “how long I’ve wanted to see this.”

His hands slid over your hips, gripping them just tight enough to ground you both, and when you met your own eyes in the mirror and saw his just behind you—dark, intent, full of heat—you knew: This wasn’t going to be soft. It was going to be glorious.

You whined softly, back arching a little more just to urge him closer. To invite him in.

“Gotta start telling me what you want, baby,” you pouted, your voice breathy but coaxing, playful and honest all at once. “I want to give you everything.”

Spencer leaned forward, his chest warm against your back as he wrapped one arm around your middle, his hand splayed across your soft stomach while the other gripped your hip like it was something sacred.

Then he nuzzled his face right behind your ear, his breath hot and steady, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “You are everything.”

Your breath hitched, the words hitting deeper than anything else he could’ve said.

Not “you’re giving me everything.” Not “you do everything for me.” Not “you’re mine.”

You are everything.

And the way he said it—like it was fact, like it had always been true, like it would be true in any universe, in any lifetime—made your stomach flutter and your heartache all at once.

“Spencer…” you breathed, trembling just a little, caught somewhere between need and love and complete, delicious surrender.

His grip tightened, adjusting you carefully until he had the perfect angle. You could feel the tension radiating from him—he was holding back, barely, his control hanging by a thread.

“Look in the mirror,” he said lowly, lips pressed to your neck. “I want you to see what everything looks like.”

This time, the sound that escaped you wasn’t a tease—it was a whimper, high and needy, trembling on your breath as your eyes locked with his in the mirror.

There he was—your beautiful, brilliant boyfriend, hair freshly cut, eyes blown wide with want, jaw slack with reverence. So much reverence. You watched the way his hands gripped your hips, possessive but gentle, the way he steadied you, angled you just right like you were something delicate and dangerous.

And then—God—he lined himself up with your entrance, his tip nudging against you, the anticipation thick in the space between your bodies.

“This…” you whispered, your voice hitching as your hips rocked back ever so slightly. “This was one of my best ideas.”

Spencer laughed—soft and wrecked and disbelieving—as he brushed his lips along your shoulder. “I’m not gonna argue with that.”

Because from this angle, you could see everything. The way your back arched so prettily for him. The way his stomach tensed as he held himself there, barely keeping it together. The way his face twisted with wonder when he finally—finally—began to push inside.

You gasped, your mouth falling open, your hands gripping the sheets in front of you as your eyes stayed locked with his in the mirror. He watched you feel him—watched your lips part, your lashes flutter, your shoulders twitch.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, voice shaky like the sensation was pulling the wind out of him. “You look… fuck, baby.”

And then he slid in all the way. Deep. Slow. A brand new angle for both of you.

You both gasped—yours soft and broken, his low and strangled—because it felt like a discovery like something you hadn’t even known was missing.

Your forehead dropped briefly to your arm as your body adjusted, and Spencer stayed perfectly still, just long enough to let you breathe. But his hands never stopped moving—stroking your hips, your waist, your ribs—like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Look at us,” he whispered, voice tight. “Look.”

You did. And what you saw nearly undid you. Him—flush against your back, jaw slack, eyes molten. You—open and trembling and shining with love and desire.

It wasn’t just hot. It was intimate. Deep. Raw.

“Spencer—” you cried out, the word torn from your throat like it was the only one you could remember.

You weren’t just overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside you—it was everything. The mirror, the way he held you, the soft sounds he made behind you, the way his eyes never left yours. You could feel the love radiating from him, threaded through every inch of pressure, every breathy curse under his breath, every reverent touch.

And then—then—he began to move.

His hips pulled back, slow and smooth, only to roll forward again with just enough force to send a jolt straight through your core. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Controlled. Like he was trying to memorize how you felt around him with every thrust.

And then it happened.

On his second stroke, maybe third—he found it. That spot.

That maddening, impossible-to-reach place inside you that no one else had ever quite managed to touch. Not like this. Not so directly. Not so perfectly.

Your mouth dropped open. Your body jerked forward slightly on the bed. Your eyes snapped to the mirror.

Your reflection was flushed, lips parted, spine arched, eyes blown wide with disbelief and sudden, undeniable need.

“Oh my God—” you gasped, your voice ragged and high-pitched as your hands clawed at the sheets. “Spence—Spencer, I—”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. Your brain had short-circuited. There were no words.

Because for the first time in your life, you weren’t just getting close. You weren’t trying to chase pleasure or grind your hips to make it happen.

No.

It was happening to you.

This need—violent, urgent, absolute—rushed through you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook. Your stomach clenched. Your breath came in short, panicked little gasps.

“I’m gonna—” you whimpered, voice breaking as you looked at him in the mirror, wide-eyed and stunned. “I’m gonna cum. Right now. Spencer, I—I can’t—”

His eyes darkened instantly. One hand flew to your stomach, holding you still, while the other grabbed your hip tighter, anchoring you as he pressed in again with that same perfect angle.

But instead of saying anything even remotely helpful to the fact that you were about to explode—that your body was drawing taut like a bowstring about to snap—Spencer, in true Spencer fashion, didn’t react with encouragement or praise or even a filthy promise to make you scream.

No. He launched into a monologue.

“You know,” he began, breath still stuttering as he thrust into you again—deeper—like he wanted to make sure you felt every syllable, “the anterior wall of the vaginal canal—what’s colloquially known as the g-spot—is composed of erectile tissue. It swells when aroused. That’s why this angle—this one—stimulates it so consistently.”

You gasped—because of the thrust. Because of him. But also—because of him.

“Spencer,” you moaned, but there was no protest in it. Only need.

“And,” he went on, so casually, as if he wasn’t currently making your whole body shake, “researchers used to debate whether the g-spot even existed, but current studies support its presence as part of the clitourethrovaginal complex—which explains why internal and external stimulation together can cause—”

“Spence!” you cried, a sob of arousal breaking through your voice as your arms gave out and your face dropped to the sheets.

He moaned at the sight, one hand sliding from your hip up to your back, pressing gently but firmly between your shoulder blades to keep you arched just right. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” he panted, lips right by your ear now. “Your body’s proving the theory.”

You whimpered something unintelligible.

“Every time I hit it—your legs twitch. Your breathing changes. Your walls get tighter.” He thrust again, deep and devastating. “You want me to tell you what’s happening? What I’m doing to you?”

“Yes—yes, please—” you sobbed, eyes locked on your own wrecked reflection in the mirror.

“You’re about to experience an involuntary contraction of the pelvic floor muscles due to the intensity of pressure on your internal nerve endings,” he whispered, sweet and filthy and so proud of himself. “That’s what your orgasm is, baby. And it’s happening now.”

And with one final, perfect thrust—

It did. You shattered.

Your scream tore through the room like lightning—raw, high, unapologetic. It was the kind of sound you couldn’t hold back even if you tried, your body going rigid as the orgasm slammed into you like a freight train. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your mouth stayed open in a soundless cry as waves of pleasure crashed through you again and again.

Behind you, Spencer choked on a gasp.

“Darling—OH!” he blurted, his voice ragged and cracking under the force of it. “Oh my god—shit, that’s so—tight—”

You clenched around him like a vice, the spasms of your climax pulling him deeper, keeping him there, and Spencer—bless his heart—was doing everything in his power to keep his composure. But his hips stuttered, his breath coming in desperate, short bursts, and his hands trembled where they gripped your waist.

“I—I’m really—” he tried, blinking rapidly at the mirror, jaw slack, completely wrecked. “That—oh my god—you feel—fuck, I can’t—”

You whined, your hips twitching back against him instinctively, still in the throes of your own release, oversensitive and overwhelmed and barely capable of forming a single thought.

“Please,” he groaned, almost begging now, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You’re still—Jesus, you’re still clenching—”

You were. You knew you were. Your body was betraying you in the best way, milking him, holding him in place, and you could feel him falling apart.

And still, through the blur of heat and haze, you had the audacity to whisper, “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.”

That was it.

Spencer snapped, burying himself deep with a low, devastated groan as he came hard, his entire body shuddering against you, hands flexing on your hips like he didn’t know where to hold on. He moaned your name into your skin, soft and wrecked, riding out every last wave of it like he had nothing else left to give.

And then you both collapsed—boneless, breathless, completely undone.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—collapsed in a tangle of limbs and overstimulated nerves, your chest pressed to the sheets, and Spencer draped over your back like he’d just been hit by divine intervention.

His breathing was still ragged, warm puffs of air against your shoulder as he let out a small, dazed noise that might’ve been a laugh, a whimper, or possibly both.

“Okay,” he finally managed, voice muffled in your hair. “That was… I don’t even have words.”

You smiled lazily into the pillow. “Do I need to get you a thesaurus?”

Spencer let out a huff of a laugh, collapsing fully to the side and rolling off of you with a very dramatic groan, like his soul was trying to reenter his body.

“Not even that would help,” he muttered, his hand reaching out instinctively to find yours, fingers lacing together on the sheets between you. “I think I need a new language.”

You giggled, turning your face toward him. “You sound wrecked.”

“I am wrecked,” he replied, still blinking up at the ceiling like he was trying to remember how to function. 

You laughed harder, your chest shaking as you dragged your fingers lazily over the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes soft now, warm and sparkling even through the haze. “Come here,” he murmured, tugging you gently until you rolled into his arms, your leg draped over his and your face tucked into his shoulder.

For a few minutes, it was just that—quiet breathing, tangled sheets, your bodies cooling down slowly, your hearts still beating a little fast. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then one to your forehead, then another to your temple.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“More than okay,” you whispered, smiling against his skin.

“You were amazing,” he added, voice low and still just a little shaky. “Terrifying. Powerful. A little possessed, maybe.”

“Good possessed or bad possessed?”

“The sexy kind.”

You laughed again, breathless and content. “Your hair looks so good. I had to do something.”

Spencer groaned dramatically. “If this is how you react to my haircut, I’m gonna start getting it trimmed every three weeks.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, fingers pushing his short, soft curls from his forehead. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His smile softened completely. “I love you too.”

And then, because of course he did, he added, “And I’m going to need to hydrate. Like… medically.”

You snorted, burying your face in his chest. “I’ll get the water. You stay here and recover.”

“Please,” he sighed, eyes closing, “and maybe a protein bar. And an ice pack. And—”

You kissed his chest once, grinning. “Don’t push your luck, Doctor.”

—

The first thing you felt was wet.

Too wet. Too warm. Not sweat, not a dream, not anything your sleepy brain could dismiss. You were still half-asleep when you shifted slightly in Spencer’s bed, but then—that feeling. The unmistakable gush.

Your eyes flew open. Wide. Alert.

Shit.

You moved quickly—automatically, like muscle memory. Years of this kind of panic had taught you not to waste time. You slipped out of bed with practiced stealth, careful not to jostle Spencer, who remained peacefully asleep on his side, facing away, one hand tucked under the pillow. His breathing was steady, unbothered.

Yours was not.

You rushed into the bathroom, closed the door gently behind you, and sat down on the toilet to assess the damage—and wow.

It was bad.

Blood was everywhere. Deep red smeared along the inside of your thighs, soaked through your underwear and sweatpants. You leaned forward slightly to confirm what you already knew—yep. This wasn’t a small spot. This was a full-on massacre.

Which meant—Spencer’s sheets.

With a soft, muffled groan, you let your head fall into your hands. Of course this would happen here, of all places. In his crisp, perfectly tucked bed. At his place, where everything had its place, and even the disorganized things were carefully thought out.

Panic prickled up your spine. But then, almost on cue—the cramps hit.

Sharp, low, mean. The kind that started in your lower abdomen and twisted cruelly down into your thighs, your back, your entire soul.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself just to get it together, but it was too late. The frustration, the pain, the embarrassment, the sudden flood of hormones all collapsed onto you at once, and your eyes began to sting.

And then—quietly, shamefully—you started to cry.

Not loud. Not sobbing. Just silent, salty tears sliding down your cheeks as you sat there on the toilet, pants around your ankles, bleeding, cramping, and absolutely done with the universe.

You didn’t want to wake Spencer. You didn’t want him to see this, to see you like this. Not messy and raw and vulnerable, with blood on his sheets and tears in your eyes. You just needed a second to breathe.

To figure out what the hell to do.

But then—behind the door—you heard it.

A soft, sleepy shuffle. And then, “…Baby?”

Double shit.

“Mhm?” you hummed, trying to keep your voice light, unbothered, totally not on the verge of a hormonal breakdown. You blinked furiously, swiping under your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt to catch the tears before they could betray you further.

Luckily, Spencer—sweet, brilliant Spencer—was not much of a profiler when he was sleep-soft and barely conscious. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice thick with drowsiness, muffled by the pillow.

You forced a laugh, the sound catching awkwardly in your throat. “Yeah, Spence, just… peeing.”

There was a pause, “You never pee in the middle of the night.”

You winced. Of course, he noticed.

“What? Ye,s I do,” you countered weakly. “How would you even know that?”

Another pause. A yawn. Then, with a gentle sort of logic only he could muster at 3 a.m., he said, “We’ve been together for almost three years. I’d know if you got up at night for any reason.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping. Damn him and his intimate knowledge of your bladder. “I drank a lot of water.”

“‘Kay…” he mumbled, his voice already fading as he accepted the excuse—sleep claiming him again like it always did. You could picture him now, curled on his side, arm stretched across your empty pillow, eyes closed again.

But the relief didn’t last long.

Because you knew what came next. Either he’d roll over and see the dark stain on the sheets. Or he’d start to wonder why it was taking you ten minutes to pee. Or worse—he’d hear you opening the wrapper of a pad or tampon in the stillness of his quiet apartment, and then he’d know.

There was no getting out of this unnoticed. No clever exit strategy. No plausible deniability.

You looked down at the wreckage between your legs, at the blood smeared on your thighs, and felt the tears spring up again. Not because you were ashamed—not really. Just… overwhelmed. Hormonal. Humiliated, despite yourself.

And so, with a shaky inhale and a wobble in your voice that gave you away immediately, you called out, “Spence…”

You heard the shift of blankets. The weight of him sitting up. “Yeah?” he called back, more awake now, concern threading through the syllable.

You stared at the door like it might disappear if you wished hard enough, heart pounding, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment. You felt small, fragile—not because you were bleeding, not because this had never happened before, but because it had happened here. In his bed. In his perfect little world, and suddenly you were convinced he’d see it as something wrong, something gross, something too much.

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to cry again, but your throat was already tight. You just… needed him. Needed his eyes. His voice. The quiet steadiness only he could give.

“Can you…” you paused, your voice already cracking. You blinked away fresh tears and tried again, quieter this time. “Can you come in here, please?”

There was a pause—only a second or two—but it felt like a lifetime.

Then the sound of soft shuffling feet across hardwood.

The door creaked open slowly, the warm light from the hallway spilling in and catching Spencer’s sleepy, confused face. His curls were flattened on one side, his t-shirt slightly askew, and his eyes squinted until they landed on you—sitting on the toilet, legs drawn up, eyes wide and glossy.

Immediately, he softened. “Hey,” he said gently, stepping in and closing the door behind him like he could shield you from the rest of the world. “What’s going on?”

You sniffled once, suddenly unsure how to say it now that he was right there. “I, um…”

His eyes dropped to the clothes bunched around your ankles—bloodstained. His expression didn’t change, not in the way you feared. No grimace. No shock. Just a flicker of realization, and then something warm.

You inhaled sharply, trying to get it out. “I think I got blood on your sheets. I—I didn’t mean to. I woke up, and it just—there was so much, and I didn’t notice right away, and I’m so sorry, Spencer, I didn’t mean to make a mess, and I know how clean you like things, and I just—”

Spencer just nodded at first, still waking up, his mind turning over the facts at a slower pace than usual. You watched him, waiting for something—anything—that looked like reassurance. Like relief. Like love. But all you got was that blank, sleepy processing expression, and your chest constricted with a wave of shame so sharp it made your stomach twist.

He wasn't disgusted. But he wasn't saying anything either. And your brain, already loud and hormonal, filled in every awful blank.

You looked away quickly, blinking back tears that had already started to spill. Your lip quivered, and before you could stop it, the sob came. Soft. Gutted. Mortifying.

You turned your face toward the tile, trying to muffle it with your sleeve, but you couldn’t hide it fast enough.

And then—

“Hey.”

His voice cut through your spiral like a lifeline. It was soft, but firm. Awake now. Clear. Anchoring.

“Look at me,” he said again, and this time, it wasn’t a request.

You turned, hesitating, your vision blurry with tears. Spencer was kneeling in front of you now, close and grounded and fully Spencer again, his eyes wide and so full of you that your chest ached.

His hands reached gently for your thighs, grounding you. “I didn’t say anything right away because I’m still waking up,” he said softly, his brows knit with guilt. “Not because I’m mad. Or weirded out. Or upset. I’m just tired. And slow.”

You tried to breathe through your sobs, but one still escaped as you wiped furiously at your cheeks.

Spencer moved closer, cupping your face with both hands now, his thumbs brushing your wet cheeks. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re okay.”

You sniffled, looking up at him. “I bled on your sheets.”

He nodded solemnly, and then, gently—genuinely—said, “Then we’ll wash them.”

You let out a weak, watery laugh, hiding your face in your hands as more tears slipped out—this time not from shame, but from the slow, warm relief that came with being seen and not judged.

“But they’ll be stained, Spence,” you murmured, peeking at him through your fingers.

“Darling,” he said patiently like he was reminding you the sky was still blue, “I know for a fact you know how to get blood out of cloth. You’ve told me about your victory stories—like, detailed accounts. I’m still haunted by that one involving your white skirt and a hotel bathroom sink.”

You sniffed, lips tugging upward. “That was legendary.”

“Exactly. And,” he added with a tiny shrug, “they’re white sheets. You know I have a concerning amount of bleach.”

“But what about your mattress?” you asked, still curled on the toilet like your shame had taken up permanent residence.

Spencer blinked. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have a mattress cover?”

That did it.

You laughed—really laughed. A wet, sniffling, hiccupping sound that bubbled up unexpectedly and made your shoulders shake. And Spencer smiled like the sun had come up in the middle of his bathroom.

“There it is,” he whispered, leaning in and pressing his forehead gently to yours, his hands cupping your face like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened in this apartment,” he said softly, reverently. “Sheets be damned.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning into his touch, forehead pressed to his, and whispered, “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

“Even though I own three kinds of bleach?”

You grinned. “Especially because you own three kinds of bleach.”

And with that, you melted into him, his arms wrapping around you, warm and solid and home.

His face was open and soft, with nothing but calm concern in those honey-brown eyes. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You bit your lip hard, tears threatening again as you gave a soft, wet laugh. “I feel like a swamp creature.”

He smiled. “You look like my girlfriend, who’s going to stay put while I handle the cleanup.”

You blinked. “Spencer—”

“Nope,” he said, standing and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You take a warm shower, get a clean pair of sweats, a heating pad, and some water. I get to boss you around this time.”

“But—” you started, eyes widening as he stood up with purpose, clearly about to tackle the entire linen situation like it was a crime scene.

“No buts,” Spencer said immediately, already halfway to the door, waving a hand over his shoulder like he was shooing your protest away.

“But Spencer, really—!”

“Nuh-uh,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “Can’t hear you, my darling, beautiful girlfriend who deserves to stand in the warm water and not worry about anything right now.”

You groaned softly, watching him grab the corner of the sheet through the crack in the bathroom door. “Wear gloves, please!”

Without missing a beat, he called back, chipper as anything, “Already on it!”

You laughed because, of course, he was. Of course, Spencer Reid had a drawer specifically for latex gloves, a plan for this exact scenario, and the sheer determination to act like this was no big deal when, to you, it had felt like the end of the world.

But somehow, because of him, it didn’t anymore.

After your shower—hot water, fresh sweatpants, clean skin—you felt human again. Spencer had already changed the sheets by the time you stepped out. Now, the two of you were nestled back in bed, the world calm again.

You were curled on your side, your back pressed to Spencer’s chest, his arms warm and secure around your middle. One of his hands rested gently over your lower stomach, fingers stroking soft, slow circles as you breathed through another cramp.

It was one of those quiet, sleepy moments that made you feel impossibly close—like the tears in the bathroom belonged to someone else entirely.

Until Spencer snorted.

You groaned, eyes still closed. “What?”

“I just realized something,” he said, the grin already in his voice.

You didn’t have the strength. “Hmm?”

“This just confirms that you’re not pregnant.”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him over your shoulder with the most unimpressed expression you could manage.

And then, without a word, you leaned back further… and bit him.

“Ow!” he yelped, laughing through it, more startled than hurt. “Did you just—did you bite me?!”

“Shut up,” you muttered, burying your face in your pillow. “You ruin everything.”

“I do not! That was a scientific observation!”

“That was a death wish.”

He kissed the spot just beneath your ear with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around you tighter and whispering into your hair, “Worth it.”

You grumbled something incomprehensible, but you didn’t pull away.

Because he might ruin the moment—but he always stayed for it.

—

You hadn’t expected this errand to be sexy.

You were wearing sneakers, your hair in a claw clip, armed with a reusable water bottle and a list of budget-friendly desktop specs you’d scribbled down on a grocery list sticky pad. It was just supposed to be a quick trip to the electronics store so you could finally finish putting together your in-home office.

You were not prepared for Spencer to unleash his full brainpower in public like that.

It started innocently enough—just you and Spencer walking through the glossy aisles, checking out all the little info cards taped to the front of the monitors. You were squinting at acronyms and numbers you didn’t fully understand when Spencer stepped in behind you and said:

“This one’s solid, but the CPU’s clock speed might throttle under long-term workload if you’re running multiple programs at once—what do you usually keep open?”

You blinked at him. “Um… a few tabs. Zoom. Spotify. Sometimes Canva.”

He hummed. “Then we’ll need something with more RAM. Come here—this one has better ventilation anyway.”

And then it happened.

The tech guru from the store spotted you browsing and walked over. Before you could say a single word, Spencer launched into a ten-minute conversation that melted your brain.

They weren’t arguing, exactly—it was more of a debate but spoken in a language you had no fluency in. They talked about chipsets, thermal paste, GPU acceleration, and workstation stability. Spencer's hands moved when he talked, animated and passionate, and he kept pushing his hair out of his face like he didn’t realize how gorgeous he looked doing it. His eyes lit up like a storm every time he referenced a comparison model or corrected the tech guy with some obscure benchmark test result from a research article he’d read for fun.

And you?

You stood there, one aisle over, pretending to inspect a wireless mouse with your legs crossed and your entire body fighting not to squirm.

Because Jesus Christ.

It wasn’t just the brain. It was the way he used it.

The way his confidence never once turned arrogant. The way he explained things with precision, not to show off, but because he cared. Because he wanted you to have the right computer, the right setup, the right everything.

And God, it was hot. So, ridiculously hot.

By the time he walked back over to you, satisfied and smiling, you were barely holding it together.

“I got him to knock 10% off,” Spencer beamed, completely unaware of the fire he’d lit in your bloodstream. “You okay?”

You cleared your throat, trying not to stare at his hands, the curve of his neck where his collar dipped, or how he was breathing just slightly heavier from the excitement. “Mhm. Yep. Totally fine.”

“You sure?” he tilted his head, concerned. “You’re red.”

“Just… warm in here,” you lied, nodding quickly as you reached for your water bottle and took the biggest sip of your life.

And Spencer, bless him, just smiled and looped an arm around your waist like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, you were already making plans to thank him properly the second you got home.

And you tried. You really did.

You tried to be patient, to make it home, to let the moment pass. You even rolled the window down a little, hoping the breeze would cool your face, your thoughts, or at least the burning in your stomach that had started the moment Spencer said “liquid cooling system” with that tone.

But then he put the car in reverse.

And when he reached back—long fingers braced on the headrest, torso twisting as he craned his neck to back out of the parking spot—his sweater pulled tight across his chest, exposing just a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and that was it.

Your rational mind just… left the building.

You reached across the console, hand sliding deliberately—dangerously—up his thigh. Not his knee. Not the middle. High up. Just shy of making him stall entirely.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice dropped into a whisper, already laced with alarm and heat. “What are you doing??”

You gave him a wide-eyed, perfectly innocent look. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He turned his head to look at you fully now, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, eyes already darkening like storm clouds.

“You can’t do that while I’m driving,” he said, sounding like he was trying to be stern but failing miserably. His voice cracked slightly, betraying how badly he was losing the upper hand.

You leaned in, fingers curling a little tighter where they rested. “Then maybe you shouldn’t reverse like a goddamn movie star.”

Spencer groaned—actually groaned—and his hand on the gearshift visibly tightened. “You are going to be the death of me.”

You just smiled, smug and a little breathless, and whispered, “Then maybe you should pull over.”

And for one heart-stopping second, Spencer looked like he was seriously considering it.

Spencer’s eyes darted to you like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said, like the words "Then maybe you should pull over" had knocked loose the last shred of his reason. He gawked at you, scandalized in the most Spencer Reid way possible—mouth parted, voice caught in his throat, one hand still clenched on the gearshift like it was the only tether holding him to the physical realm.

“W-we’re in public,” he stammered, blinking hard like maybe he’d hallucinated the look in your eyes. “In a parking lot. In a daylight-hour parking lot. W-with pedestrians. And children, probably—”

“Then drive,” you said lowly, your voice dipped in honey and need, all but panting as you slid your hand another inch higher on his thigh. “But hurry.”

Spencer practically squeaked. “Y/N—this isn’t rational. You’re—this is a stress response. You’re likely experiencing elevated hormones from the pregnancy scare—your body is reacting, not thinking—”

“I don’t want to think,” you growled, leaning closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear. “I want to feel. And I want you.”

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he blindly pulled the car out of the parking spot, jerking a little too hard in reverse before shifting into drive. “I’m not—not saying no,” he breathed quickly, blinking down the road, “I’m just saying—I’m not sure I can survive this drive.”

And then, as he finally got the car moving forward, you did it. Your hand left his thigh and slipped under his sweater.

You slid your palm slowly, deliberately, up the soft skin of his stomach. It was warm, smooth, and just a bit tense from how tightly he was holding himself together. Your fingers traced the curve just above his waistband, dragging lightly up to the center of his abdomen and rubbing in slow, tender circles.

Spencer heaved. Actually, visibly gasped. His breath punched out of him like someone had knocked the wind from his lungs.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, chest rising and falling fast. “You’re so mean.”

You smiled, wicked and wanting, your palm never stopping its soft, devastating rhythm. “I’m just in love,” you whispered, kissing his shoulder. “And so fucking turned on.”

Spencer swallowed audibly. And then—his voice wrecked, his eyes laser-focused on the road like it was the only thing keeping him from combusting—he muttered:

“We’re going to my place. It’s closer.”

And you just giggled, victorious. Because you had broken Spencer Reid. And he was loving every second of it.

…

You weren’t even pretending to behave anymore.

The desktop—the whole reason you went out in the first place—was long forgotten in the trunk of Spencer’s car, left to fend for itself like some abandoned prop in a scene that had taken a very different turn. Spencer had practically skidded into the parking spot outside his building, the car still humming as he put it in park with the kind of frantic energy that suggested he was one heavy breath away from losing it completely.

And now? Now you were following him up the stairs. Teasing him.

Relentlessly.

You stayed one step behind him, close enough to keep your hand on his back as he climbed. Occasionally you'd let your fingers slip just under the hem of his sweater, brushing along the warm, smooth skin of his lower back. The first time you did it, he stumbled. Just slightly. You giggled.

“Are you okay?” you asked sweetly, breathless with amusement.

“No,” he muttered, not even pretending otherwise, gripping the railing like it might protect him from you. “This is… so wildly unsafe for public decency standards.”

“I haven’t even touched anything inappropriate yet,” you whispered near his ear, letting your fingers skate higher this time, grazing the small dip in his spine.

Spencer made a noise halfway between a gasp and a whimper. “Yet.”

By the second flight, he was walking faster—clearly trying to outpace your hand, your mouth, your teasing. But it only made you more determined. You bumped your chest into his back at the landing, pressing close.

“You’re really gonna make me wait until we get inside?” you purred, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Spencer turned his head just enough to glance at you. His face was completely flushed, and curls started to stick to his forehead from the effort of moving quickly and not losing it right there on the stairs.

“I am this close to dragging you back down the stairs and into the passenger seat,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But there are cameras in the parking lot.”

You grinned. “And in the hallway?”

Spencer groaned. “You need to stop talking.”

But the key was already in his hand, and the front door was just ahead.

One more hallway. One more breath. And then you'd both stop pretending to be patient.

By the time you reached his front door, you couldn’t take it anymore.

Whatever self-control you had left—what little scraps remained after his parking lot heroics and that breathless spiral up the stairs—snapped.

As soon as Spencer fumbled with the key, you reached for him. Not gently. Not cautiously. Desperately.

You grabbed the fabric of his sweater, yanked him back against you, and smushed your mouth against his before he could even turn the lock. It was all heat and need, wild and unrestrained. Spencer gasped against you, his hands flailing for a moment before settling on your waist, trying to ground himself.

Your hands cupped his jaw, your fingers curling behind his neck, dragging him down into it as if you couldn’t get close enough. And he gave in completely, the key still awkwardly wedged between his fingers as he let you take the lead.

God, his mouth.

The same lips that could rattle off facts about deep-sea bioluminescence and ancient numeral systems and crash test safety ratings were now parted and panting and helpless beneath yours. The same mouth that had once shyly asked if you liked milk in your tea, that whispered book quotes into your skin, that lectured you on the proper way to hold a scalpel if you ever “theoretically needed to perform battlefield surgery”—was now moaning softly as your tongue brushed his.

You pulled back just a fraction, just enough to breathe against his lips. “Spencer…” you whispered, voice thick and shaking. “God, your mouth—do you even know what it does to me?”

He blinked, dazed, eyes unfocused and lips swollen. “I—uh—statistically I should’ve figured it out by now, but—”

You cut him off with another kiss, this one slower, deeper.

“Inside,” you breathed, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan again.

He fumbled with the key, his hands shaking, his breath wrecked—and the second the door opened, you both stumbled inside, tangled and kissing and already forgetting where the rest of the world ended.

Your hand had just curled around him through his pants—finally, after all that teasing, all that build-up, all that delicious, unbearable tension—and Spencer let out a ragged, unfiltered moan, like the sound had been stuck in his chest for the last twenty minutes and could finally escape.

His knees buckled slightly. His hands gripped your hips like he was drowning. “Oh my God, Y/N—”

And then—

Knock knock.

Both of you froze.

Not just stillness—statue still. Like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe.

A beat.

Then again.

Knock knock.

Slightly louder this time.

Spencer looked at you, eyes wild, chest heaving, completely wrecked, and not even remotely recovered from your hand on him. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Who the hell knocks like that?”

You blinked, trying to reattach your soul to your body. “I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, fingers still resting where they definitely shouldn’t be when someone was at the door.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I—I can’t answer the door like this.”

“No shit,” you hissed, already stumbling backward, trying to straighten your shirt and wipe your mouth, feeling the flush crawling all the way down your chest.

Spencer scrambled—actually scrambled—across the apartment like a startled deer, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and covering his lap like it was his only hope.

“Act natural,” he whispered frantically.

“You are holding a pillow to your dick, Spencer.”

“I am trying!”

Another knock.

You took a deep breath, moved toward the door, paused just before unlocking it, and turned back to shoot him a look. “If this is Derek or Penelope, I’m actually going to murder someone.”

Spencer just mouthed, “Same.” And from where he stood, behind the couch, breathless and undone, he looked like he meant it.

“Reid, I saw your car. Are you here?” a muffled voice said from the hallway.

Spencer paled instantly, eyes wide as saucers. “Oh my God,” he panted, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “Oh my God.”

Your stomach clenched, throat tightening. “What? Who is it?” you repeated in a harsh whisper, nerves crawling up your spine. “Spencer?”

He turned toward you slowly, like each step of his thought process was physically painful. He looked pale; lips parted, the pillow now forgotten in his grip. “Um… remember when I told you about Ethan?”

You blinked. “No? Who’s Ethan?”

Spencer let out a sharp exhale through his nose, shoulders slumping. “Right. I didn’t. Uh, well, hold on.”

You watched in stunned silence as he set the pillow down like it weighed twenty pounds, the moment having drained every ounce of blood from his body. The flustered, flushed man from just minutes ago was gone—replaced by the serious, awkward, deeply anxious version of Spencer Reid that emerged only in the wake of ghosts.

He walked stiffly to the door, unlocked it, and opened it to reveal a tall man with soft brown curls, tired eyes, and a familiar, cautious kind of warmth.

“…Ethan,” Spencer said, voice small. “Hi.”

Ethan stepped into the apartment like it was a place he used to live like he was returning to something still his. His bag was slung over one shoulder, frayed at the edges. He looked thinner than Spencer remembered—drawn in the face, shoulders sloped as though he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“Got kicked out,” Ethan said quickly, almost like he was reciting a line he’d had to repeat too many times already. “Landlord said I’d broken the lease. Technically true, I guess. And then work… well. You can’t show up drunk and keep a steady gig teaching music theory to kids, apparently.”

Spencer’s face softened, even as his fingers twitched nervously at his sides. “Ethan, I—I wish you’d called.”

Ethan waved that off like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t want to burden you. Just need somewhere to land. Somewhere to get my head on straight.” His eyes scanned the apartment. “I won’t be here long. I just need someone in my corner again.”

Spencer glanced at you, and something unreadable flickered across his face—some combination of guilt and concern. He stepped slightly to the side and motioned toward you, voice gentle. “This is Y/N. My girlfriend.”

Ethan’s eyes barely flicked toward you. No handshake, no nod, not even a polite smile. He glanced—glanced—and then looked back to Spencer like the words had been noise, not introduction. “You still got that foldout futon in the guest room?”

You blinked, stunned by the complete lack of acknowledgment. Spencer hesitated, his jaw ticking slightly as he registered it too.

You looked at Spencer, brows raised. “Okay… hi to you too, I guess,” you muttered under your breath.

Spencer offered you a helpless look, one that said this is complicated, and please don’t hate me, and I didn’t expect this either, all at once.

And just like that, the warmth of your earlier moments evaporated, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the open door.

Ethan had already dropped his bag by the wall and started toward the hallway like he owned it, like the last five years hadn’t passed, like Spencer hadn’t built a life outside the hazy, fragile world they once shared.

Spencer stepped forward, voice stammering slightly, trying to patch over the growing awkwardness like it was a leaky pipe.

“Uh no, Ethan… this is a one-bedroom,” he said, clearing his throat. “It always has been.”

Ethan paused mid-step, turning with a furrowed brow. “What? No, you had that place with the foldout futon—”

“That was my old apartment,” Spencer interrupted, awkwardness tinged with discomfort now. “In Georgetown. This is… this is a different place. You’ve, um… you’ve never been here.”

Ethan blinked at him like the math wasn’t adding up. Like the timeline of Spencer’s life hadn’t continued after him.

You stood a few feet behind Spencer, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line, watching this strange tension unfold. The air was heavy like a thunderstorm was pressing against the windows, waiting to get in.

Ethan nodded slowly, his gaze trailing away from Spencer again—still not toward you. “Right. Guess I forgot.”

But you didn’t miss it. The way Spencer stepped subtly in front of you. The way Ethan kept talking like you weren’t even here.

Spencer stood frozen for a moment, one hand twitching nervously at his side, the other hovering near the seam of his pants like he couldn’t decide whether to fidget or brace for impact. He shifted his weight, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

You heard the lie. Spencer never lied.

But you didn’t jump in to correct him.

Because while the technical truth was that you both had your own apartments, Spencer’s space had slowly become yours too. Your books on the shelves, your fuzzy socks under his bed, your favorite mug drying on the rack beside his. He called it home when you were there. And that had to count for something.

So you let the lie sit. Because it wasn’t really one. Not where it mattered.

Still, Ethan didn’t look at you. Didn’t even glance. He just tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “I said it wouldn’t be for long. I just need a few nights. You used to let me crash for weeks.”

Spencer winced. “That was different. That was… years ago. Things are different now.”

“You mean she’s here now?” Ethan said flatly, voice dipped in something that wasn’t quite bitterness but knew how to get there fast. “That’s what’s different?”

Spencer’s jaw twitched. He inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to hold his ground. “No. What’s different is I’ve built something stable. Something I want to protect.”

Ethan let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Stable. Right. That’s rich coming from you.”

Spencer flinched at that but said nothing.

Ethan’s eyes finally flicked to you—just for a second—before shifting back to Spencer like the look itself had been an inconvenience. “You told me once that I was the only person who really got you. That no one else could make sense of your head. Remember that?”

Spencer closed his eyes for half a second. “Don’t do this.”

Ethan stepped forward, voice low, pointed. “We were more than friends, Spencer. You don’t get to act like I’m just some old college buddy who needs a couch.”

You felt your chest tighten. Spencer’s shoulders tensed, and you could practically see him swallowing everything he wanted to say—needed to say—and trying to replace it with something gentle, something palatable, something that wouldn’t make Ethan shatter.

But the weight of it was written all over his face. Regret. Guilt. Boundaries.

“I’m not that person anymore,” Spencer said softly. “And you’re not either. And I’m sorry, but I can’t be your safety net this time. Not like that. Not here.”

Ethan scoffed, throwing his words like stones. “You’re not that person anymore? Meaning you found yourself a nice little trophy wife to buy a white picket fence someday?”

“Ethan,” Spencer warned, voice still even, but with an edge that trembled beneath it.

“What?” Ethan shot back, eyes hard. “Are you too scared to be who you really are? So scared you’re hiding behind a beard?”

And that was it.

“That’s enough!”

The words cracked through the apartment like a thunderclap.

Silence slammed down in their wake.

Spencer’s chest was heaving, shoulders locked, his fists clenched at his sides like he was still holding onto the echo of the yell that had just torn out of him. It wasn’t just loud—it was jarring. 

Spencer Reid didn’t yell. He didn’t need to yell.

But this—whatever Ethan had just ripped open—had pushed him too far.

Even Ethan looked stunned like the sharpness in Spencer’s voice had knocked the fight clean out of him.

And you? You just stared, wide-eyed, heart pounding, watching the man you loved stand up not just for you—but for himself.

Ethan stood frozen for a breath, maybe two, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe Spencer had actually raised his voice. His mouth opened—then closed. He looked down at the floor, jaw working like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow.

Then, quietly but sharp enough to cut glass, he muttered, “Second time breaking a heart.”

The words landed heavy—aimed like a dagger but dulled by pity.

Spencer didn’t respond. Not right away. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid, but something in his expression fractured. You saw it. The flicker of pain. Of guilt. Of something mournful—but not regret.

Ethan gave a soft, bitter laugh and shook his head. “Guess the first time wasn’t final enough.”

Then he grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out the door without another word. No slamming. No dramatics.

Just a final wound on his way out.

And then it was quiet. So quiet it felt like the air had changed.

Spencer stood still, eyes locked on the door long after it had closed. And you, standing behind him, finally took a step forward, reaching gently for his hand.

He let you take it. 

Gratefully.

Desperately.

…

You hadn’t meant to break the peaceful rhythm of dinner. Spencer had cooked for you tonight—something simple and grounding, pasta tossed with garlic and herbs, the kind of thing he could make with his hands while his mind drifted. He was quiet, sure, but he had smiled once or twice. You thought maybe he was pulling out of the fog of earlier.

But curiosity had been tugging at you since the name slipped from his lips when Ethan appeared like a ghost from a past you hadn’t known existed.

So now, here you were. Asking carefully, gently. Like you might scare the memory back into hiding.

“Spencer?”

He looked up from his plate, blinking slowly as if being pulled from somewhere far away. “Yeah?” he murmured, a little distracted still but present enough to meet your eyes.

You hesitated. Then, quietly, “Who, um… who was Ethan?” A pause. You swallowed. “Who was he to you?”

The question settled between you and Spencer like a feather—and yet, somehow, it hit the table with the weight of stone.

Spencer stilled.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just delicate. He set his fork down slowly, resting his hands in his lap like he needed them to be still while he spoke.

“He was…” Spencer exhaled through his nose, searching for the words. “He was my friend. In college.”

You nodded slightly, waiting.

“We met in a seminar,” he continued, his tone even measured. “He was one of the only people who didn’t look at me like I was a curiosity. He didn’t care that I was a genius or a little weird. He… treated me like a peer. Like a person.”

You could hear the fondness there, buried beneath the ache. But there was more, and you knew it. He saw it in your eyes before you asked.

Spencer offered it willingly, if slowly.

“There was a time I thought maybe it could become more. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Or what he wanted. There was… one kiss. Maybe two. But it didn’t go further than that. Not really.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes falling back to his plate. “We lost touch. He had his demons. And I had mine.”

You reached out, sliding your fingers gently across the table, brushing his knuckles.

“And now?” you asked softly.

Spencer looked up again, eyes tired but sincere. “Now I just feel sad. For him. And for who we both were then. I think I wanted to save him. I think he wanted me to. But we were just kids trying to feel less alone.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For telling me.”

He gave you a small, fragile smile.

“Can I ask you something… really personal?” you said softly, your voice hesitant but honest.

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, he looked slightly startled—maybe even nervous—but he nodded anyway. “Yeah. Of course.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself.

“Do you ever wish… you’d had more time to figure out your sexuality? To explore it… without so much pressure, or expectation?”

Spencer blinked at you, his fork pausing midair.

It wasn’t that the question offended him—it didn’t. You knew him well enough by now to tread with care. He could see that you weren’t asking to pry. You were asking because you loved him. Because you wanted to know him.

Still, it took him a second. He set his fork down gently, eyes flicking down to the plate before returning to yours.

“I, um…” he started, then stopped, folding his hands together as he leaned forward slightly. “That’s… a very good question.”

You smiled a little, encouraging but quiet, giving him room to think.

Spencer’s brows furrowed, not with discomfort but with the weight of consideration. “I think… yes. In some ways, I do.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes flickering toward the candlelight dancing on the table. “I didn’t have what most people would call a normal adolescence. I wasn’t allowed the space to explore anything—romance, intimacy, identity—without being either fetishized or ridiculed. I was always the youngest in the room. Always the anomaly.”

You nodded softly, your hand resting atop his on the table.

“I think there are parts of myself I didn’t even let myself question,” he continued, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because it didn’t feel… safe. There were rules I made for myself. Stay small. Stay quiet. Don’t make things harder than they already are.”

His eyes met yours again—braver this time, vulnerable but steady.

“But you’ve made me think about it more. Not in a pressured way. Just… being with you, and how safe I feel. I think maybe I’m still discovering who I am in that way. And I don’t feel late to it. I just feel—grateful. That I get to figure it out now. With you.”

Your throat tightened, tears burning just a little at the edges.

You reached out and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing gently along the curve of it.

“I’m grateful, too,” you whispered. “For you. All of you. Every part you’re still uncovering.”

Spencer turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm. 

You hesitated, watching him absorb the weight of his own answer, his fingers absently smoothing over the tablecloth like his thoughts were trying to find a soft place to land.

But his honesty had opened a door. And quietly, gently, you stepped through it.

“Can I… ask one more thing?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “And please, please don’t feel like you have to answer. You don’t have to protect my feelings, I just— I want to understand.”

Spencer looked up, eyes meeting yours, already bracing but open.

You took a slow breath. “Do you… want to explore? With men, I mean?”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to answer—but because he was thinking, the way only Spencer could: carefully, thoughtfully, measuring not just his words, but the honesty they carried.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, quietly. “Sometimes I wonder. Not because I’m unhappy with you—I’m not, not even a little. Being with you feels… right in a way nothing else ever has.”

You nodded, encouraging him to go on, not flinching.

“But I also never really gave myself the chance to ask. Or try. I was so focused on staying safe, fitting in, surviving academia, and then the BAU… it never felt like there was room.”

He looked at you again, his expression soft and a little scared. “But I don’t want that to come between us. I don’t want to lose us because of something I might never even need to act on.”

You reached for his hand.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you said firmly, lacing your fingers through his. “Wanting to understand yourself more doesn’t mean you love me any less.”

He swallowed hard, blinking fast. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

“Because I love you,” you said simply. “And I want all of you—even the parts you’re still figuring out.”

Spencer still couldn’t believe it. No matter how deeply he loved you, no matter how safe you already made him feel, you always found new ways to surprise him with your openness, your trust, and your devotion.

“I love you too,” he breathed, voice trembling slightly as he tried to hold your gaze, to make sure you knew how much this meant to him. “But… what are you saying, exactly?”

You sighed, not out of frustration, but from the sheer weight of trying to express something so delicate. You took a moment, collecting your thoughts, your words.

“I think,” you said slowly, carefully, “if you ever met a man—someone you were attracted to, someone you felt curious about—I’d want you to feel comfortable telling me. And then maybe, if we’d talked about it and if we’d set boundaries… maybe you could explore it. If that’s what you needed.”

Spencer blinked at you, stunned into silence for a few seconds. “Isn’t that… cheating?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Not if we talk about it first,” you said gently. “Not if we understand each other and agree on what’s okay. Not if it’s something that helps you grow, and we stay honest with each other through it.”

He stared at you like you were a miracle. Because, to him, you kind of were.

“Thank you,” he said finally, voice rough with sincerity. “I appreciate you more than I’ll ever be able to express. But I think I’d need to… do some research. I mean—a lot of research. Before I could give a firm answer.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers along his arm. “I understand, baby. Take all the time you need.”

He nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a beat, and then—tentative, awkward—he added, “And what if… what if I wanted to just experiment… with you?”

You tilted your head, your voice still soft. “Can you elaborate, my love?”

Spencer chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I guess I mean… I wouldn’t mind if we tried some… new things.”

Your lips curled into a smirk, affection lighting up your face. “Like what?”

He was bright red now, staring at a spot just past your shoulder like it might save him. “Like… like anal.”

You blinked, curiosity in your tone but no judgment. “You want to have anal sex with me?”

Spencer nodded quickly—shyly, but without looking away. “I do. But… I would, um… be on the bottom.”

Tilting your head with a curious, thoughtful expression, you asked, “Do you want to add strap-ons to your research? I’d want to get the best one in that case. And we’d need to know proper preparation, and materials, and—”

Spencer laughed, interrupting gently but with a real smile, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “I get it,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll look into it all. Thoroughly.”

You beamed at him, proud and warm and deeply endeared, before reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his.

“Thank you for telling me, baby,” you said sincerely, giving his hand a loving squeeze.

He nodded again, his cheeks still flushed, but there was a glow in him now—something almost giddy beneath the vulnerability. Visibly relieved. And maybe even a little bit excited.

Because at that moment, he understood something unshakeable, something that filled every quiet space between your words:

There was nothing he couldn’t say to you. Nothing too strange. Nothing too personal. Nothing too tender.

He had you—and you made him feel safe enough to explore who he was, and loved enough to never question if that exploration would change how you looked at him.

It wouldn’t. Not even a little.

—

The headaches didn’t just start.

But you didn’t know that.

Not really. Not until Hotch called you himself and said Spencer was being sent home early after nearly collapsing during a case consult. Not fainting exactly—just… swaying, disoriented, like the world was too loud, too bright, too much all at once.

You had dropped everything. Your keys were barely off the hook before you were in the car. And by the time you got him home, your entire body was one humming line of worry.

Now, Spencer was curled on the couch, his head resting in your lap, skin pale and clammy with exhaustion. The only light came from a single shaded lamp across the room. Everything else was silent. Still.

You laid the cool towel across his forehead as gently as you could and stroked your fingers through his hair, watching as he exhaled softly under your touch.

“Baby…” you murmured, keeping your voice low, like even sound might hurt him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave the smallest shrug, his temple shifting against your thigh.

You frowned, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Spencer.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said finally, voice quiet and hoarse. “I figured it would pass.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” you asked, already knowing the answer and hoping you were wrong.

He shifted his head slightly. Just enough for a soft, unmistakable no.

You closed your eyes for a second, steadying yourself. Not to snap. Not to scold. But to keep your worry from rising into panic.

“Spencer,” you said again, softly but firmly this time. “This has been happening for how long?”

Another pause. Then: “A couple weeks.”

You were silent for a moment, pressing your lips into a thin line as your hand slowed through his hair. “You’ve been getting headaches for weeks. And didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

He didn’t move, but his voice went even softer like he was trying to shrink away without actually moving. “They weren’t this bad at first. And I thought maybe it was just stress or dehydration. Or—”

You stopped him with your palm against his cheek, not forcefully, just enough to make him look at you.

“Spencer,” you whispered, “if something hurts you—especially your head—you tell me. I don’t care how small it seems. I don’t care if you think it’s nothing.”

His eyes flickered with guilt and something else: shame, fear, and the quiet helplessness of someone who’s used to powering through because stopping means looking at the thing directly.

You kissed his forehead gently, letting the towel fall to the side for a moment.

“We’re going to the doctor as soon as they can get you in,” you said, no room for argument but full of care. “And tonight, we’re resting. Nothing else. Just this. Just me and you and quiet.”

Spencer nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut again as your fingers moved back into his hair.

He didn’t argue.

Because, for once, it felt good to let someone else take the weight.

…

But the migraines… they didn’t pass.

They didn’t lessen. Didn’t become manageable with water, sleep, and hope.

Instead, they began to chip away at him. Slowly, steadily, like waves against the foundation of a house that had weathered more storms than it ever should have.

Your Spencer—the man you knew and loved in full color—started to fade into a version of himself that felt… hollow.

Still brilliant. Still kind. But dimmed. Distant.

He smiled less. Laughed less. Barely touched the books that once lived in his hands like extensions of his body. He started carrying sunglasses even when it was overcast. Kept earplugs in his coat pocket. You’d come to his apartment to find him sitting on the floor in the dark, palms pressed to his temples, jaw clenched against the sound of his own breath.

And you’d heard of this version before.

You knew him only through fragments—through stories whispered by people who had been there then.

The Spencer who had used.

The one who would do anything, take anything, to quiet the pain.

The man who lived in the aftermath of loss, crawling his way out of the kind of darkness that doesn’t leave easily.

And you knew he was clean. You knew it.

He had told you. The team had told you. He went to meetings. He journaled. He did the work.

But watching him now—watching the way his hands shook when you tried to touch him, the way he flinched when the light from the fridge hit his face, the way he refused to meet your eyes some nights—it terrified you.

Because he wasn’t just in pain. He was shutting down. And he wasn’t letting you in.

You’d wake in the middle of the night and find him sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands, so quiet it broke your heart.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to shake him. You wanted to say Please don’t go away. Please tell me what to do. Please don’t become that ghost again.

But instead, you sat behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to the warmth of his back, whispering, “I’m still here.”

Even when he said nothing. Even when his silence felt like a wall taller than anything you’d ever climbed.

You stayed.

Because you remembered the way he looked at you when he was whole. And you would wait—for as long as it took—to see that look again.

But it took so long.

So long.

Long enough that the days started to feel indistinguishable from one another—an endless loop of dimmed lights, soft steps, whispered concern. You adjusted everything around him. At first, it was natural. A kindness. A compromise.

But over time, it became suffocating.

You stopped going over. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you were scared that the sound of the door clicking shut behind you might wake him—and God forbid you be the one to trigger another migraine.

You didn’t call or text anymore. Not even to say I love you, not even to say I miss you, because the brightness of your phone might hurt him. Because he wouldn’t check it anyway. You told yourself that over and over, he wouldn’t check it anyway.

So you stopped reaching out.

Even when you would go over, you didn’t play music. You didn’t turn on any lights. You started wearing socks around his apartment so your steps wouldn’t echo off the hardwood. You learned the rhythm of his medication alarms better than your own sleep schedule. You brought food and left it untouched on the counter. You came to check in, to switch out towels, to refill water bottles.

And somewhere in the middle of it all…

You forgot how to be his girlfriend.

Because that’s not what it felt like anymore. You were a nurse. A shadow.

An afterthought orbiting quietly around someone you loved more than anything, who couldn’t seem to see you anymore.

And the worst part—the most devastating, gutting part—was that you didn’t even know if he noticed.

If he saw the way your shoulders slumped when he didn’t respond. If he noticed how your voice had grown quieter, your touches more hesitant. If he could feel how hard you were fighting not to break.

Because you were still fighting. Every day. 

But the silence between you was deafening, and love—no matter how deep, no matter how patient—cannot live forever in the dark without being fed.

You didn’t want to leave. But you didn’t know how to stay like this either.

And you were beginning to wonder— If maybe he was already gone.

…

Your fingers slipped off the keyboard the moment you heard the lock click.

You froze. Heart stopped. Because no one—no one—used that lock. No one should be using that lock. You hadn't had someone walk into your apartment unannounced in... weeks. Maybe longer. You lived alone. You lived quietly. That sound—unexpected and metallic and out of place—sent a cold jolt of adrenaline through your chest.

You were halfway out of your chair, breath caught and heart thudding when you heard the door shut gently. No crash. No hurried footsteps. Just soft movement, deliberate. Familiar.

Still, your voice was shaky as you called from your office, “Spencer?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then footsteps padded across your floor with hesitant slowness. And then—he appeared.

He looked... wrecked.

Not bloody or bruised. Not in any visible way. But hollow. Sunken. His curls were tangled. There was stubble on his jaw. His coat was barely buttoned, satchel slipping from one shoulder. And his eyes—those big, expressive, vulnerable eyes—looked up at you with the kind of ache that reached straight into your chest.

“Are you mad at me?” he whispered like the question itself was too heavy to speak out loud.

And your heart just about shattered.

You swallowed hard, stepping into the doorway, grounding yourself. “No.” The word came out as a breath, too light, too soft, but true. Completely and utterly true.

He looked like he didn’t believe you.

So you pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you, slow and measured like he was a wounded animal like you were afraid any sudden movement might send him bolting.

“I was…” your throat tightened, but you pushed forward. “I was scared you stopped needing me.”

Spencer didn’t speak. Just shook his head—hard, like he was trying to dislodge the very idea—and his voice broke on the edges when he finally looked at you again.

“I was scared I stopped being someone you could love.”

That hit hard. Because those weren’t just words. That was Spencer. That was the man who overthought everything, who felt deeper than he admitted, who retreated when the world became too much because he doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone he loves. Especially you.

You didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

You just closed the last few feet between you and reached for him, and he met you in the middle—hands finding your waist, your arms looping around his shoulders, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat like you needed to physically hold him together.

There, in your entryway, with his bag slipping to the floor and your heart pounding in time with his, you stood wrapped in each other.

Not speaking. Not rushing. Just holding on.

Letting the silence breathe between you. Letting the ache be acknowledged. Letting your hands say everything your voices couldn’t.

And that—right there—was where the repair began. Not with an apology. Not with a solution. But with the simple act of staying.

…

Spencer stays the night.

He doesn’t ask. You don’t offer. He just... doesn’t leave.

After the kind of reunion that left both of you too full and too fragile to say anything else, it didn’t need to be discussed. He dropped his coat onto the rack like muscle memory. He put his satchel on the same hook he always did, though it sagged heavier than usual like it knew too.

And then he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, just like he used to.

You followed a few minutes later with your own toothbrush in hand, standing beside him at the sink, pretending—trying—to pretend that nothing felt different.

But it did.

Because Spencer was here, in your space, but it didn’t feel like your Spencer. Not completely. His presence carried a weight you weren’t used to. Not uncomfortable, not unwanted—but heavier, older, a little weathered at the seams. Like he’d been through something he still hadn’t told you. Like you were brushing your teeth next to someone who looked like your boyfriend but who hadn’t touched your hand in nine days.

Your palm hovered for a moment before you rested it on his back, just lightly. You felt the subtle tension there—his body registering your touch before his mind did. He didn’t lean in the way he usually would. But he didn’t move away, either.

It was enough.

Later, he sat on his usual side of your bed; the covers pulled up neatly over his legs, a worn paperback in his hands. The lamplight was dim, golden, soft—just the way you always kept it when winding down for the night. And you curled up beside him, face half-hidden against your pillow, listening as he read aloud from the page in that soothing cadence of his.

It felt familiar. It looked familiar. But it didn’t feel quite right.

Because there was too much air between you. Too much left unsaid.

But still, you closed your eyes and listened to his voice like a lullaby, like its rhythm might stitch something back together.

In the morning, it was… normal.

Almost eerily so.

You sat on the kitchen counter, legs swinging gently as you sip your coffee, and Spencer stood between your knees, his forehead resting softly against your chest. Your arms loosely circled his neck, and his hands settled on your thighs. It was tender, quiet, and domestic.

Everything about it screamed routine, but your heart still beat too fast.

Because this wasn’t casual. This wasn’t easy. This was two people pretending they hadn’t been drifting.

Trying to return to something soft. Trying not to acknowledge that it felt just a hair too tight.

But you held him anyway. Pressed your cheek against his hair. And tried not to think about how long it would take to feel normal again.

Or if it ever would.

…

Spencer doesn't say it all at once. He doesn’t sit you down and unfold his guilt into a perfectly formed apology with bullet points and clear, linear thought. That’s not how this lives inside him.

It spills out in pieces—fragments—little revelations that tumble out when his voice is already low, the night is already quiet, and the space between you is already stretched thin with everything left unspoken.

You're sitting on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket that doesn’t quite reach the edges anymore, and his head is resting on your shoulder, a book forgotten in his lap. You don’t know what triggers it—maybe the way your hand idly combs through his curls or the way you haven’t said anything in minutes, and the silence has grown too tender to ignore—but suddenly, Spencer shifts.

“I didn’t know how to let you in,” he says quietly, voice hoarse, like it’s been caught in his throat for too long. “Not without making you carry it for me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just listen. Because you know he needs to say it.

“I was scared,” he continues. “Scared that if I leaned on you too hard, you’d… break. Or get tired. Or realize I’m too much.” He laughs, but it’s dry and hollow. “I thought keeping it in would protect you.”

And there it is.

The heartbreaking, twisted logic of someone who loves too hard and hurts too quietly.

You tilt your head, rest your lips in his hair, and whisper, “You don’t have to protect me from loving you.”

Spencer doesn’t respond at first. But his hand finds yours beneath the blanket. Clumsy. Seeking. He laces his fingers through yours like he’s making a new promise. Maybe he is.

From then on, he tries.

In the smallest ways.

He texts first—even if it’s just a simple thinking of you or a blurry photo of something he saw that reminded him of a joke you once made. You reply warmly every time, no matter what you’re doing. Because you know what that little message cost him. And what it means.

He starts saying, “Want to come over?” again. Not every day. Not even every week. But it starts. And when he does, you go. Even if he’s tired. Even if all you do is sit silently, eat soup, and read on opposite ends of the couch, you go. Because he’s asking. Because he wants you there again.

And one night, while you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom and trying not to get toothpaste on your shirt, he walks past and lightly rests his hand on your back. Just a press of fingers. No words. No performance.

It makes you tear up.

Because that little touch says: I missed you. I’m trying. I’m still here.

And you let him try.

You show him you want him—not just when he’s dazzling and fast-talking and quoting obscure facts to fill the silence—but when he’s slow. When he stumbles. When he forgets how to let love feel easy.

You hold space for all of it.

Because you’re not just here for the version of him that’s easy to love.

You’re here for all of him. Even the parts that still don’t know how to stay. Especially those.

This part isn’t easy either.

Because silence had become your way of coping—of making space for him, of shrinking yourself so his pain didn’t have to make room. You thought you were being kind. And maybe you were. But kindness without communication turns into quiet resentment. And now it’s time to speak.

Your voice wavers when you begin. Because you're not angry. You're hurt. And that kind of honesty is terrifying when you've spent so long treading carefully around someone else's fragility.

But you do it anyway.

You look at him—really look—and say:

“I don’t need you to be perfect; I just need you to let me in again.”

You see it hit. Right there in his eyes, the way his breath catches like he’s just now realizing how far he pulled away.

So you keep going. Gently. But honestly.

“I missed you,” you whisper, softer this time, “and I need to know you missed me too.”

His hand twitches, like it wants to reach for yours but doesn’t know if it has permission yet. You give it to him, not with words, but with your eyes.

Then, because this is the hardest truth and the one that’s been buried deepest, you let it out:

“I want to feel like your girlfriend again. Not just your support system.”

There’s a pause. A long, heavy one where the silence could crack either way. Where he could shut down or shut you out.

But Spencer doesn’t.

Because he listens.

He always listens.

And more importantly—he responds.

His hand finds yours, finally. His fingers squeeze, just once, but it says everything. And when he speaks, it’s quiet and raw, his voice hoarse from emotion.

“I didn’t know how much I was asking you to carry,” he says. “And I didn’t know how to say I missed you without breaking apart.”

You nod, already tearing up. But you don’t drop his hand. You hold tighter.

Because now it’s out. The words are real. The air between you isn’t full of what-ifs and almosts anymore—it’s full of truth.

And from here, you can finally start again.

…

Rossi notices it first.

The way Spencer walks a little lighter into the bullpen, his satchel slung across one shoulder and a barely concealed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The way he lingers longer in conversations again and doesn’t just nod and disappear into the nearest file. The way his eyes brighten when his phone buzzes, and your name lights up the screen.

He’s back.

Not just showing up. Not just surviving. But present.

And for a team that’s seen him hollowed out by pain—grief, migraines, trauma, silence—it’s everything.

So Rossi, in his infinite paternal wisdom and subtle Italian flair, throws out the idea over coffee one morning like it’s nothing.

“Team night at my place this Friday,” he says, handing Hotch his espresso. “The usual—music, wine, enough pasta to drown a horse. Partners invited.”

Hotch raises a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It always is,” Rossi grins. “And that’s the point.”

The word spreads quickly—Penelope is already planning outfits and playlists, JJ starts texting around to see who’s bringing what, and Spencer?

~

It’s a quiet afternoon when your phone buzzes.

You’re in the middle of some mundane work task, one of those peaceful moments where your brain is finally unoccupied just enough to hum again. You glance down at your phone, expecting some spam notification or a reminder you forgot to cancel.

But it’s him.

Spencer.

Spencer Reid — who still, despite everything you’ve been through together, texts like he’s composing a letter with a fountain pen. The preview on the lock screen reads:

Would you maybe want to come with me to something?

You smile before you’ve even unlocked the phone.

You can practically hear the cadence of his voice in the phrasing. See the way he’d glance away when saying it in person, fingers tugging at the corner of a folder or the hem of his sleeve, his mouth twitching with nerves and hope.

You type back:

Yes. Absolutely. What is it?

There’s a pause—a longer one this time—and then:

Rossi is hosting a team dinner. Just something casual. Partners invited. Everyone will be there. I’d like you to be there too. With me.

Your heart swells. Not because it’s a party, or because you get to be in a mansion, or even because it’s a rare invitation into his work life—but because it’s him.

Of course.

You send it immediately, no second thoughts, no edits. And almost instantly, the three little dots appear. Then a single message comes through:

Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.

But you do. You really do.

You put your phone down, and for a moment, just sit in the warmth of it all.

Because even through the screen, you can feel it—that tiny shift in Spencer’s world. That quiet loosening of his shoulders. That sweet, boyish, barely-there smile you love so much.

~

He asked. You said yes. And something inside him—tight and long-held—finally lets go.

Because he’s not just inviting you to dinner—he’s inviting you into something. Back into his world, where you belong.

The week flies by, and by Friday night, you're practically bouncing in your seat as Spencer drives you through winding roads and tree-lined driveways. He’s wearing that soft sweater you love, the one that clings to his arms just right, and his hair is freshly washed, curls soft and neat, like he tried extra hard.

When you arrive at Rossi’s mansion—stone archways, glowing windows, and the smell of garlic and rosemary floating through the open door—you’re met with warmth. Laughter. Familiar faces.

Penelope squeals when she sees you, immediately wrapping you in a glittery hug. JJ hands you a glass of wine before you’ve even made it past the foyer. Derek grins, claps Spencer on the back, and says, “There’s the man of the hour.”

But the best part— The best part is how natural it feels.

You and Spencer move through the house like you’ve always been a pair. Like the distance, the silence, the months of aching and not knowing how to reach each other are finally, finally behind you.

He keeps a hand on the small of your back as you walk into the kitchen. He leans in to tell you little jokes while you nibble from the charcuterie board. When someone teases him—probably Morgan—you rest a hand on his knee and feel him exhale with laughter instead of flinching like he might have weeks ago.

And later, when the group settles into the living room with glasses of wine and soft music playing in the background, you find yourselves tucked into the corner of Rossi’s oversized sectional, Spencer’s arm around your shoulders, your head against his chest.

You’re back in your groove.

You feel it in the way he laughs again without hesitation. You see it in how he looks at you—like the storm has passed, and you were his shelter the whole time. You feel it in yourself, too—in the quiet calm beneath your ribs, the safety of this, whatever this is becoming again.

And as the team jokes, reminisces, and bickers affectionately around you, you can’t help but close your eyes for a moment, smile into his sweater, and think—

We’re okay. We made it. We’re home.

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

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[raindrops-on-the-roof]

see this is something I don't see discussed as much. while I don't disagree with the notion of 'a gilded cage is still a cage', and enjoy discourse surrounding the interaction of the 'player' within the narrative, I find this dynamic INFINITELY more interesting.

you are a soul. you are nothing. you are trapped in suffocating darkness for an impossibly long time. you are promised rescue, hope, LIGHT.

and you are unceremoniously shoved into someone's body.

like the guilt, first. the overwhelming, CRUSHING guilt that you have TAKEN OVER someone. absolute horror at the fact that you have no idea who you are, and are suddenly forced into something you have no idea about.

the bitter sadness at having your chance at a true you ripped away. not knowing who you are and when this "Kris" person begins.

trying to be kind. trying to do the right thing. and Kris HATES you, and you can't blame them in the slightest, but you didn't want to be here either, and you can't run away; they need you to seal the fountain.

and that's the final thing. what would Kris feel? absolute hatred at the puppet master. did they summon the SOUL from their original form? do they bear some responsibility? do they bear some guilt?

and if not, what if they learn the SOUL isn't choosing this? would they care?

it's just such a tasty, tasty dynamic. who wanted this? why, why did things turn out this way?

I was promised a vessel and got thrown into a teenager who has their own shit to work through that is not being helped by this situation, and if I ever give up then the world is covered in darkness.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

CLOCKED IN

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiancee!reader summary: hotch is trying his hardest to keep it together when your so-called friends crash the night out, good thing the bau are world class shit stirrers, based on this request. warnings: fluff, protective hotch but also protective bau!! brief reference to them meeting which can be read here word count: 1.3k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Hotch was, against all odds, and probably his own expectations, actually having a good time. Shocking, really. But he knew exactly why, it was you. You sitting under the glittering mirrorball light, talking with your hands mid-explanation. 

It was your first official time meeting the team, and he wasn’t even a little bit surprised by how quickly you charmed every single person at the table. You had that effect on people. It was something he’d always admired about you, and okay, maybe envied a little too. He wasn’t exactly known for being warm or approachable. His voice didn’t magically pull smiles from strangers. Yours did.

And yet somehow, you—completely out of the blue—had walked into a bar similar to this one and asked him, a total stranger, to pretend to be your fiance for the night. Still one of the most absurd things he’s ever heard and he deals with absurd for a living.

Maybe that bit of envy came from a selfish place, though. Because he liked to think that the effervescent side of you was something you saved just for him, but it wasn’t because you were like that with everyone. All grins, all giggles, all theatrics because that’s who you were. And it made him furious inside to imagine anyone taking advantage of that. Like those awful friends who made you feel like you had to lie in the first place.

Still, in a roundabout, slightly messed-up way, he guessed he owed them one. Because their cruelty had delivered you straight to him.

He was mid-sip of his drink when he caught the way your smile wobbled. And when you did a double take towards the front door, his eyes were inclined to follow to see who or what he was going to have to glare at for sucking the light from your face that fast.

He didn’t even try to hide the exasperated sigh that left him.

“Oh boy,” you muttered, eyes still on the door.

“Do you know them?” JJ asked, leaning forward over a cluster of empty cocktail glasses. “Because they’re pointing.”

“And coming over,” Morgan added, eyebrows raised.

You straightened in your seat. “That’s…the quarter of the group responsible for me meeting Aaron.”

“No!” Penelope gasped, hand flying to her chest. “You mean those friends? The ones you had to lie to? The whole fake-fiancé saga?”

“In the flesh,” you confirmed, grabbing your drink and taking two very necessary gulps as Aaron braced himself for the evening to dissolve into performative lunacy. 

You shifted in your seat beside him, shoulders going stiff in that I’m fine, this is fine way that meant the opposite. And yeah, his jaw clenched. Because the idea of you having to perform just to feel safe, or liked, or respected? Made his blood run hot. Especially when you were surrounded by people who actually saw you—really saw you—and didn’t need a single performance to adore you.

“Oh my god! Okay! We all have very important parts to play,” Penelope whisper-yelled at the table.

“Just don’t make it weirder than it has to be,” Emily muttered, toying with her paper straw.

“You want another drink?” Rossi nudged Aaron who just glared at the older man. “Come on, lighten up. I didn’t get to see you in fiancé-action last time.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Hotch said dryly, reaching over and resting his hand over yours in a squeeze.

You turned to face him and the panicked look on your face made his stomach knot. “I’m sorry for this. I had no idea they’d be here, I haven’t even spoken to them in months.”

“You don’t owe me an apology, just like you don’t owe them a damn thing.” His tone softened. “But if you want an out, just say the word, I’ll make up an excuse and we’re gone.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but it was too late.

“Wow,” came a voice you knew all too well. “Look who it is.”

“Veronica.” You offered a perfectly polite, perfectly fake smile. “Dani,” you added, glancing at her tagalong.

“Mind if we sit with your fiancé and friends?” Veronica asked, already pulling a chair over from the table behind because she wasn’t actually asking or waiting for permission. She wedged herself in between you and Emily.

Dani copied her motions, plopping herself down between Penelope and Spencer. The poor genius looked like he was calculating the fastest way to disassociate, especially when Dani’s manicured hands rested a little too close to his drink. 

“So,” Veronica said, all teeth. “Are you going to introduce us?” She glanced around the table. “How do you all know the happy couple?”

“We work with Hotch,” Morgan answered smoothly, lifting his glass. “FBI.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s… intense.”

“Depends on the day,” Emily chimed in, “But yeah, keeps us busy.”

Veronica’s icy gaze slid to you, her mouth twitching. “Must be nice. All that… structure and stability. Probably pays off a little more than fashion, huh?”

You barely had time to get a word out before Penelope jumped in for you. “Oh, sweetie. One campaign of hers pays more than my entire annual salary. And I’m not exactly working for peanuts.”

You let out a sheepish laugh, just as Aaron’s thumb pressed gently against your hand, as if reminding you to breathe. 

“Anyway,” Dani piped up, suddenly remembering she had both a voice and a personality, “how’s wedding planning going? You must be deep in it by now, right?”

“Weren’t you just looking at venues?” Rossi added with a grin, like he’d been personally waiting for this moment. Hotch made a mental note to get him store-brand whiskey for his next birthday.

“We were,” Hotch replied as casually as he could manage. “She wants a beach wedding. I want one where her dress doesn’t blow into the ocean.”

Morgan snorted while JJ shook her head, trying and failing to hide a smile. 

“Tell the truth,” Emily grinned. “You just don’t want sand in your shoes.”

“I don't want sand in my everything,” Hotch said flatly, taking a sip of his drink at the involuntary conversation. 

“Fair,” Morgan laughed, tipping his glass towards him. “Sand gets everywhere. Man’s got a point.”

“Well, the guest list must be pretty large then,” Veronica went on, smiling just a little too sweetly. “Half the FBI, and of course us, your best friends. You’ll need something that can accommodate everyone.”

“We’re keeping it small,” Hotch almost snarled, his tone landing somewhere between polite restraint and you’re not fucking invited. Not that there was an actual wedding, but if he ever did marry you, those two would be the last names on the list.

“Oh! But you have to have bridesmaids, right?” Dani pressed on, gesturing between herself and Veronica. “I mean, you’re probably thinking of us, your best friends—”

“We haven’t gotten that far,” you cut her off.

“Besides,” Emily added with a shark-like smile, “it’s so hard to find dresses that don’t clash with fragile egos.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could stop them. Morgan was grinning like a man thoroughly entertained. JJ stifled a laugh behind a cough. And Spencer? He just looked politely baffled, having subtly nudged his drink as far away from Dani’s claws as possible without making it look like he was giving it to Rossi. 

Hotch, meanwhile, added a new line to his growing mental list: whatever bottle Emily wanted for her birthday, she was getting the top shelf version. Hell, maybe two. 

Some of the tension in his chest eased a little and he hoped yours had too. Because if there was one thing his team excelled at, it was rallying around someone they’d decided was theirs. And judging by the grins, side-eyes, and Emily’s very intentional lack of filter, the BAU had officially clocked in.

Not for a case. 

For you. 

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[esstxys]

𝓗 𝓐 𝓝 𝓙 𝓘 𝓢 𝓤 𝓝 𝓖 - impatient.

warnings : sub!jisung, begging, whiny + needy jisung, masturbation, boners, caught in the act, slight perv!jisung.

summary : when your morning activities are interrupted by an emergency situation, your boyfriend can't help but pleasure himself at the thought of how delicious you looked while you innocently cooked him breakfast.

- ; 9:05 am

your eyes were still glued shut with sleep as you rolled over in bed, throwing your arm to the right which hit your boyfriend in the stomach, of course.

han shot awake, clutching his stomach instantaneously. after a few seconds of sputtering out soft swear words under his breath the said, "new way to wake me up, hm?"

you groaned in response, much too tired to give him a proper answer. the only thing on your mind was going back to sleep, but your boyfriend poking you in your side made that task pretty difficult.

"hannie, stop." you said curtly, grabbing his hand.

"you're the one who woke me up, shouldn't i be mad?" he turned you over so you were facing him. your eyes were closed yet he still took a moment to look at all of your delicate features.

"i can feel you staring at me." you spoke before opening your eyes. he was already staring into them. fuck. you wanted to be mad at him for not letting you sleep, but you couldn't.

he laughed before sliding his hand under your head, separating you and your soft pillow. you leaned closer to him and let out a hum at the plush feeling of your lips meeting his.

he pulled away for a moment and you smiled

"come here." you said grabbing his face and bringing it to yours, smashing your lips together once again, this time with more passion.

you bit his upper lip and he licked your lower, and soon after his tongue pried your lips apart. he sat you up against the headboard, not separating his lips from yours for a second. he unclasped your bra, taking a tit in his hand.

every second that passed just made the kiss more heated.

your hands slid up and down his body as his tongue explored your mouth. just as your hands made it to his waistband you received a call, to which you ignored.

and then another call came.

and finally a text.

he pulled away, recognizing whoever was trying to reach you probably really needed you, considering the number of times your phone had made that god forsaken ding! sound in the last thirty seconds.

han got off of you, letting you recollect and grab your phone.

"fuck." you mumbled

"what?" he looked up at you from the bed like a lost puppy, swearing to himself that he was going to come after whoever just created that cockblock of the century.

"its my best friend. her dog ran away. she wants me to come over and grieve with her. probably lay in her bed for three hours? i don't know.." you rambled on, shocked at the messages you had just received.

"oh shit. you gotta get going then?" he yawned. handing you the bra which he has just pried off moments before.

"i guess so." you slipped the bra over your head. "want breakfast before i leave?" you asked him, grabbing a pair of his pajama pants off of the floor and swiftly putting them on.

"i mean, why not?" he got out of the bed slowly before ruffling his hair and standing up.

you watched his muscles flex as he stretched. did your friends dog really have to run away today?

you walked over to him, giving him a peck on the lips before walking out of the room "meet you downstairs yeah?"

"yeah." he paused, "your not putting a shirt on?" he said loudly, knowing you were far down the hallway by now.

"i mean its just us at home, right?!" you called back.

hearing that he smiled to himself. rushing out of the room and following you down the steps.

- ; 9:32 am

"ji, im gonna burn the fuckin' eggs if you keep staring at me like that." you shuffled the eggs around in the pan once more before turning around to look at him, leaning your hands into the counter.

"what? am i distracting you?"

"just let me cook your eggs in peace." you smiled.

saying that, you turned around. you knew han wouldn't let you do that.

you felt his gaze burning into you as you walked over to the fridge to grab orange juice which you set on the counter next to you.

why not take advantage of this?

you opened the freezer and bent down to grab the mini pancakes you knew your han loved.

you arched your back as you stood up and turned around, "you want some of these, babe?" you held up the box of pancakes, waving them in the air.

your boyfriend traced your curves with his eyes. how his pants hung low on your hips, how your bra held your perfect tits.he was getting harder by the second.

who the fuck gave you permission to do these things to him?

and then, looked up from the floor where he was pretending to stare, blinking and shaking his head before speaking "oh shit- sorry babe what'd ya say?"

"hm." you crossed your arms and leaned against the counter once again, sighing this time. "what am I distracting you now?"

"i gotta use the bathroom, be right back." he said coldly.

you pursed your lips and then shook your head. "you want the pancakes or not?!"

"yeah!" his voice cracked as he ran to the bathroom.

you giggled and turned off the stove, and part of you wished you didn't know what he was about to do.

han bee-lined for the bed and threw himself on it, tossing most of the pillows to the floor and stuffing the remaining behind his back, before yanking his sweatpants down to his knees.

there was no need to drag this out.

he had enough foreplay just watching you downstairs, and not to mention the interrupted scene that morning that had been playing through his head for the rest of the time after that.

he grasped his cock firmly from the spot on his stomach where it had lay hard and wet-tipped.

he gasped at the contact and let his head fall back, his mouth parting slightly as he squeezed himself, before letting his cock fall with a slap against his heated skin.

with a flat hand, he pulled the moisture from his reddening tip, smearing it down his length, before curling his fingers over his balls, just grazing his fingertips below them.

han ran his tongue over his dry lips, picturing you in the kitchen, remembering how you'd looked with your pajama pants hanging so low that just the slightest tug would pull them off.

he groaned and brought his hand around his dick again, tugging jerkily, frantically, and bent his knees, planting his feet on the bed.

he could see you between his legs, one hand on his thigh, the other pleasuring yourself right along with him.

han screwed his eyes closed and clamped his other hand over his own thigh, breathing hard and fast and stroking even faster.

he imagined fucking you over the counter. both of you whimpering as he thrusted roughly into you.

one hand gripping your hips roughly, leaving small marks.

his other roped around to the front of your body, rubbing your clit.

the muscles in hans arms began to burn as he stroked himself, but that barely registered; the only thing he could think of, the only thing he could see, was you beneath him.

him plunging into you and hearing your pretty noises.

your face as it twisted with pleasure.

he stroked himself long and hard, inside and out, his breath ragged and heavy, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his release.

he moaned loudly, picturing you against the counter once again. this tipped him right over the edge.

with a loud cry of your name, his knees hit his shoulders as his belly strained and his hips thrust up onto his plunging fingers, his body pulsing around them.

quick lines of milky liquid squirted over his hand and the quivering skin of his stomach.

you opened the bedroom door and hans head snapped at the creaking sound it had made.

"huh. well this sure isnt the bathroom." you teased, making your way towards the bed.

[kawaiigirly21]

Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 4

You want to do what?” Natasha grumbled while she sat up from her couch. Sleep still clinging to her body and papers laid out around her. “We want to do an impromptu concert to advertise ourselves.” Jinu replied with a matter of fact tone. “Ugh fine… give me like… 10 minutes…” Before she could get up from the couch, she was pushed back by Mystery who then draped a blanket over her. “Rest. You've been working hard for two weeks now.” He mumbled while Romance and Baby helped organize her paperwork.

“We'll take it from here today, boss lady. You focused on getting some well deserved sleep.” Abby smiled as he followed the others out the door. “We'll be back soon.” Mystery whispered in her ear before placing a sweet kiss on her lips and leaving behind Abby. Falling back to sleep, Natasha snuggled into the blanket over her body. “You're trying to get some of that sweet candy huh Mystery?” Abby smirked as he slapped his friend's back. The man only nodded slightly in response.

“Dude, her mouth is like the closest thing to heaven I'll ever know. Maybe she'll go down on you too.” Abby smirked. “Her hands are just as good. The way she worked my cock was something I never thought I'd feel.” Romance added. Mystery listened to his friend's words but he had his own idea for what he wanted his reward to be. After running into the hunters and their mini concert, Mystery used some of his cash to stop by a store to buy something for Natasha.

A small gift to show his appreciation for dealing with him and his friends on a daily basis. “Oooh what'd ya get?” Baby tried looking into the bag only to be shoved away by Mystery. “It's not for you.” He mumbled as the group walked back to the penthouse. “Can you guys like… not bother her tonight? She really needs to rest.” He then added as the 5 of them climbed into the elevator. “Sounds like someone is planning a romantic night with just the two of you.” Jinu teased as he tried to peek into the bag Mystery was carrying.

Once the doors of the elevator opened to the penthouse floor, Mystery made a beeline to Natasha's room and headed straight for the bathroom. “Hey. I saw everything. You guys are going viral.” Natasha replied as she yawned from her place on the floor. Papers once again sprawled out around her. The sound of her pen scribbling on a paper was lots enough for the boys to groan. “You're not supposed to be doing that. You're supposed to be resting.” Jinu sighed.

Suddenly, Mystery emerged from Natasha's room and scooped her up from the floor into his arms and walked back to the room. Locking the door behind him. “Um, I can walk Mystery but thank you for that. Why'd you lock the guys out?” Natasha asked as Mystery sat her down and led her to her bathroom where she was greeted by a hot bath and a glass of wine waiting for her. A few rose petals were scattered across the floor and the scent of a lighted candle filled her senses.

“Oh Mystery… you did this for me?” The man nodded shyly before reaching for her. “May I undress you?” After Natasha nodded, she nearly made a noise of surprise with how quick the introverted demon idol moved to pull off her clothes. His hands lingered on her bra and panties though. He tried taking deep breaths to steady himself. “You're doing such a good job staying in control of your instincts Mystery. Such a good boy.” The man swallowed heavily after a while and continued undressing the woman before him.

He then helped her into the bath and listened to her let out a sigh of comfort. “I really needed this…Thank you hun.” After her bath, Mystery helped Natasha to her bed where he had laid out clothing for her as she dried herself off. Looking back at the man who stood in the corner of the room fighting his demon form from coming out, Natasha smiled and dropped her towel. Leaving her naked in front of the man. “Mystery? Come here honey.” Natasha called sweetly. In an instant, Mystery appeared in front of her and leaned down as she placed a hand on his cheek.

“Let it out darling. I want to see it while you fuck me.” Taking in a deep breath, the man before her released his true form and nearly ripped his clothes from his body before taking Natasha in his arms and laying her onto the bed gently. That would be the last gentle thing he would do that night however because as soon as he was able to sink into Natasha’s warm wet walls, he let out a deep growl and thrusted as fast and deep as he could. “Oh fuck! Mystery! Shit!! Mm! Fuck! Fuck! Don't stop!”

Elsewhere in the penthouse, The rest of the boys could feel the shaking of the apartment and hear the delicious sounds of Natasha's moans. “Tch no fair! How come he gets to fuck her first!?” Abby groaned. “To be fair, I kinda saw this coming. He's the most attached to her and he's not as…chaotic as the rest of us are. I have a feeling though, I'm gonna be next.” Baby replied before downing an entire bottle of hot sauce. “You gotta stop drinking that crap. It's gotta be doing something to your stomach.” Jinu added.

“Mystery! Mystery! Fuck!! It's so deep!! Keep going!” Natasha continued to moan as Mystery pounded into her while holding her in a nasty mating press. The only noises that came from his mouth were the occasional grunt followed by demonic growls. This was the first time Natasha really began to feel her control slip. The boys could somehow sense it as well. As Mystery was pistoning his cock into her, Natasha had attempted to stop him. To slow him down.

But he was too far gone and so much stronger than her. “Stop moving and take it whore. You've held control over us long enough. It's time we claim what's rightfully ours. So stay still~” Whining loudly, Natasha tried desperately to push Mystery back but her efforts were fruitless and soon, overcome by pleasure, she reached her very first orgasm in a long time.

“Good mate. Cum on my cock like you were meant to~” Mystery growled before he himself lost himself in pleasure and spilled his seed deep inside the woman under him. Suddenly, the door to the room opened to reveal the others. As they entered the room, Abby smirked at Natasha who was still trying to catch her breath.

“Safe to say it's our time to take charge?” Jinu asked to which Mystery nodded, slightly annoyed with how they managed to get in even though he locked the door. “I can't wait for my turn. Imma beat that pussy up.” Baby smirked.

@lovelynyah

@danielle143

@prettygirlkiki

Chapter 5

[happyk44]

[Text ID: 1. Text reading: This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

2. A note reading, “I love you dude. Let it rip”

3. Text reading: And thought I really meant it It still makes me upset Am I losin’ my family Every minute I’m gone? What if my little brother Thinks my leavin’ was wrong?

4. A family photo featuring the cast from The Haunting of Hill House. The two adults sit in the back while the kids are seated at the table. Three of the kids are smiling at the camera, while the other two ignore it.

5. Text reading: I don’t love anymore Well, maybe my sister Maybe my baby brother too, yeah

6. Text reading: Then when G-d asks [Cain], “Where is your brother Abel?” he arrogantly responds, “I do not know. Am I brother’s keeper?”

In essence, the entire Bible is written as an affirmative response to this question.

7. Picture from the TV show Succession. The three Roy siblings – Kendall, Siobhan, and Roman – stand at the water’s edge on a beach. They’re all barefoot and facing away from the camera, looking out to the water.

8. Text reading: Orestes: How could you recognize me after all these years?

Elektra: What a stupid question. I was born knowing you.

9. Text reading: There wasn’t a time I didn’t have a brother. By the time my eye opened, he was already here, but there’s so little time between us, he can’t remember a time before me. Our origins blur into a single birth between us and so between us is a world and its beginning. I tell myself there’s not a world without my brother in it. I tell myself I’d follow him anywhere to keep the world from ending.

10. Illustration. Two girls sit on a subway or bus. They’re both dozing off, eyes closed. One girl leans into the other while the other holds her chin up. The first girl also rests her hand on the other’s knee. The other girl lays her hand overtop the first’s. /end ID]

1. i'll give you the sun, jandy nelson/2. the bear (2022)/3. right now, gracie abrams/4. The haunting of hill house (2018)/5. I don't love anyone, belle and sebastian/6. rabbi joseph telushkin, jewish literacy/7. sucession (2023)/8. electra, sophocles/9. the bear (2018/10. sisters, holly warbutton & to my younger self, britton.

[npookie0]

HUEHHEE HELLO DEAR MOOTIEEEE I've come for the saja boys x chronically Ill reader!! Orrr a poc reader if ya want! (≡^∇^≡) lowkey self indulgent but your writing is so yummy 💔

Demonic Care

A lover boy has to take care of his chronically ill partner and cheer them up. Which Saja Boy will be the most helpful?

contains: reader with pots, very headcanony personalities for the saja boys, these are going to be drabbles </3

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

Heads up, I'll say the short version of what kind of people are the saja boys to me

Romance - hopeless romantic, easily smitten with people, flirt, that man is a total fool when he's in love I fear </3

Abby - high ego, very (almost over) confident, kind of stupid but a lil sweet (and cocky) jock type of guy

Mystery - quiet, but expresses himself through body language and in music, closed off and very short social battery

Baby - cunning, cocky, chill unbothered king, childlish

Jinu - a leader by nature, silly dude (please that man made a choice when running and giggling like that...), you know that he means it when he's not doing something for his own benefit, understanding, but also a liar </3

Jinu

words [ 412 ]

The Saja Boys concert was close to wrapping up, the boys had to sing the fan favourite song, say their goodbye and leave. The atmosphere was warm, energetic. Fans were shouting, singing along, waving their light sticks and recording the stage.

You stood between the fans, in the first row, holding the railings with your hands. Your body grown tired over time, you stood for far too long, you were close to passing out. But you had to be there, had to see the concert from the stands.

You couldn't just sit on backstage and watch the boys perform in front of the whole crowd when you had the chance to watch Jinu's face in full view from where you stood now.

The concert came to an end and the Saja's manager came up to you to help you get backstage. You told them that you don't need a whole escort, but their response was "Jinu asked me to do it, I couldn't say no." You sighed and nodded in understanding.

"Hey aegiya!" Suddenly someone hugged you from behind once you were in the boys band's lounge area .

"Ugh, Jinu~! You started me." You replied and turned around, freeing yourself from your boyfriend's embrace.

"Haha sorry, sorry." He replied, scratching the back of his neck and laughing awkwardly. "Oh jeez, you look pale. You should sit down."

You couldn't protest, because soon your darling boyfriend sat you down on the sofa and told one of the other boys to go grab you some water.

"Jinu, I'm okay, I promise." You said, but he clearly wasn't buying it and maybe he was in the right this time. Your vision went black for a second and it take a bit to go back to normal.

He crossed his arms. "Mmm, no, I'm not buying that. I saw you in the crowd, you looked like you would faint in any moment." He exhaled and crouched in front of you. "Listen, I know that you want to be everything to support you, but please don't just throw yourself into a potentially dangerous situation for you."

You looked away. "Sorry Jinu, you''re right... I guess." You looked back at him. "I didn't mean to stress you more."

He chuckled and brushed a strand of hair away from your face. "It's okay, just be careful, yeah?" He ruffled your hair and stood up. "Let's go home, Abby found some movie he wants to watch and you're invited too."

Romance

words [ 446 ]

The last thing you remember before fainting was Romance's panicked face when he caught you, then you lost consciousness. You didn't know how much time exactly passed between your collapsing and Romance getting you back to your apartament, but after regained consciousness saw Romance holding your hand to his forehead and murmuring to himself.

"Hey, no need to summon anything for me to wake up, stupid."

When you said these words Romance immediately looked up and practically crushed you with his body when he hugged you. "Jagiya! I'm glad that you're okay. You were out for so long." He said and before you could answer, he suddenly pulled away. "Do you need anything? Water, food, medicine?"

You looked at him a little stunned and then you started giggling, Romance titled his head, confused, but relieved that you felt well enough to laugh.

"What's so funny, jagiya?" He asked, leaning closer to you.

You took a while to answer, your laughter made it impossible. "You remind me of a puppy Romy." You giggled when you imagined him with dog ears.

"A puppy, huh? Well, maybe I'm a lovesick puppy for you, baby." He kissed you, but before you could kiss him back, he stood up, a smirk spread across his face when he saw your pout. "Ah, we can kiss later, now we need to take care of you. I was really scared when you waited so suddenly in the store."

"Boohoo, I want kisses now." You stood up from the bed very slowly, leaning on the wall in front of you when the black spots started showing in your vision.

Romance noticed it and was quick to your side, holding you by back and hand in case you fainted again. "Okay, let's go slowly. No need to rush." He said and slowly guided you to the kitchen.

You sat down on a chair in your kitchen and watch as Romance poured you water. "Drink up, you need it." He said, placing the glass in front of you.

You picked it up. "Thank you mr. specialist of human health." You said teasingly, looking at the patterns on his arm and drank the whole glass at once, you were really thirsty.

"Maybe I'm a demon, but I was a human before if you forgot." He huffed. "You're lucky I love you, you silly human."

"I think it's the other way around, but let it be your way." You stuck out your tongue at him.

"Oh, look who's feeling like a little tease after their fainted at my dance practice."

"Oh, shut up and give me more water."

He smirked proudly. "See? I told you that you'd need water."

Abby

words [ 552 ]

You were in the dance practice room, dancing to Soda Pop all alone. You knew that you shouldn't do it, not with the danger of fainting because you're straining your body. You should at least wait for Abby to wake up and watch over you. But you had to dance, this was one of your biggest passions in the past. It wasn't just a hobby, it was your career, your everything.

And now?

You could barely stand for longer than ten minutes without people fussing over you collapsing, you had to stand up slowly or you'll feel dizzy, your heart hurt from how fast it beat.

You hated this, hated this turn your life took. Hated how sad and colorless it became. But then, you heard that annoyingly catchy song one day and bumped into an extremely egoistical boys band member. You met your current boyfriend, Abby.

He was the most self confident person you've ever met, but you had to admit that in all his self love he was right. Fortunately, there was more to him than his muscles, voice and high ego. Abby proved himself to be most devoted, loving and a tiny bit stupid, boyfriend ever.

He didn't make a big fuss out of your pots, when you were feeling particularly weak he would give you piggy back rides and say "I'm jus' showing off my strength, it's not cause you feel bad or anything." And you were thankful for it.

Though he still wasn't so fond of you dancing. He tried his best not to show it so you wouldn't feel like even he sees you just for your illness.

That's why you were dancing in secret, trying to go back to normal in any way, maybe your career was over, but you could still try to do it as your hobby from time to time.

"Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah"

You froze when you heard Abby's singing right next to you. You turned you head to the side and there he was, wearing nothing but his pyjama sweatpants and slippers, he was dancing to the choreography.

"Why'd ya stop? It's not like we're doing anything bad." He said with a wink.

You paused the song and looked at him in confusion. "You won't stop me?"

"Nah, there's no point in stopping you now, aein. You've been sneaking out to dance for a while and you would do it again if I tried."

So he knew...

You felt embarrassed after being found out, you never wished for him to know that.

"Hey." He titled your head up and looked into your eyes. "It's okay if you want to dance, I would never stop you, not like you would let me anyway." He chuckled. "You're feisty, like a tiger. I love that about you, but please just tell me that you want to dance and I'd dance with you." He caressed your cheek with his thumb. "I may not be super great about this comfort thing or taking care of someone, but I know that you're ill and I don't want something to happen to you while I'm asleep." His serious expression was soon replaced by a cheerful beam.

"Now, let's continue. It's not every day that you have a one-on-one dance session with Abby Saja."

Mystery

words [ 495 ]

You were looking through the lipsticks that Olive Young had in its offer, you had to find cosmetics for the Saja Boys to use now that they had their rebrand from cute songs to more darker ones.

Ever since performing Your Idol after the Idol Awards, they decided that it was the vibe they want to go into and you, as their biggest supporter, stylist and almost a manager, said that it may be a good idea.

So now, you were on make up supplies duty, guarded by your boyfriend, Mystery, in case your illness was triggered and you would feel worse because of walking and standing for too long.

Though you mostly agreed on Myst going with you because you needed someone to carry your bags.

"Hmm, Myst~, come here." You quietly called out for him to get to your side.

"What is it?" He replied, but instead of giving him an answer you gently grabbed him by his chin with one hand and with the other you applied black lipstick to his lips.

"Hm. Yeah I guess this one will work." You murmured to yourself. "We'll grab five of these and then we'll look at the eyeshadows here." You announced, though it was still mostly a note to yourself. You put the five lipsticks to the basket and turned around to go to the alley with eyeshadows.

You didn't notice that your body grew weaker after a few hours of walking, not until you turned around way too fast and almost fell on a shelf because you started to feel dizzy, if it wasn't for mystery catching you it would be over for you.

"Nae sarang, be careful." He said, keeping you steady with his arm wrapped around your waist.

You looked up at him and blinked a few times until your vision was back to normal. "Ah, sorry Mysty, I think I overdid myself today haha." You leaned your forehead against his shoulder.

Your exhaustion gotten back to you, your legs felt unsteady and your mind was still dizzy from all that walking.

"Oh, come with me." Mystery said suddenly.

"Hm?"

He didn't answer, which wasn't that surprising, he had a tendency to speak only in short sentences or not speak at all unless he had to. That's why he got the name he has, you supposed.

"Here." He said and guided you to sit down on a fluffy seat in the corner of the store.

"But what about our shopping? I can't do it if I sit here." You said and tugged on the fabric of his blazer.

"You said that you wanted all of us to have dark purple eye shadow right?" He asked and you nodded in answer. "I will get you dark purple eye shadow, so just rest. Please."

You sighed. You couldn't fight him when his voice was so soft and calming. "Okay, just mind the prices." You replied after pondering on the idea for a second.

Baby

words [ 493 ]

"Baby I told you that I'm fine." You groaned when your beloved demonic boyfriend sat you down on the sofa.

You just came back from the aquarium and even with how fun it was, it involved a lot of walking and standing and with your condition it was a very challenging activity to go through.

So now, after returning home, your boyfriend who just a moment ago was chasing fish and begging you to let him feed one, now was forcing you to sit down.

"Nuh uh, we've been walking for two hours." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, well I won't always end up fainting."

"You felt dizzy, idiot." He poked your forehead and sat down on the sofa next to you. "And besides, you promised me that you'd watch a movie with me."

"Ugh, I did?"

"Yup, you said that you would if I did a solo cover os Soda Pop and upload it, I did." He said with a grimace of his face at the mention of singing Soda Pop alone.

You chuckled. "Ah right, that. Alright. Let me go grab something to snack on then and we can-" You couldn't even stand up because Baby pushed you back down onto the sofa.

"No, no, no. You sit, I grab snacks."

And like that he went to the kitchen, you rolled your eyes and only shouted to him to bring you your favourite snack and grabbed the remote.

While you were scrolling through the streaming service, Baby came back with a tray of snacks and drinks. Most of them were sweets.

"Will you at least be so gracious to share some with me?" You asked, raising an eyebrow, amused by the sight of Baby having to stop himself from eating everything at once.

He turned to look at you. "I guess I can share some, I heard that sugar is good for giving energy or something."

"It is and isn't, but thanks for the thought." You smiled and moved closer to him.

"So what are we watching?' You asked after a while of scrolling through the animation and cartoons category.

"Something about fish." He said and opened a pack of gummy bears.

You giggled. "Oh god, you really are obsessed with fish. Okay then, Finding Nemo it is." You picked the movie and clicked play.

You two watched the movie in silence, until you broke it.

"Hey, Baby?"

"Hm? What's up Yeobo?" He asked, his eyes not moving from the TV screen.

"Thanks for looking out for me. it means a lot, even if I'm not the best at showing it." You said, fidgeting with your soda can.

He turned away from the screen, looking at you with slightly parted lips. "Oh, um, yeah no problem. I'm just trying to stop ya from fainting, y'know." He mumbled and looked back at the TV, though you saw that blush on his cheeks even if he tried to hide it.

Second Kpop Demon Hunters work done!

Wahh these stupid guys excite me >w< but I would love some Huntr/x asks too ;)

See you soon my KDH readers I gotta feed my other readers too <3

(play Killer Chat!, gluttony gods or seraphim slum if you're interested in the other stories I post here <3)

Nathan

[darlingdream1010]

(Dpxdc)

When Danny was younger, his favorite line from a movie had been, “With great power comes great responsibility.” It felt like being in on an inside joke whenever somebody would quote it. It made the character’s journey to making the right choices with his powers even more meaningful. And above all else, the line was cool. Because that’s all that matters when you’re a kid.

Or at least, that should have been all Danny had to worry about.

-

“Welcome to Bat Burger, what would you like to order?”

Jason frowned up at the employee, whose tone was dry as bone. Icy blue eyes gazed apathetically at him from underneath black bangs.

“Jaybird, order. Wounds don’t heal themselves, I have to feed this engine,” Dick said, patting his stomach behind Jason.

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve survived on less.”

“And I don’t want to again. Two bat classics and one Joker-fries to share?” Dick called up to the window, climbing over Jason’s back to get within hearing distance.

The person nodded and slammed the window closed before Jason could rescind Dick’s order.

He whipped around, glaring at his older brother. “I’m not taking you for midnight runs again.”

Dick just patted Jason and laughed. Maybe he didn’t take him seriously because that’s what he’d been saying the past five midnight Bat Burger runs.

The window slid open again. “Move up.”

“Tha—“

The slam of the window cut Dick off.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Jason couldn’t help smirking at that. He lazily pushed them forward with the engine, cruising forward just in time for his bag to be thrust unceremoniously out of the window.

He grabbed it before their grumpy patron could think to just drop it on him. Dick snatched his burger and cradled the fries to his chest. Jason steered them over to the parking lot and jammed his kickstand down.

Dick leaned over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Here?

Jason shrugged. It was nice outside tonight. Dark, tranquil and silent. He liked the whistle of the wind and the rustle of the vines—

“JASON!” Dick shouted.

Jason was off the bike in half a second, hands on his holsters. Dick had pulled out his escrima sticks and was stinging massive torrent of vines whipping toward them. Jason groaned.

Of course somebody had to ruin his night just as he was beginning to enjoy it. He ran his hands along his belt, considering what would be best to fight the rabid plants in front of him.

Just as he pulled out his lighter and a trusty can of wasp killer, an angry male voice called out from across the parking lot.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Both Jason and Dick turned around instinctively at the voice. It was the employee from before. Dick glanced back at Jason. He nodded, and they both ran for the citizen.

“Get out of here! Run!” Dick shouted.

“Your scrawny ass isn’t a hero for coming out here!” Jason shouted.

The staff member ignored them, stalking toward the vines with a stormy expression. Dick jumped to the side, striking one of them. Jason was pretty sure he heard him say “bad dog.”

He raised the wasp killer to help his brother, glancing over at the employee. “You should really get out of the way.”

He didn’t listen, stepping into the arena of vines. Instead, the young staff member raised his voice and shouted:

“Don’t tell me what to do—YOU DIDN’T PAY!”

Jason saw Dick jerk in surprise, opening his side up completely to the plant. Before Jason could step in, the citizen lunged forward and wrestled the vine out of the air, then tore it out of the cracks in the road like it was one behemoth of a weed.

Huffing and puffing, the red-faced citizen(?) faced them, hands now braced on his knees. “I’m sorry about-“ they wheezed in another breath, “I-I’m sorry about that, it was my fault you didn’t pay. I forgot to ask for your card,” the young man apologized.

“Forget the money, what did you just do?” Jason demanded. The mass of vines was completely uprooted and just laying there, twitching with its final ounces of life.

“Sir, I know you and your friend are vigilantes and you do a great service, but this is my job…”

“I said what did you just do? With that vine!” Jason demanded again, but Dick stopped him with a hand.

He passed the man two twenties. “Will that be enough?”

The man smiled gratefully. “Thanks. I’m Danny, by the way. Sorry about the confusion again.”

“No…need,” Dick said uncertainly, watching Danny hoist the entire tangle of vines over his shoulder. He did it while wincing, but the point stood that he could do it.

Danny waved them goodbye and strolled off toward the Bat Burger dumpster.

Jason turned to Dick, who shook his head tiredly. “No. We’re not asking questions. I’m going back to my city, you’re going back to your alley, and B—actually, probably Tim—will figure it out like the big boy heroes they are.”

Jason sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Sure, man.”

[magicalmatcha]

now playing ♪ adult diversion by alvvays

"you wont let anyone out and keep a padlock on your door"

cw: n/a (?)

“But I want ice creeeaaam!” Yume whined, her voice reaching that glass-shattering pitch only small, determined children can summon.

Yn didn’t even flinch. She kept slicing cucumber with mechanical precision, the thud of the knife against the cutting board steady and unbothered. “You can have ice cream after dinner,” she said coolly. “Which means after your uncle brings the salmon. Which means—”

“I have to wait,” Yume groaned, flopping dramatically onto the kitchen floor like a Victorian widow. Her penguin was already lying face-down beside her, clearly also a victim of this injustice. "But I want ice cream nowwww!"

Yn shrugged, “We don’t always get what we want, Yume.” Her tone was calm, but firm—the kind of line every mother earns the right to deliver with weary authority. She turned around to find her daughter still sprawled on the kitchen floor like a tiny protester staging a sit-in.

“You want to help Mama?” she asked, crouching slightly as she opened the fridge. “Maki needs her medication and water. Think you can be in charge of that?”

Yume perked up immediately, the glimmer of purpose replacing the earlier betrayal. “Like a nurse?” she asked, already inching toward her feet.

“Exactly like a nurse,” Yn said, pulling out the water pitcher and grabbing a plastic cup, the kind that wouldn’t break if (when) it hit the floor. She poured it three-quarters full and handed it over carefully. “Big responsibility. Don’t spill it or Maki might explode.”

“She might explode?” Yume gasped, gripping the cup like it held state secrets.

“Terrible side effect,” Yn deadpanned, nudging her daughter gently toward the hallway. “Now go save her.”

Yume took off with her penguin tucked under one arm and the water in both hands, her tiny footsteps echoing through the apartment.

Yn leaned against the counter, sighing to herself as she picked the knife back up. “Should’ve been an actress,” she muttered.

The jingle of keys at the door snapped Yn’s attention away from the cucumber she was slicing.

Yuuta burst in a moment later, grocery bags in both hands, looking like he’d just escaped a hostage situation. His hair was a little damp from the drizzle outside, and his expression teetered between panic and mild existential dread.

“You good?” Yn asked, brows furrowed as she watched him kick off his shoes with a little too much force and march to the counter like the groceries were evidence he needed to get rid of.

He dropped the bags with a dramatic thud, exhaling sharply like he’d just finished a marathon. “No,” he said. “And don't be mad at me when I tell you this because this literally couldn't be my fault in any way shape or form."

Yn narrowed her eyes, already skeptical. She walked over to the grocery bags, "Sounds like it's your fault."

“It’s not, I swear.” Yuuta held up his hands in surrender. “But you won’t believe who I saw outside.”

Yn gasped. “Grammy winner Megan Thee Stallion.”

He blinked. “I—no. Fushiguro.”

Her expression fell flat. “You’re kidding.”

“You wish,” he muttered, starting to unpack the groceries like it would make the moment less cursed. “And I know we, like, hate him or whatever, but he saw me. And came up to talk. So what was I supposed to do? Not talk back?”

“Yes,” Yn deadpanned.

“Well, I didn’t do that,” he admitted, sheepish.

“How’d that go?” she asked, already bracing herself as she dug through the bags.

Yuuta scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, so again, not my fault, but we were talking, just, like, basic catching up, and… I may have accidentally let it slip that I was bringing these groceries to you.”

Yn’s head snapped up, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Yuuta!”

“I know!” he groaned, running both hands down his face. “And it didn’t hit me until after I got off the elevator that I might’ve just led him to your exact floor. Like breadcrumbs.”

“Damn it,” Yn muttered, dragging a hand down her face. Her pulse spiked, mouth dry with dread.

Yuuta winced. “Sorry. But like… this might be a sign.”

Before Yn could respond, a knock echoed through the apartment. Sharp. Intentional.

Both of their heads whipped toward the door like startled animals. Then, slowly, in unison, they turned back to look at each other.

“He wouldn’t,” Yuuta whispered, eyes wide.

“He would,” Yn groaned, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.

She smoothed down her top with trembling hands, brushing the crease from her sleeve like it mattered. “Keep Yume in Maki’s room,” she muttered over her shoulder.

Yuuta nodded solemnly, already gathering the toys Yume had scattered on the living room rug. “Good luck,” he whispered.

Yn took a deep breath and opened the door.

Megumi stood there.

A little damp from the drizzle, curls clinging to his forehead, collar of his jacket slightly askew like he’d been running his hands through his hair. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, those deep blue eyes, were loud. Loud with confusion, longing, guilt, desperation.

He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days and had finally found the thing keeping him awake.

“Hi,” he said, quiet, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Yn didn’t speak at first. She just looked at him, really looked at him. This wasn’t the boy who kissed her wrists in the dark. This was a man with a vintage porsche and a Spotify profile, standing on her doorstep like the last five years hadn’t passed.

“What do you want, Megumi?” she asked, voice calm. Too calm.

He hesitated. “I… I just wanted to talk.”

Yn leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“I know. I know it is.” His voice cracked slightly. “I didn’t know you were still here. I didn’t know anything.”

“No,” she corrected sharply, “you didn’t ask anything.”

He winced.

Behind her, somewhere down the hall, the low hum of a cartoon played from Maki’s room. A child’s giggle followed. She saw Megumi glance past her shoulder, subtle, but not subtle enough.

Yn stepped forward, forcing his eyes back to hers. “You’re not coming in.”

“I just… I just need to know,” he said. “I saw her. At the restaurant. I heard her say she was four. And then your text message—"

“And?” Yn raised an eyebrow, daring him.

“And I need to know if—” he stopped himself, jaw clenched. “I just need the truth. All of it."

Yn’s expression didn’t flicker. “You should go.”

Silence stretched long between them.

Then, finally, she spoke, quiet, cool, devastating. “I built a life without you. Don’t try to retroactively insert yourself into it.”

She started to close the door.

“Yn,wait,” Megumi said quickly, stepping forward. “Just, please. One conversation. That’s all I’m asking.”

She paused.

Then opened the door a little wider. Just a crack.

“Tomorrow,” she said, tone firm. “Meet me at Blue Salt at noon.”

And then she shut the door

extra extra read all about it! (no seriously read it)

I'm not proofreading that or I'm never posting this chapter

I realized Yn can't be five years fully. Given the timeline so she's just five years sober off heroin

I rewrote this chapter like five times bc I couldn't figure out how I wanted it to flow. That whole lock screen has been changed 6 separate times.

Maki is still sick (it's only been a day since the last chapter) but she might be milking it at this point

Yuuta has a key because sometimes he babysit Yume while Yn is at work (and since Maki is sick that's what he was going to do today)

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[touchofhemlocktea]

Hope on a Foggy Night

Clawing screaming breaking bleeding fingers choking mud loud quiet screaming pain horn...

Jason

Dad abandoned why help hurts ticking clock hurt hurt hurt...

JASON!

Danny doesn't bother dodging the fist that flies at his face. It's easy enough to phase for the moments it takes the young Revenant to become aware of his surroundings. He holds him through the tears and unnecessary apologies. He pulses safety, protectiveness, MINE from his core.

The rest-diner (oh, you silly thing..), has moved again. He can feel the familiar pulse of curses and greetings. Gotham then. They always seemed to end up back in Gotham.

Jason is getting up, heading to get ready for the night ahead. Jason needs to run the kitchen today. Dennis and Danny will swap back and forth, running the counter.

....

It's a busy night. Ecto-hungry liminals wonder in and out, some restless spirits aided in crossing over. They never questioned the suddenly appearing diner. The news is average, but there's a tension in the liminals that's unmistakable. They are afraid of something.

No special orders yet.

....

Danny...

Dennis calls through the comm, from the (now existing) back entrance.

So that's why they needed to switch out early. A child and an injured Bill have been brought inside the backroom. The child is using an impressively extensive med kit to treat the unconscious henchman.

Hello?...What's your name child?

T-Tim. My name is Tim Drake.

Let me take care of that. Sit over here and drink this. They'll bring your food out shortly.

I didn't order...

Just relax. You've done enough. You're safe here.

Tim is quiet, half passed out, as Danny checks Bill over. The leg is the worst part, thoroughly splinted. There's a concerning head wound, but he'll live. A quick duplicate takes him out to get him back to the safety of the Goonien.

The kid eats his meal almost in silence, tears dripping down his face as the stress of the last months falls away. Danny leaves him in peace to finish the evening rush.

....

The kitchen kicks him out for Dennis. Jason doesn't like being in Gotham. Even with the diners comfortable energy, he's left restless and itching with a hunger he doesn't want to acknowledge. His blood calls out to hunt and repay.

He wonders if it'll ever go away.

With no customers to see to, restless legs have him pacing to the back...

Hey kid, you need anything?

Robin...? That's not possible. You're...

Dead? I got better.

Jason does not panic as the kid fully breaks down into sobbing. He is not lost as the kid (Tim, his name is Tim) clings to him like a constrictor, everything pouring out.

Tim, I-I can't come back.

B-but Batman needs-

I'll come back eventually, maybe. I'm not ready. What Batman does isn't your responsibility.

But-

No. If you must-

Jason hesitates. Dick wasn't exactly a warm presence to him, but if anyone could set Batman straight...

If you must do something-

The names, addresses, and numbers come back to him easily. Written in a shaky hand for a slowly brightening child.

Start with Barbie and Gordon. They'll take care of you if you insist on helping. Talk to Dickie-bird. If anyone can set the Bat straight, it's him....and little bird? Don't tell anyone you saw me. I'm not ready yet.

...

Danny sends a dupe to escort the kid home eventually. A part of Jason wants to keep him with them, but the diner itself disagrees.

They feel the shift as the Diner begins to drift again, onwards to wherever they are needed.

...

Perhaps Jason will leave the diner behind someday and let the hunt take him. Perhaps.

That day is not today.

Another DPxDC idea.

I love the ideas of Chef Danny and the AU's but what if Danny opens a small dinner/restaurant and sometimes people stop by for a quick bite but the thing is there is little to no real menu. Danny just comes out when he hears his doors open, greets them warmly, takes them to their table and asks for drinks gets them, before heading into the kitchen.

At first everyone is confused until a few minutes later Danny shows back up with food, food that is amazing and freshly made and HOW DOES IT TASTE LIKE MY -Insert childhood fav meal or preferred fav meal here- ?!?!?!

Danny's small place is at first very unknown but eventually blows up as a urban myth and when people try to find it, its very hard to find. Some people swear its outside of 'this' town, others say they found the place in 'this' city, others find it on long car rides in the middle of nowhere.

It changes location.

The only common real clues is you find it on foggy nights and the neon sign shining 'OPEN' is seen through the fog.

[sevsevteen]

tw: implied harassment (non-graphic)

--

The ride back to the dorm was quiet.

Too quiet for someone who should’ve been excited - new solo lines, progress on the album, another step forward into Seventeen's dream. You clutched your bag tighter in the van’s back seat, headphones on, but nothing playing. Your fingers were trembling slightly.

Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe you imagined the pause… the way his hand lingered when it 'accidentally' touched your thighs. The way he leaned too close. The way his fingers brushed your ear to tuck a loose strand behind.

Your mind repeated the scene again and again like a glitching loop. Each time you tried to rewrite it. Minimize it. Fix it so it felt less wrong.

He was a senior producer. Respected in the industry. “Famous for mentoring rookies.” The company even called you lucky to get private time with him. And he smiled the whole time - you didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

And yet.

Your stomach had dropped when you saw him reaching for you again, that low voice saying, “You’re tense. You should learn to relax more. You’d be even prettier if you smiled.”

You don’t even remember what you said in response. Just that you left as fast as you could without running right after recording ended.

.

When you entered the dorm, the usual buzz of voices and background music filled your ears - a contrast to the quiet storm inside your chest.

“You’re back,” Dino called from the couch.

“You hungry?” Mingyu offered, walking past with a bowl of ramyeon.

“Recording go okay? Sorry I couldn't be there.” Woozi asked gently, spinning around from the couch.

You nodded, voice too soft. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But the members knew something was off. You didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Your smile was plastic - the kind the members always spotted fake, no matter how convincing it looked.

Joshua noticed it first, sitting up straighter. Then Seungcheol exchanged a look with Jeonghan, the unspoken message clear between them. Something had happened.

You retreated to your room quickly. Too quickly.

A few minutes passed before a knock sounded softly at the door.

“Can I come in?” It was Cheol.

You hummed.

He stepped in, careful, calm, like approaching a skittish animal - not because you were fragile, but because he respected your silence.

He didn’t ask anything at first. Just sat down beside you on the bed, waiting.

You folded in on yourself slowly, picking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “It was fine. The recording.”

Seungcheol nodded.

“But?” he said gently.

You hesitated. Then your voice cracked - barely audible. “It felt weird.”

His jaw tightened. “Weird, how?”

Your throat worked. “He… touched my hair. Said it was in my face. Then his hand bumped into my thighs, but didn’t really move away. It-" You had to take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m just making it up.”

“You’re not,” Seungcheol said instantly.

Your eyes welled. “But what if I misunderstood?”

He shook his head. “Even if it wasn’t intentional - the moment it made you uncomfortable, it mattered.”

Your tears broke free at that. No one had said that to your before. Not the staff, not the manager on the phone, not even yourself. Not until now.

“I didn’t know how to react,” you whispered.

“You don’t need to. Not alone.” Seungcheol looked at you firmly. “We’ll talk to the company. You’re not doing another solo session with him, ever.”

The next thing you knew, you were surrounded - Jun slipping in quietly to sit beside your other side, Seungkwan sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Dino leaned on the doorframe, eyes watery but jaw set like steel.

They didn’t bombard you with questions.

They just stayed.

Until the heaviness in your chest started to lift - not because the incident was gone, but because now… you weren’t alone in holding it.

--

[jinusajas]

06/26/25; 10:45am

jinu saja x fem.reader

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

{ baby, i’d give up anything to travel inside your mind | baby, i fall in love again come every summertime | my daddy taught me to choose 'em wisely, but you don't have to try | ‘cause, baby, i fall in love every summertime }

thinking about spending a hot summer morning lazing around in bed with jinu. the air conditioning would be on at full blast as your limbs remained tangled with jinu’s as evident from your escapades the night before.

his hands would gently trail down the length of your body, pressing your bare back closer to his naked chest while peppering butterfly kisses across your skin. you would lazily smile in your sleep, not quite waking up as you allowed your demon lover to explore the expanse of your body.

his touches start out innocent enough-

with him placing a lingering kiss at the back of your neck-

hands caressing at your skin, almost reverently, before moving to the front of your chest. goosebumps would erupt in the wake of his lingering touches, and your breathing would hitch when he manages to cup at your sensitive sex. the palm of his hand would explore the slight dampness of your heat before tracing at your outer lips.

upon feeling his fingertips entering your slick walls, your eyes flutter open, pressing yourself even further into his chest while allowing jinu to continue his ministrations on you. upon feeling your honeyed arousal staining at his fingertips, he would let out a pleased grunt of your name-

spreading your legs even further for him when he removes his digits from you before slotting his cock between the fat of your thighs. letting out a soft keen when he manages to stroke himself back to full hardness with the help of your center, you braced yourself against the pillows as he slowly sheathes himself within your walls.

he groaned, the sound low in his throat as your slick folds parted around the swollen head of his cock, drawing him in inch by torturous inch. your scorching heat engulfed him like a velvet vice, threatening to push him over the edge instantly. hiding his face within the back of your shoulder, he sets a brutal pace, driving into you over and over again-

using so much force that it makes the headboard of your bed bounce in tune to his movements.

the sensation of his cock constantly pushing into you, impaling you over and over again, was almost too much to bear as you cried out to him. your moans echo throughout the room as jinu lets out a low hiss in response, feeling his balls tighten with the need to shoot his seed within your depths.

with just a few more desperate thrusts, jinu pushes his cock deeper inside of you, feeling your walls fluttering around him as you milked his dick for all he was worth, spilling your juices all over his cock just as he fills you to the brim with his seed.

entirely spent by the end of it, jinu removes his softening cock out of your heat, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple before bringing your body closer to his chest. and when the pleasure still lingered even as your eyes became heavy with sleep-

you found yourself dreaming of children that had his eyes and shared your smile, giggling while running through a field of flowers.

end notes: it’s not funny how deeply in love i am with jinu

(;﹏;)

i wrote this in 30 minutes, so it’s nothing too special, but still i wanted to thank you readers for helping me get to 3.5k+ followers 🥹 ♡ there will be more jinu (and saja boys!) stories to come !

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[korilakkumauowo]

﹒ ⁺ 𖧧 𝑆acrificial 𝑙amb

❰❰ 💬 being held hostage, established relationship. @ 𝑋 — unspecified civilian/vigilante gn! reader, established relationship, mild mentions of kidnapping, not proofread, no beta only alphas. No Bruce (who even dares) & + Duke's part is here. @ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 — 2k+

— richard dick g. He takes it into consideration that despite being under Batman’s roof, he refuses to live behind Bruce’s shadow. He is relentless; following through the glimpses of the suspect, he is talking through the comms and—with his influence—he directs the others into orders. Oracle sends him intels, he wastes no time and gathers them.He controls the streets steadfastly, a keen eye out on the run and passing through buildings to another.

He can’t help but put the blame to himself, the panic in him weighs over the love he holds for you. He goes through with the dilemma—holding onto the hope. He is quick to snap back into focus, he can’t afford to let dread trample over him; he still has yet to find you. He uses his sense of sentiment into a command of strength—because that is what makes him formidable and powerful; his emotions are significant in his vitality. You give him the courage and fortitude. You always do.

Even from a vigilante himself, he had learned stuff out with whatever life could throw at him—shouldering the emotional burden for now is the least he can do. He thinks of possibilities, of outcomes, and of what-if’s, but even then, his mind cannot rest until you are back in his arms.

He doesn’t cross lines like Jason may do, but he can be pressed through the edge of mercy when time runs out. He takes things steadfastly, efficiently, and his sense of morals are out of the window the moment anything happens to you—if harm is to be done, then by then God forbid what may be coming for the opposer.

He lands quick on his feet and immediately ambushes the men—because that is just how he can be in the moment. Quick, agile, and swift, desperate to have you back—there is no forewarning, no message. The very moment they had taken you at will would have already been their caution of what’s to come; that it would be the last risk they can take.

Just as quick as he took them down altogether, he was right by your side the instant. He kisses you fervently as he sets you free, hands finding yours and he holds you close—pouring out his regrets and sorrys, and he is kissing you like he is handling a tender heart of his.

“I’m right here,” He hushed, “I’m sorry—So sorry—I’m never letting you out my sight.” He leans down, tenderly layering pecks after kisses on your cheek, and greedily breathes you in.

He might withdraw himself, out of pure regrets for getting you into such trouble, but with a bit of your love, give him the consciousness to keep himself grounded with you all over again; He was versatile in every sense of way—he’s even more versatile with every sense of love you can give to him, with every new way you can show to him or with every usual habit that’s convenient to him, he can’t get enough and he wants everything you can give.

You have nothing to worry about whether the heavyweight of the love he carries starts to feel like an obligation—because he can gladly be responsible for it.

— jason peter t. He had always known survival the moment he was found; Bruce saw potential, the fierceness in the heart that he had always known to be refined. Jason in all his life is not a polished warrior from the start, he was scathed out in the open and learned to close them off for no one to see. He had his moments where his heart was on his sleeves, happy and carefree, despite it all, he still had known and saw the treacherous sides of life.

He had learned a lot throughout every high and the low, and he knows every consequence coming will always be a lesson; he has seen himself in the highgrounds, close to the fall.

He knows what happens when you lose somebody, it is an impending doom that he retaliates to every single time—because he’s not letting that happen, he’s not letting that get close to you. He had cheated death before—came to life with a new profound purpose for himself, and he hadn’t known it was coming when he found out there was another depth in his heart that was only for you to fall into.

In the depths of it, there is anxiety beneath the fury—his heart feels like it’s weighing him down and they are calling out for you in each and every beat, it is trembling despite the muscles in him holding himself up.

To see the love of his life before him as a pawn in somebody else’s hands is enough for his lethal hands to immediately fist into one of a guarded stance; he is not letting that happen. He is guilt-ridden, but the natural air of storm in him is uncontrollable; it always has been. He goes straight to dig up intel, clues, any possible connections that could lead to you. He does it by himself—he doesn’t trust the system, he doesn’t wait for backup, and he is willing to clear the entire corners of Gotham to find you. When someone slows him down—he drops them.

He’s just above breaking a few flesh and bones every now then for you, he’ll do countless methods that may vary; He’ll hang them over a 3ft building balcony, let them think he’ll shoot straight at the heart—“This bullet isn’t for the wall.” But he’s not killing outright unless he has every right to—though he might just be close to the trigger when harm comes to you—the focus here is to get you to him as soon as possible. Paranoia overcomes him and it ticks his trigger off, one wrong move from them might just be a close call for death.

He considers every second closer to the call, he does not waste time.

He is as quick as a speeding bullet when he drives through the secluded alleyways of Gotham’s streets with his bike, swift and going past through the limits. He does not waste time. He uses the environment to his defenses like a weapon itself, he corners the men face-to-face.

It’s not a minute or two before they’re all laying heavy on the blooded ground, and his berated fist relaxes as he finally gets ahold of you. Breathy, eyes scrutinizing you with attentiveness as he holds you so close. “Fuck, ‘m sorry, doll.”—he unbinds you himself with such gentleness that you never would’ve believed he had been the one to knock out a gang of men with such cruelty and lack of mercy. But you do, you have seen it with your own eyes, and you are not afraid—because you know he had done that all for the sake of you. The scars in his skin don’t compare to the scar in his heart of the thought of ever losing you.

And he is right there again by your side, ready to protect you just all over again. He is guilt-ridden and apologies slip out every now and then no matter how many times you reassure him, and he clings onto you the whole night now that you’re back.

— timothy tim d. He’s the first to notice your unusual silence.

He may not always be all up on your face like usually, but he is constantly checking in on you every second—and it really never fails to keep him back on track when he feels relieved and assured. He is lithe in his suit, immediately going through the Batcave.

He doesn't ever let his mind rest, and this just accumulated more-so of that very fact. He can’t risk it. He has you to keep, needing you in every sense of way. Because Tim, even from his perspective as a busy man—a teenage CEO-to-be, a prodigy genius, the vigilante Red Robin, with the media throwing questions at him—you bring out the inner sense of his sense of belonging. With you, there is no other way but to feel the spontaneous feeling of sentimental young love; with you he is free, with you he is utterly himself.

No caffeine, or the fizzy can drinks, or the trickery puzzle that stimulates his mind is likely to make him feel this close to the dopamine-boosting feel of love, that’s what everyone else says.

And he can’t afford to lose that—the rational fear in him is ticking and it just further stirs his thoughts further into a rollercoaster of possibilities. His heart nearly drops and the world just narrows into white noise in his point of view, there is nothing worth more than to get you back in each other’s embrace; securing your place of where you are both meant to be.

He searches through all the networks Gotham can give—in every camera feeds in the streets, traffic cams, facial-rec software, and the security grids—he is giving off terse instructions to Oracle and Nightwing, there are holograms on the screen infront of him and he scrutinizes each one. Despite the weight in his heart, his pursuit remains steady.

He studies the captors, he lets them think they can have a second long in what they’re doing. He’s already predicting their motives and moves. And he’s already out in the open of the night, knowing where you are. He follows through what the mind tells him—remembering every detail—and it’s not for long to see and catch a glimpse of you.

His body goes rigid and the ferocious turbulence that he’d been trying to keep strained in is immediately out the bat, he is mentally and already physically prompt and set on autopilot as he’s straight away throwing himself at the Captor and he counter attacks—but his mind is well intact, he knows what he's doing, he knows where and when to throw the punch at the suited fit, the efficiency of his strikes are far more brutal than the usual; And he’s thinking of how many more hits he can land, it’ll take up for how many minutes they held you at will.

⸻

“I’m here—it’s okay, it’s okay.” He takes your side into consideration—you must’ve been frightened. He is soothing you with the beat of his heart, a hand holding onto the back of your head as he clasps you whole. He is still rigid, the relief is there to sober him but the rational fear will be taunting him.

And when you are calm, he looks down at you with such fondness, and leans to kiss you like there is no other will to live in him left—like you are the very reason his heart still beats and his muscles still stand to keep him up.

— damian w. His temper had already been one to not tamper with, but he had always been trying to keep it under control, lately, for you. He’s not a violent dog like everyone else can perceive him to be, he is just alert, guarded and heedful, a sense of cautiousness in his subconscious self, a boy who had to crawl his way out of the horrors of death that he did not want to be apart of—blinded by the strict honor of discipline.

Though his title—as The Robin, Batman’s blood son, along with the Demon head’s inheritance—is enough to be a warning in anyone’s blind eye; His title and deeds does not define him completely. He is Damian Wayne, he who learned love through his vulnerabilities—through his new profound family. In his best, through you.

Who is undoubtedly dense enough to go after his beloved? Certainly someone who completely has no sense of security for themself.

He’s quick on his feet the moment he hears of your disappearance, there is no word said. He is suddenly out of the Batcave and looming over the dark, and abandoned warehouse—as if it didn’t look any more suspicious enough—there are men outside guarding the gates and he is seething as he looks down upon them.

Suddenly, they didn’t look human to him. They weren’t lives in his eyes. They were just numbers, a bunch of numbers that he can subtract out of the scale—because now they weren’t important, now he felt like honoring the Al Ghul in his blood—the long way of dignity is relished away.

It’s not long before he lunges past each and every embodiment of a man’s body, there are no flesh and bones that he distinguishes as anything but worthless of one’s womb. They can fight for survival if they wish, but they cannot outlive a massacre out of a wounded soldier’s undignified wrath. He sees nothing but red, blood on his hands and the color of ire indignation, and every weapon of sorts is thrown at everything at once.

Batman stands away and heads past the gates, and he knows it is better not to hold him back in a state like this.

As a kid, Damian had been trained ruthlessly—with the tendency for emotional suppression paired along with mental conditioning—finally being able to feel the love that anybody deserves and learning to live with it, can get you in troubled situations that may defy logical rules when you are desperate to keep it; Damian is no better, and Bruce knows that. He lets him, he still has a lot to learn.

The long silence inside is eerie, and you grunt in frustration—strapped to a cranky chair that you no doubt is about to collapse a second longer—You do not fret. Damian always finds you.

It’s not long before the commotion right outside is to be heard, and you could almost trample over yourself out of pure relief. 

⸻

You stand infront of him, hands free and mouth curved into a smile. “Hayati, I’m here. They are gone.” He whispered, quiet and hushed in the night as he held you closely and firmly. You are back in his arms again. He lets himself relax, breathing in your scent.

With a dose of your love, it sets his heart for more. In exchange, with droplets of red that runs down his leather gloves—the intensity of his fury burns his skin and his suit is suddenly all too impermeable and infuriatingly humid, and the massacre is awaiting outside, yet you calm it all with a graze of your touch to his cheek.

if u guys read tpw did you guys catch the TPW fang runin reference i sneaked in hehe plz say yes.. REQUESTS OPEN pleasseee request i BEG best regards all rights reserved. ©𝐤𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐤𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐮𝐨𝐰𝐨

[pettyartist]

I used to work at a popular pet chain as an aquatic specialist and a couple examples of the above "My fish are sick/dying after I cleaned their tank" troubleshooting answers ended up being (but not limited to): - Added water of the wrong temperature back into the tank - Forgot to add water conditioner - Replaced too much/ALL of the water - Used soap to clear decor/glass - Disturbed a pocket of condensed waste under the substrate, releasing a sudden concentration of ammonia and other stuff into the water - The aforementioned "I cleaned EVERYTHING by replacing it all!" - Water being changed too frequently (causing the nitrogen cycle to continuously reboot) - Moved to a new area and the water hardness/chemistry is different from the tap/rain Fish are not "easy" pets, they should not be treated with the idea that they're "just fish" and therefore you just replace them as they die or flush them/throw them outside in a nearby body of water when you're bored of them. When you have fish you are responsible for their ENTIRE ecosystem- what they breathe, what they can shelter in, the flow of their water, who they interact with, etc. They can't clean up after themselves, they can't run away from tankmates, they don't chose the amount of space they get to live in-- keeping a fish in too small of an aquarium is like keeping a kitten in a shoebox and slowly removing the air from it. That being said, if you do your research and do right by the animal, getting the proper supplies, doing the setup, being PATIENT (that's a big one since sometimes you can't even add fish to your tank for a while until the cycle stabilizes!), fishkeeping is an INCREDIBLY rewarding hobby! I loved the chemistry behind it, I loved watching my fish be enriched by what I put in their space or how I fed them, I loved going to well-kept fish stores or finding the perfect fish for my tank and building a whole habitat JUST for them! (and don't get me started on how fun aquascaping a tank is!) People don't have to be scared of keeping fish, but they also shouldn't go in thinking they don't have to know anything at any point in the process.

Anyway, have a photo of my old fish tank before I successfully and lovingly rehomed everyone before I moved! <3

One scentence horror story, aquarium version:

"My fish are acting sick after I deep cleaned their tank and I don't know why."