#talking to nothing and imagining a response

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 35: October 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The first time Galahad was led out of his mother’s stall alone, Belle cried.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. The kind of tears that surprised even her — warm and sudden and absolutely uninvited.

She stood just outside the barn, arms folded over the top rail of the paddock fence, watching as the stablehand gently led Galahad toward the adjacent enclosure. The foal pranced a little, all long legs and indignation, ears flicking in every direction as he let out a confused, reedy whinny.

“God,” Belle whispered, swiping at her cheek. “This is awful.”

Behind her, Max paused with two bottles of water hand and the unmistakable look of a man deeply unsure how to proceed.

“…You okay?” he asked, cautiously.

Belle sniffled. “He’s so small.”

“He’s the size of a sofa.”

“Emotionally, Max.”

Max came to lean beside her, handing her the water. “They said it’s a gentle wean. He’s already eating hay. It’s time.”

“I know it’s time,” she said, taking a sip. “I’m not arguing with biology. I just—he’s confused. Look at him. He doesn’t know where his mum went.”

Max squinted. “He looks like he’s trying to eat his own lead rope.”

“That’s a trauma response.”

“Belle.”

She wiped at her face again. “It’s just… she was so gentle with him. Fleur nudged him whenever he got stuck. She waited for him. And now she’s just back in her stall like—like nothing’s changed.”

Fleur, from her stall, let out a soft exhale and proceeded to dunk her hay in her water bucket like a seasoned professional who had zero emotional attachment to this conversation.

Max followed Belle’s line of sight. “You think she’s heartbroken too?”

“I think she has to be.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you want me to go in there and ask her?”

Belle gave him a flat look. “You’re not funny.”

Max grinned and bumped his shoulder against hers. “A little funny.”

They stood in silence a while longer. Galahad, still pouting, eventually flopped himself dramatically into the sunniest patch of the paddock. Belle sniffled again.

“It’s stupid,” she muttered. “I know it’s normal. I know it’s healthy. I’m just—”

“Wired for attachment,” Max said gently. “And watching someone you love grow up is hard. Even if they’re a four-legged menace who tried to eat your ponytail last week.”

Belle gave a watery laugh.

Max wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “He’ll be okay.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I think part of me just keeps waiting to be sold too.”

Max froze for a second, then held her tighter. No teasing now. Just warmth.

“You won’t be,” he said. “Not ever.”

Belle leaned her head against him, watching as Galahad stretched out and blinked lazily at the sky.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But I’m still going to check on him every hour.”

Max pressed a kiss to her hair. “Of course you are.”

And when they turned to go back inside, Galahad lifted his head and let out the tiniest, most indignant whinny — like he knew.

Belle looked back, teary again.

Max sighed. “He’s manipulating you already.”

“I’m not even mad about it.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: just so you know your best friend cried today like. actual tears.

Emilie: omg what happened?? is she okay??

Max: she’s fine Galahad got weaned he got moved out of fleur’s stall apparently this is emotionally devastating

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 OH MY GOD

Emilie: she loves that horse he’s like her softest secret

Max: he tried to eat a fence she said he was “processing loss”

Emilie: he IS have you ever been weaned?? it’s betrayal with extra hay

Max: please stop i can’t have two of you

Emilie: don’t lie you’d die without us

Max: also she looked me dead in the eye and said “i think she has to be heartbroken too” about fleur the mare who was dunking hay in her water bucket like nothing happened

Emilie: she projects, max. let her project.

Max: i think she meant herself

Emilie: oh.

Emilie: okay. gentle reminder: your wife still has a lot of little versions of herself inside. some of them are scared. some of them remember what it felt like to be left behind.

Max: i know. i told her she’d never be sold.

Emilie: you did good she trusts you even the small versions of her

Max: she’s going to check on the horse every hour

Emilie: duh have you MET her

***

Max had been up before sunrise.

Not for training. Not for the simulator. 

No.

Max had woken early for one reason: to beat every Monaco tabac owner to the punch and buy every copy of the October issue of Architectural Digest that he could find.

By 7:43 a.m., he had five.

He wanted more, but the man behind the counter at the third shop had blinked at the stack in Max’s arms and said, “Monsieur Verstappen, surely… five is enough?” Max had mumbled something about resale value and legacy and fled.

By 8:15, he had also acquired croissants (three kinds), pain au chocolat, two fresh baguettes, and a little paper-wrapped wedge of Belle’s favorite cheese from the bakery that always sold out early.

He walked into the kitchen like he was presenting her with the spoils of a victory parade.

Belle, still in her robe, blinked sleepily over her mug of tea. “What’s all this?”

Max placed the magazines on the counter like precious artifacts. "You're in Architectural Digest, schatje. That’s not a normal Tuesday."

Belle stared. “You bought five copies?”

Max shrugged, unrepentant. “One for us. One for the baby’s memory box. One for my mother. One for the factory. One just to frame. I would’ve bought more but they started asking questions. So I just ordered them online.”

She laughed—soft and stunned and already a little emotional. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m so proud.”

And then, gentler: “You don’t just make houses beautiful. You make them live.”

Belle bit her lip and looked down, suddenly shy. “You read the article?”

Max smiled, already pulling out the jam. “Twice.”

And just like that, the kitchen felt a little fuller—with joy, with pride, with quiet, croissant-scented love.

***

ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST | October 2024 Edition

A Villa That Breathes: Inside the Thoughtful Transformation of Daniel Moreau and Jules Girault’s Provençal Refuge By Laurent Brousset | Photography by Sylvie Hohmann

Nestled on a winding hillside just beyond the edge of Monaco’s old town is a villa that feels like a held breath — slow, serene, and completely alive.

From the outside, the property gives little away: stone shutters, terracotta roof tiles, a fig tree bowing gently toward the sun. But inside, a story unfolds — of time, of tenderness, of architecture that doesn’t erase history, but cradles it.

And at the heart of that story is Belle Verstappen, interior architect and founder of Studio_B.

The Soul of a House

“When we bought it, the bones were beautiful — but tired,” says Jules Girault, who owns the home with his husband, creative executive Daniel Moreau. “We didn’t want to gut it. We wanted someone who could see what it had been and help us understand what it could be.”

Enter Belle Verstappen.

Known for her ability to design with emotional resonance rather than trends, Verstappen took on the project as her first full commission under her own name.

“I walked through the house once and knew,” she says. “This wasn’t a place that needed reinventing. It needed remembering.”

Quiet Luxury, Lived In

From the original tiled floors to the weathered beams overhead, every decision in the villa feels like it came from conversation — not just between client and designer, but between designer and space.

“I don’t like interrupting a house’s rhythm,” Verstappen explains. “I try to listen first. The textures, the light, the way a door creaks when it opens — it tells you what the house wants.”

That listening resulted in a home that whispers instead of shouts.

The plaster walls, finished in mineral-washed hues, shift color with the light. Custom shelves in the living room curve around the restored fireplace, filled with books and hand-thrown ceramics sourced from local artisans. The kitchen retains its original footprint but now hums with intentional design: a deep farmhouse sink set into hand-crafted cabinetry, limewashed walls, antique fixtures with softened patina.

Daniel, ever the aesthete, calls it “a masterclass in restraint.”

“There’s a version of this house that could’ve ended up looking like every other ‘minimalist Mediterranean’ villa,” he says. “But Belle didn’t impose a vision. She revealed one.”

The Courtyard, Reimagined

One of the home’s most striking spaces is the internal courtyard — once neglected, now transformed into what Jules calls “the soft heart of the house.”

“It’s quiet here,” he says. “Lavender, jasmine, the fig tree… it smells like memory.”

Verstappen kept the original stonework and introduced subtle landscaping: rosemary, thyme, and climbing vines that will age as gracefully as the walls themselves.

“It wasn’t about making it new,” she says. “It was about letting it grow.”

A Designer Coming Into Her Own

The villa marks a turning point for Verstappen — not just professionally, but personally.

“This was the first project I signed under my name,” she shares. “No firm. No studio initials. Just me.”

That transition wasn’t without weight.

“There’s a vulnerability in that,” she admits. “But this house gave me the courage. Jules and Daniel gave me the trust. And I think that’s what made the work stronger. It was personal — not just for them, but for me too.”

Designing for Emotion, Not Aesthetic

Verstappen’s work has been described as “emotional architecture” — a term she’s hesitant to claim, but doesn’t reject.

“I think we forget sometimes that homes aren’t just spaces. They hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays,” she says. “My job is to make room for all of that — not just to make it pretty.”

Jules echoes the sentiment. “She didn’t just give us a home. She gave us a future. And somehow, it still feels like it’s always been ours.”

What’s Next?

With her studio growing and a child on the way (“I’ve learned more about fabric durability in the last six months than I thought possible,” she jokes), Verstappen’s approach remains the same: quiet, collaborative, deeply rooted in the human experience.

“Beauty is easy,” she says. “But meaning? That takes work. And it’s the kind of work I love.”

As she walks through the finished villa one last time — running her hand along the smooth curve of an old beam, checking the shadows that dance across a plastered wall — it’s clear:

This isn’t just a space someone lives in.

It’s a space that lives with them.

Photography by Sylvie Hohmann | Styling by Eloise Dervaux To see more from Belle Verstappen and Studio_B, follow @/belleverstappen and  @/studio_b on Instagram or visit studiobdesign.com

***

Instagram Stories: @/maxverstappen1

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1wivesunite I just read the Belle Verstappen AD piece and now I want her to design my house, my life, my nervous system.

@/archiluxe “Not reinventing, but remembering” — I would tattoo this quote from Belle Verstappen’s AD profile if I wasn’t afraid of commitment.

@/softmaxv Belle Verstappen being like “I listen to how a door creaks” and then making a whole home feel like a hug??? she’s not an interior designer she’s a poet

@/formulawags this woman said “homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays” and I have not known peace since. (also Max is 100% her Tuesday.)

@/tinygp can we talk about how Max Verstappen’s WIFE is out here dropping AD-level wisdom while pregnant and making rustic beams look emotionally resonant??? how is this fair

@/verstappenupdates AD: “This was the first project I signed under my name.” Me, sobbing: it’s HER name. HER name. HER studio. HER work. HER life. she really said ✨liberation✨

@/archdigestgirl i am OBSESSED with belle verstappen’s design philosophy like… “it didn’t need reinventing, it needed remembering”??? i’m crying over plaster walls. over limewash. over a giraffe lamp. help.

@/monacoliving when daniel moreau said the house “smells like memory”??? belle made a COURTYARD smell like a backstory. i want to live in her mind.

@/softf1defender Max: aggressive overtakes at 300km/h Belle: emotional architecture that holds grief and joy them: married me: sobbing

@/emotionalwallpaper if belle ever opens a retreat i will walk there barefoot and sleep on a reclaimed linen pouf

@/formulaicon the fact that she signs her projects Belle Verstappen and not Isabelle Leclerc… that’s not just a name. that’s a choice. and it’s saying something loud.

@/thegridwhispers it’s Belle Verstappen in Architectural Digest, not Isabelle Leclerc, and somewhere in Monaco a family group chat is vibrating with unspoken tension

@/gridgossipqueen MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST POSTED: “She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses.” SIR??????? ARE YOU A WORLD CHAMPION OR A POET????

@/chaoticgridwives the way he tagged her work account AND her personal one the way he said “very proud of my wife” like he’s been waiting his whole life to write that the way he wrote “she never misses” and MEANT IT 😭😭😭

@/tiregirlie MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED HIS WIFE’S AD FEATURE AND SAID: "She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses." I AM CRYING IN IKEA

@/helmetedsoftie he said: 🏁 i win races 📐 she builds homes 🍼 we made a baby 👑 and you will deal with it

@/fernvillainera “she sees space the way I see corners” that’s not a compliment that’s a wedding vow

@/formulafloof max verstappen could’ve said “nice job babe” and kept it moving instead he gave us POETRY

@/artdigesttears she didn’t even mention the Leclercs once in the article. not even in the baby joke. not once. it’s all Belle, all Studio_B. she’s not hiding. she’s just her.

@/emiliestandclub "the first project I signed under my name." and the name she used was Belle Verstappen. we’ve left the era of being overlooked. she’s not asking for a seat at the table. she’s designing the table. and the courtyard. and the backsplash.

@/maxxxmode1 Max calling her Belle wasn’t just a pet name. it became her name. and now it’s on the cover of Architectural Digest. tell me that’s not poetry.

@/sogoodithurts her name isn’t “Isabelle Leclerc” in the byline it’s not “Studio Leclerc” it’s not “Leclerc Interiors” it’s Studio_B. Belle Verstappen. she’s no one’s shadow. she is the sun.

@/jardinarchitecture the way Architectural Digest didn’t even feel the need to footnote “née Leclerc”… it’s almost like her work introduced her, not her family. wild.

@/kartingwife calling it now: the Verstappen baby grows up and thinks his mom is more famous than his dad. and honestly? fair.

@/emotionalbabywatch i don’t care what they name the baby. i care that it’s going to be loved so deeply it won’t ever question if it’s enough. and honestly? that’s the real win.

@/turn1drama this child is going to be raised in a home that smells like jasmine, has hand-carved drawer pulls, and hears I love you more times in a day than Jos Verstappen said it in a decade evolution

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Okay. Okay. I made it to the second paragraph before crying. Not sniffling. Crying. Open-mouthed, full-body, you-did-it-you-beautiful-genius crying.

Emilie: You were always going to end up in AD. But Belle. You signed this one under your own name. You built something. You told a story. You made a house remember itself and made the whole world notice. I’m so proud I can’t even breathe.

Emilie: We are framing this article. We are putting it in the baby’s memory box. We are not normal about this. You hear me?

Belle: I’m crying now. Like. Properly.

Belle: I didn’t think anyone would actually read it, let alone feel it. I kept thinking… maybe it was too soft. Too quiet. Too much like me.

Belle: But you saw it. You always do.

Belle: Thank you for never letting me shrink. For every time you reminded me that being quiet wasn’t the same as being small. That I didn’t have to be loud to take up space.

Belle: I love you.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: UM. HELLO. EXCUSE ME.

Victoria: You absolute sneak. You’re just out here being the interior design oracle of Monaco and didn’t bother to mention that you’re in ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??? Do you know what I was doing this morning?? Folding laundry. In sweatpants. Meanwhile, you’re making villas cry with emotion.

Victoria: That courtyard?? I nearly sobbed. That kitchen?? I want to move in and raise goats.

Victoria: You’re a masterpiece. I love you. Also I’m stealing that mineral-wash plaster idea. You can’t stop me.

Belle: I— You’re making me laugh and cry at the same time. Please stop being good at this.

Belle: I wasn’t trying to keep it secret. I just… I didn’t know if it would be worth making a fuss over.

Belle: But then I saw it. And it felt like me. Really me. And now you saying all this— It means more than I can explain.

Belle: Please steal the plaster. I’ll mix it for you myself. Love you too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner

Max: Did you see the AD article?

Christian: The what?

Max: Architectural Digest. Belle’s feature. It came out today. I’ll send you the link. Actually, I’ll send you the PDF. Also a printed copy. What’s your home address?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

 Max: [sends picture of the courtyard from the article] Is this not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?

Daniel: That’s definitely the most serene lavender I’ve seen this week, yes. Max, are you okay?

Max: I married an artist.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Did you read the part about the courtyard?

Lando: Yes. You’ve sent it to me four times. I don’t even have a courtyard. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Belle is in Architectural Digest. Front feature. They called her work a “masterclass in restraint.”

Jos: You’re very lucky.

Max: I know.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: have you seen belle’s AD article?

GP: Max. I read it at 7:05am. You literally sent me a copy. Physically. To my house.

Max: okay good just making sure

***

Group Chat: RBR STRATEGY & OPERATIONS

(members: Max, GP, Christian Horner, Gemma from PR, Helmut Marko, various engineers)

Max: i’m just saying if we need a new hospitality suite design i know someone. page 42. AD October. you’re welcome.

GP: Max.

Gemma: …Did you just send a PDF of your wife’s Architectural Digest spread to the team comms group?

Max: that’s her on page 42. the kitchen is beautiful. don’t say i never contribute.

Christian: She’s very talented.

Helmut: What is Architectural Digest.

Max: It’s like the Monaco Grand Prix for interior designers.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Oscar: I know absolutely nothing about interior design. Like, genuinely. I can barely hang a picture frame. (Which you know, because you rescued my apartment) But even I know that Architectural Digest is a huge deal. And I just wanted to say — I’m really, really proud of you. That house looked like something out of a movie, but it still felt like someone lived in it. Which is… I guess that’s the whole point. Anyway. You’re amazing. That’s all.

Oscar: (Also, the kitchen made me want to learn how to cook properly. Lily said that was the most unhinged thing I’ve ever said.)

Belle: Oscar Piastri. If you keep being this nice to me I’m going to have to name a backsplash after you.

Belle: “Piastri Grey.” Unassuming, unexpectedly elegant, slightly smug when the light hits it right.

Oscar: You joke, but if you ever name anything after me, I’ll brag about it in every driver briefing until they kick me out.

Belle: Duly noted. Also, just so you know — if you and Lily ever want help redoing your kitchen, I’m one unsolicited Pinterest board away from getting involved.

Belle: You’d have to promise not to burn water though.

Oscar: Deal. But only if I get to hang one (1) badly framed motivational quote in return.

Belle: Oscar. No.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

​​Lando: OKAY WAIT Just read the AD feature. BELLE. HELLO???

Lando: That courtyard?? That kitchen??? That quote about doors creaking??? I didn’t know houses could be poetic. You’re a menace and I love you.

Lando: Also. Serious question. How do we feel about redoing my streaming room?

Lando: I’ll pay. I’ll bribe. I’ll cry. Name your price. Make it less “goblin tech dungeon” and more “mildly functional adult.” I deserve better lighting.

Belle: Lando. You have a racing simulator, multiple ikea bookcases filled with helmets and an apartment literally covered in fanart of yourself. Also a wall entirely dedicated to memorabilia that glows in the dark in your bedroom, according to Emilie. 

Belle: Your apartment actively resists adulthood.

Belle: But yes. I accept your bribe. I’ve already got a mood board titled “cozy chaos with HDMI ports.”

Lando: YES. That’s all I needed. Do you think I could have a drawer that hides snacks?

Belle: Already planned it. Drawer under the desk. Cooled. Lined with felt. Accommodates two cans of Monster Energy Drinks, one packet of Haribo, and your shame.

Lando: You’re a genius.

***

Pascale Leclerc hadn’t planned to read it.

She had clicked the link out of idle curiosity, the way one might glance through someone else’s holiday photos—detached, polite, with low expectations. Maybe she had expected color palettes. Fabric swatches. A few nice sentences about Belle’s “eye for detail.” Something charming and delicate and softly insignificant.

What she hadn’t expected was prose that read like poetry. Or her daughter’s name—her married name—printed in serif font beneath the words “Interior Architect and Founder.”

She hadn’t expected paragraphs that quoted Belle with a kind of reverence. Clients speaking about trust. About transformation. About homes that held memory and meaning.

She hadn’t expected that her daughter—quiet, overlooked, always fading behind the noise of her brothers—could command the shape of a space so profoundly that the world would take notice.

By the second paragraph, Pascale had sat down. By the third, she had put her glasses on properly. By the fourth, her hand was over her mouth.

"She didn’t want to reinvent it. She wanted to remember it."

"The house gave me the courage."

"Homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays."

It was all so Belle—soft, sharp, careful. A kind of invisible mastery woven between sentences and ceiling beams.

Pascale thought back to every time she had asked, "So what do you actually do?" and winced.

Because the answer had been there all along. And Pascale had never truly listened.

She hadn't realized this was more than a job. That Belle had a signature. A philosophy. A reputation. That people sought her out not because she was Max Verstappen’s wife or Charles Leclerc’s sister—but because she was herself.

Because she could walk into a tired old house and see the soul of it. Because she could make things feel like they remembered you.

Pascale read the last paragraph three times. This isn’t just a space someone lives in. It’s a space that lives with them.

She closed the tab slowly, the image of Belle’s hand skimming along an old beam still hovering in her mind.

For the first time in years, Pascale felt like she had to relearn her daughter. Not as an extension of the family. But as a woman with her own name, her own work, and a world she had built with her bare hands.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: ok wait what is architectural digest?? is it like a newsletter for… architecture?

Charles: …it’s not a newsletter. it’s Architectural Digest, Arthur. It’s a huge deal. 

Arthur: yeah i gathered that now everyone on twitter is freaking out CONGRATS belle!! even if I don’t understand what “mineral-washed hues” are 🫡

Lorenzo: Hold on. You’re in Architectural Digest?

Charles: Wait wait wait YOU’RE IN ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??

Belle: …yes?

Charles: As in THE Architectural Digest? As in like… that’s a big deal.

Belle: I know.

Charles: Why didn’t you TELL us??? We could’ve sent the link around. Or made a story. Or thrown confetti. Or—idk—prepared emotionally??

Arthur: again: still not sure what it is but belle looks great in those photos and the house looks rich so I assume it’s important

Pascale: I read the article. It was… It was beautiful.

Belle:  

Thanks, Maman. That means a lot.

Arthur: so you’re like…a fancy architect now?? do you have a business card?? I want one

Belle: Arthur. I’ve had a business card for 4 years.

Charles: You designed an entire villa and never mentioned it?? You were just… going to let us find out online??? I just read the article. Belle. It’s stunning. I’m so proud of you.

Lorenzo: Same. I’m reading it now. The courtyard?? The fireplace?? The patina on the fixtures?? You made this house feel like a memory.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Max: i might have emailed the AD article to toto wolff. with no context.

Belle: MAX.

Max: what if he wants to hire you for the new Mercedes motorhome wouldn’t that be hilarious

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Liam Lawson, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda

Max: Guys. My wife is in Architectural Digest. As in THE Architectural Digest.

Lando: Oh we’re starting early today.

Max: PAGE 42. Go look. Read it. Appreciate it. You’ll learn something about restraint and plaster finishes.

Franco: what is architectural digestion

Oscar: Digest. It’s like Vogue for rich houses.

Yuki: Wait so like… Belle designed a house?

Max: SHE BROUGHT A VILLA BACK TO LIFE WITH EMOTIONAL ARCHITECTURE. It’s not just design. It’s art.

Pierre: Bro he’s yelling.

George: I already read it. Very elegant. Love the limestone accents.

Zhou: I want to do a collab with her. My Shanghai apartment needs help.

Esteban: I’ve never cared about tiles before but now I have opinions??

Lance: Can she do race trailers?

Liam: I still don’t get it but I support whatever is happening.

Nico H.: This is the softest I’ve ever seen Max. I’m scared.

Oscar: Update: Lily now wants Belle to design our house. We don’t have a house yet. This is your fault, Verstappen.

Max: You will all learn to appreciate plaster texture and reclaimed beams. Mark my words.

Alex: I liked the old Max better. The one who just said "understeer" and threw a wheel.

Carlos: The man is gone. We have husband era Max now.

Lando: And I, for one, welcome him.

Yuki: Can we all go live in the Provence house

Max: Get in line.

Fernando: It was great. I also liked the lavender courtyard. That woman understands serenity.

Valtteri: Does Belle do Finnish saunas? Asking for a friend.

Max: YES. AND SHE’LL SOURCE YOU THE PERFECT STONES.

Charles: I didn’t even know she did that villa. She never said a word.

Max: Because she’s not an attention seeker like the rest of us. (She also said she didn’t want to be annoying about it… so I’m being annoying for her.)

Valtteri: You’re dangerously close to mailing us print subscriptions.

Max: Funny you mention that. Check your mail.

George: OH MY GOD MAX WHY DID YOU SEND ME THREE COPIES

Lewis: Honestly? She deserves all the noise. That piece was stunning. Tell her I said the kitchen design was sublime.

Franco: am I supposed to know what any of this means

Oscar: Just say “quiet luxury” and nod a lot.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda)

Lando Norris: 📸 screenshot attached So this happened in the grid group chat.

Daniel: holy shit this is so much text is this about the house again

George: It’s not just a house, Daniel. It’s an emotionally restored Provencal villa.

Sebastian: Belle made limestone flooring feel like poetry. I respect it.

Yuki: You said that with your chest

Carlos: Max has officially entered his soft husband era and I’m 70% sure he’s about to start bringing copies to media day

David: I have never seen Max this sentimental. Ever. It’s unnerving.

Mark: Honestly? Good for him. Good for her. That article was great.

Nico R.: Belle made stone walls existential. I had a crisis halfway through page 44.

Alex:Max sent everybody copies Which is wild But also… I’m halfway through the article and now I want Belle to redesign my brain.

Oscar: Lily said it changed the texture of her soul

Pierre: I’m not going to lie I googled “mineral-washed plaster” at 2AM last night I think I blacked out on Etsy

Kimi: what are you all talking about

Zhou: Architecture But like. Feelings.

Esteban: Is it normal that I’m emotional about a kitchen sink

Sergio:She said “homes hold grief and joy and ordinary Tuesdays” and I started pacing

Nico H.: I read one sentence and now I want to throw out all my furniture

Yuki: You should.

Valtteri: I have never been more inspired to paint something beige in my life.

Lewis: I told her the kitchen design was sublime. I meant it. She’s a storyteller.

Sebastian: I think I want her to redesign my garden. And possibly my emotional landscape.

Daniel: so… none of you are gonna help me hang the IKEA shelves I just bought?

Oscar: Sorry mate we’re on a different level now. We only accept reclaimed oak.

Mark: I have never seen Max more smug. He sent me the article and a Google Maps link of the villa.

George: We are witnessing a man in love And honestly? It’s terrifying.

***

“You’ve had quite a big month,” Camille said softly, looking at Belle. “Would you like to talk about what it felt like, having your work recognized like that?”

Belle hesitated. Then she shrugged, arms loosely folded. “It was… good.”

Camille smiled. “You don’t sound sure.”

“It was,” Belle repeated, quieter. “It meant something.”

Charles was the one who broke the silence.

“I didn’t even know you were in Architectural Digest,” he said, not accusing — just confused. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Belle’s eyes flicked over to him. Then to Pascale, who was watching her carefully.

She inhaled slowly.

“Because,” she said, “you never took my work seriously.”

The words landed like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

“Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive,” Belle said calmly, almost too calmly. “When I got my first real job offer, Arthur asked me if I was going to be installing throw pillows for a living.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lorenzo went very still.

“I studied Architecture at Sorbonne,” Belle continues, her voice still steady. “I studied for years. I interned, I worked for one of the best interior architecture firms Monaco has to offer. I built a studio from scratch. I made a name for myself. Quietly. Without any of you ever noticing.”

She looked at them then — really looked.

“And it was never as important as racing. Never as exciting. Never something you asked about unless it was to make fun of me for choosing beige.”

Charles looked gutted. Pascale was blinking quickly.

Lorenzo’s voice was low. “I don’t think I ever realized how much that hurt you.”

“I know,” Belle said. Not cruel — just tired. “Because I stopped trying to explain it a long time ago.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Camille gently said, “It sounds like you protected something really important to you by keeping it private. Does that feel true?”

Belle nodded.

“I didn’t tell you about the article,” she said, “because I wanted to enjoy it without wondering if anyone would roll their eyes.”

Pascale finally spoke. “I’m sorry.”

It was soft. Raw. No justification. Just the words.

Belle didn’t reply right away.

But she didn’t look away either.

“I’m sorry,” Pascale said again, voice catching just slightly. “I didn’t know it made you feel that way.”

Belle didn’t flinch, but she also didn’t soften. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.

“You didn’t ask,” she said.

That was the part that always hurt the most.

Camille let the silence linger for a moment. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—just full of everything unspoken.

Then she looked at the others.

“Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo,” she said gently. “How does it feel to hear Belle say that?”

Arthur’s shoulders hunched slightly. “I think we just… thought you liked being in the background. You never made a big deal of your work.”

“I didn’t,” Belle said. “Because when I did, no one cared. So I stopped.”

Charles looked pale.

“I think I was waiting for you to prove it was real,” he admitted. “That you were serious about it.”

“I was serious about it,” Belle said, sharper now. “From the start. You just didn’t see it because it wasn’t your definition of ambition.”

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I didn’t think it was nothing,” Lorenzo said finally, voice low. “I just… didn’t know how big it was. And I never asked, and I should have. That’s on me.”

Pascale looked stricken. “I don’t even remember saying those things,” she murmured. “But I believe you. And I’m sorry. You deserved better from me.”

Belle swallowed hard. Her voice was quieter now.

“It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. No one asked about my first job. Or my first client. Or when I started my studio. You didn’t come to my graduation. You forgot my birthday.” Her voice cracked. “And now I’m in Architectural Digest, and it still doesn’t feel real because I keep expecting someone to say it’s not a big deal.”

Belle inhaled slowly. The air felt thick in her chest.

She glanced down at her hands, resting in her lap. Her engagement ring glinted against her skin. Her wedding band. Quiet things. Not loud like podiums or race wins or trophies. But real.

“Max and I met in a bar. We talked about one of my colleagues frothing at the mouth at the thought of designing an apartment for him, because they had heard that he was touring a penthouse. One of those ridiculous ones with views over the harbour.”

“A few weeks later, I got the call. Max bought that penthouse. He hired the firm I worked at and he demanded that I be the only architect allowed to work on it.”

She smiled faintly at the memory.

“He said he trusted me. He only wanted me working on it. Because I was brillant.”

Her eyes lifted, landing on Charles first, then Pascale.

“He didn’t mean, like, picking throw pillows. He meant everything. Design it. Build it. Choose the floors, the fixtures. Max could have hired any firm in the world. But he gave it to me—because he saw me. He trusted me. No credentials flashed. No résumé sent. I told him I had a vision, and he believed me.”

A long pause.

“No one in this room has ever believed in me like that.”

Pascale flinched like the words hit her square in the chest.

“I’m not saying that to be cruel,” Belle said gently. “But you should know it. I studied at Sorbonne. I interned in Paris. I worked twenty-hour days for years. I built a studio from scratch. But to you, it was always—Pinterest boards. Throw pillows. Expensive taste.”

She looked toward the window now, blinking fast. “Meanwhile, I built Max and me a home. A real one. I built a studio from scratch. And now my work is on the cover of Architectural Digest. And you’re all surprised.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“You say you love me. But you’ve never asked what I love. What I do. Who I’ve become.”

Camille didn’t interrupt. No one did.

Pascale was crying now. Arthur stared at the carpet. Lorenzo looked hollowed out. Charles was stock still.

“Max saw me the moment I walked into that restaurant on our first date,” Belle whispered. “Not because I was his girlfriend. Not because I was a Leclerc. Just… me. He gave me a home to build. And he moved into it. Do you know what that meant to me?”

“It is a big deal,” Camille said softly. “And Belle, your pain is valid. And you’ve carried a lot of it alone.”

There were tears in Belle’s eyes now, but she didn’t let them fall.

“I wanted you to be proud of me,” she whispered. “And you weren’t. Not until everyone else was.”

Pascale reached for a tissue. “I’m sorry.”

She’s said it before — for missed birthdays, for things that slipped through the cracks. But this time, there’s something heavier underneath it. Not just regret, but realization.

Belle didn’t speak. Not yet.

But she didn’t look away either.

Camille waited a beat, then gently shifts the focus.

“Charles,” she said, “you look like you’re holding something. Would you like to say it?”

Charles exhales like he’s been underwater.

“I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know. I think I… assumed you were happy doing your little projects, and I didn’t ask more because—”

He stopped himself. Winced.

“Because you assumed they weren’t serious,” Belle finished for him, voice still quiet.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Belle echoed, “but you did.”

Charles flinched. “I know.”

Arthur, sitting beside him, suddenly said, “I always thought you were brilliant at it.”

Everyone turned.

Arthur shrugged, like it’s obvious. “I just didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t want to sound stupid.”

Belle blinked. “What?”

“You redesigned your entire apartment in Paris with like… two chairs and a string of lights. I remember visiting and thinking it felt like magic. Like it wasn’t just pretty — it fit you. I didn’t know how to say that.”

There’s a long silence.

Belle’s expression softened — just a little.

“I didn’t need you to say I was brilliant,” she said, “I just needed you to act like it mattered. That I mattered.”

Lorenzo finally spoke.

“You do.”

Belle gave him a long, tired look. “I’m just starting to believe that.”

Camille gently stepped in.

“I think what Belle’s saying is really important,” she said. “This isn’t about punishment or blame. It’s about being seen. About building a relationship where she doesn’t feel like she has to shrink herself just to be accepted.”

Pascale pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes glassy.

Charles swallowed. “We want that,” he says. “I want that. I want to do better.”

Arthur nodded. “Me too.”

Lorenzo, steady as ever, added, “Me too.”

Camille offered Belle a soft, anchoring look. “Would you like to start with something small? Something they could do that might feel meaningful?”

“…Ask me about my work,” Belle said. “Not to be polite. Ask because you actually want to know.”

The others nodded. Pascale quietly murmured, “We will.”

Belle exhales, slow and shaky. But she nodded.

***

It was late.

The kind of late where the world felt like it had tipped sideways, quiet and slow. Rain tapped lightly against the windows of their bedroom, and Belle was curled into the pregnancy pillow that had taken over Max’s half of the bed. Her back ached, her ankles were swollen, and their son had been practicing karate for the last half hour — but somehow, the room still felt peaceful.

Max was beside her, propped up on one elbow, reading something on his iPad that he clearly wasn’t retaining.

Belle shifted slightly. “Max?”

He glanced down immediately, setting the iPad aside. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Just… thinking.”

Max didn’t say anything, just reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, waiting. He was good at that — at knowing when she needed silence instead of answers.

Belle exhaled. “There’s a name I keep coming back to.”

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I haven’t said it out loud yet. Not even to myself, really. But it’s been stuck in my head for weeks.”

Max tilted his head, gently curious. “What is it?”

She hesitated, heart thudding a little faster. “Emilian.”

There was a pause — a quiet, weighted pause — and then Max smiled. Not the bright, media-trained one. Not even the cheeky one she knew too well. Just soft. Surprised. Touched.

“My middle name,” he said.

“And Emilie,” Belle murmured. “Not on purpose. It just… happened that way. I didn’t mean to do that, I swear.”

Max’s smile grew. “You don’t have to justify it.”

“I thought I’d change my mind,” she admitted. “I kept thinking, ‘it’s too sentimental’ or ‘what if it’s weird’ or ‘what if he doesn’t like it’… but I keep circling back to it. Like orbiting. I don’t know why.”

Max leaned in and kissed the side of her forehead. “Belle. It’s a beautiful name.”

“I wasn’t trying to name him after you,” she said softly. “Or Emilie. Or anyone. I think I just… like the way it feels.”

Max ran a hand gently over the swell of her belly, feeling a fluttering kick beneath his palm. “Then maybe that’s why it’s right.”

Belle looked up at him, eyes shining. “You really don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “No. I think… I love it, actually.”

She blinked fast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Max smiled again, then leaned down to press a kiss just above her belly button. “Hi, Emilian,” he whispered. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Belle’s breath caught. Her hand found his, resting over their son, and she nodded slowly. “Then that’s his name.”

Max looked up at her with something close to awe. “We have a name.”

“We have a baby with a name,” Belle whispered, half in disbelief.

And in the quiet, with the rain still falling and their son kicking lightly in response, Belle finally let herself feel it fully — that he was coming. That she was ready. That Emilian was already loved.

[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.

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee @tonystankhere @evrmorets @theylovemelody @yujyujj @sxmmerchxlds

[cinder-stella]

𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐲𝐲𝐲 ૮₍•᷄ ࡇ •᷅₎ა

suggestive, domestic, slice of life

<18+ NSFW>toji, sukuna, nanami, gojo, geto<18+ NSFW>

There comes a time in every relationship where the man in your life gets a little...antsy, so to speak. Maybe a little too helpful. A little too, “you look so good when you're angry.”

You got it: he’s horny. And bless his heart, he’s trying to hint at it.

So I present to you *drumroll*:

“What JJK Men Do When They’re Horny and Trying to Hint at It”

(In other words: how to spot the world’s most transparent mating rituals.)

➽───────────────❥

TOJI

He’s laid-back—at least, on the surface. Reclined in a chair, hand behind his head just enough to expose the edge of that deep, carved hipbone that should be illegal. He talks like nothing’s going on. Like you’re just hanging out. But his eyes…Oh, his eyes give him away. They drag over you like a predator. Just unhurried, lazy and oh so possessive.

And then he shifts just a bit. His hand grazes your exposed thigh and his gaze tilts up at you like he’s already imagined how you’d look in his lap. He licks his bottom lip without thinking then huffs a low laugh like he knows he shouldn’t be staring.

But he doesn’t stop. “You look good in those shorts.” The words are casual and loose. But his voice drops a full octave when he says it . Slow and low, skimming right down your spine.

“You mean the one i wear all the time?” You raise an eyebrow and shift to hide to way your skin reacts to his touch.

“Hm, I don’t recall.” Then, he leans back again. Opens his legs. Spreads them wide like a silent dare and rests one arm along the back of the couch behind you. (holy frick)

Ok, now you’re hot. Too hot. You feel your face flushing. Why did he have to be so sexy????

You’re watching his throat now. The way it moves when he swallows. The flex of muscle under skin.“I know what you’re doing, Toji.” You huff finally.

He just smiles like he knows exactly what kind of thoughts you’re having. And he’s in no rush. He’s going to make you stew in them.

RYOMEN

He smells you before he even registers that you walked in. Warm skin, soap, and a hint of something floral. He grins like a cat who’s about to pounce.

There you are, towel wrapped just tight enough to make his eyes literally devour you and he’s already plotting how to ruin your day in the best way possible.

“Oh? Playing dress-up with the towel? Trying to get a rise out of me?” he says, voice dripping with wicked amusement.

You give him a “really?” look and keep walking. Big mistake. Because suddenly he’s behind you, his heat pressing against your back, and holy shit his pants are definitely doing the cha-cha. They are really, going at it. I mean you knew he was a grower but damn.

He leans in close, voice rough. “You have any idea what you do to me just by standing there?”

Your eyes dart down and yep. There it is. The shameless hard-on. In all its glory. In all it’s sexy…girthy…long…delicious glory. (i’m sorry he’s just really hot.)

You bite your lip, trying to keep a straight face, but inside you’re thinking, “Okay, damn. I see you. And frankly? I’m impressed.”

KENTO

One thing about Kento, is that he stares.

Nanami’s just trying to mow the lawn like a responsible adult, minding his own business, when he catches you squatting down to pull weeds.

It’s innocent, right? Wrong.

Your shorts are cut so high that the curve of your ass is basically waving at him like a neon sign. And when you bend forward, your top shifts just enough to reveal the soft swell of your breasts almost right there in his line of sight.

He doesn’t mean to stare. Really. He’s just… caught off guard. He tries to look anywhere but there but the second his eyes catch that perfect view, everything goes south. Literally.

His jaw tightens, lawn mower suddenly sounds like way too loud to focus, and now…he’s definitely sporting an accidental hard-on. It’s almost as if he has to turn the lawn mower off completely to see properly.

Obviously you spot him, hands gripping the lawn mower a little too tightly, looking like he just swallowed a lemon. How could you not notice him. He’s just standing menacingly. And he looks really good doing it. Your eyes trail down his hot, muscular body. You stare at how sexy and golden the hairs on his arms look in the sunlight. Then you take a little peak at his package just cause. Oh, yeah. Smack. Right in your face. (i’m really trying to be civil here)

It takes a lot out of you not to bend over and present your whole being to him then and there so you settle for smirking and you call out, “If you’re gonna stare, at least help me pull weeds.”

He coughs, cheeks flaming behind those glasses. “I was, uh, inspecting the grass.”

You raise a brow. “Mhm. Suuuure.”

And the way his gaze flickers back down well, let’s just say you won’t be letting him off easy anytime soon.

GOJO

Gojo’s got a PhD in Testing Your Limits with a Minor in ‘Bothering You Until You Climb Him Like a Tree.’ He’s touchy at baseline but when he’s horny? Every single graze, every wink, every casually suggestive comment is an audition for what he really wants to do.

He’s behind you in the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing to help with his arms wrapped around your waist as he sways you side to side like you’re slow dancing in the middle of making eggs. His hands shamelessly roamed your body but not in a sweet boyfriend way. This says “I’m imagining bending you over the counter.”

You elbow him lightly. “Can I help you?”

“Just admiring the view,” he hums, leaning in to kiss your neck. “And imagining what kind of sound you’d make if I bit right here.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah,” he says, spinning you around and cupping your face like he’s about to say something profound. “Inside you.”

You choke on your own breath. “Why are you feral.”

He pulls you in for a kiss but it’s soft and misleading. His hand trails down, over your back, until it settles on your ass. He gives it a firm squeeze then a playful smack. You flinch, laughing in surprise.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he whispers, voice low and hot against your ear. “You’re quite tempting you know.”

And then his hand makes its way to your neck. He applies just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. His lips brush yours again and the kiss deepens like he’s daring you to lose your grip first. (i just knowww he knows every single thing that gets you going…my goodness…im sweating)

You pull back, flushed with your eyes wide. “Are you trying to seduce me or start something you can’t finish?”

He grins. “Baby, if I start something, I’m finishing. Twice.”

SUGURU

You wake up from a nap like the embodiment of coziness—hair messy, cheeks warm and blanket still half-draped over your thigh. You’re radiating that soft, sleepy heat. That sleepy, warm, clean scent is just taking over the atmosphere.

When Suguru walks into the bedroom he smells it before he even sees you.

He stops dead in his tracks like he’s been hit by a tranquilizer dart. His eyes go wide, pupils blown and his chest rises a little too fast.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath like he’s in pain.

You blink at him, all squinty and half-conscious, still stretching with a yawn. What the heck was he on about?

He’s on you in two steps, crouching beside the bed like you’re some kind of relic. His nose brushes your shoulder, inhaling deeply like you’re a bath&body works candle.

“That smell…fuck, you’re so warm,” he murmurs, eyes practically rolling back. “I swear, I could sink into you and die happy.”

You blink at him again, a slow, sleepy smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re being so dramatic.”

But he’s not listening. His hand slides along your thigh, fingertips ghosting over the edge of your shorts like he was about to call a locksmith for your panties.

“You don’t get it,” he says, jaw clenching. “You smell like sleep and heat and…fuck—do you even know what that does to me?”

You giggle, which only makes it worse. His eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed.

And when you shift, just slightly, he groans quiet and deep, like he’s physically holding himself back from just. sinking. it. in. (hell yeah hell yeah hell yeah hell yeah—)

➽───────────────❥

In conclusion:

Men are not subtle. Especially not JJK men.

And if one more of them gets hard just because you walked past them in a towel or smelled like a nap…honestly that’s just hot asf, I can’t lie.

Ryomen’s pitching a tent like it’s a camping trip.

Toji’s staring like your shorts* are gonna evaporate if he concentrates hard enough.

Kento’s trying to pretend he's just “admiring the landscaping.”

Geto’s just one whiff away from dining on the kat like it’s a Michelin-star buffet.

And Gojo…That man touches you like he’s trying to trigger a sprinkler in your pants.

Anyway, hydrate. Stretch. Lock your door if Gojo’s anywhere within a 10-mile radius and you’re in anything less than a track suit.

And remember, just because he grabbed your ass and whispered “just admiring the view” doesn’t mean you owe him anything.

But you can laugh. Loudly. Preferably right before you make him beg. Cause it’s always better when they beg ;).

♡´ˎ˗✎

* means edit was made. this ain’t proofread 0~o

[athenalvss]

WHAT DID YOU BUY? (Bruce Wayne!)

Summary: there is a problem in the surveillance system and Bruce isn't responding to the league's messages, so they go looking for him at Wayne Manor.

pairing: Bruce wayne x wife!reader

note: idk I liked the idea of bruce's wife being a bombshell, I'm seriously thinking about doing some sort of series on this topic

open request - Bruce wayne masterlist

"You know, I don't think he's in trouble," Hal said, arms crossed, staring at the enormous gate of Wayne Manor. "Maybe one of his kids knocked something over on the computer and made a mess."

"Exactly!" Barry exclaimed, pointing at him as if he'd just solved a mystery. "And here we are, ringing the bell like two idiots."

There was strange interference in the global surveillance system. The Tower's sensors indicated a jammed signal coming directly from the Batcomputer. Diana was the first to send Bruce a direct message, one, two, three times. No response.

"It's weird" she had said.

"It's Bruce Wayne" Hal replied. "Weird is normal."

So they decided to act. Better safe than sorry. In less than a minute, they were in Gotham, standing at the entrance to the mansion.

"And Alfred?" Hal asked, ringing the bell again. "He always opens quickly."

"Maybe he's on vacation? Seeing the Caribbean?" Barry offered. Hal glared at him.

Diana, standing with her arms crossed, said nothing. Her expression was serene but alert.

Soft footsteps echoed behind the door until it opened, was this heaven?

You opened the door. You were barefoot, wearing a black silk robe loosely tied at the waist, the fine fabric leaving little to the imagination. Your hair was loose, a little messy compared to how they usually see you, and it fell over your shoulders. Your eyes were a little glossy, as were your lips, and you had that soft voice they'd already known... but never so closely.

"Is something wrong?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, as if the sight of two League members at your door wasn't at all strange.

It took Hal three seconds to blink. Barry made a sound that didn't sound human. Diana, thankfully, took back control. "Is Bruce available? There was a glitch in the Batcomputer signal. We're trying to contact him."

"Ah... yeah, I guess," you said, reaching up to straighten your robe, which clearly didn't help anyone's concentration. "I was using the Batcomputer... Bruce wanted to get me a present, and the computer there is really fast. Luckily, I was able to buy the lingerie I wanted."

Barry rolled his eyes at the ceiling as if that would save him. Hal blinked twice. Nothing changed. You were still there. In that robe. In that voice. With that damn confidence that made everything feel even worse. How could you talk about lingerie shopping in front of them so casually?

"And you shut down the system?" Diana asked, with the calmness of someone already accustomed to these situations.

"Maybe" you acknowledged with a half smile, lowering your gaze for just a second. "I'm not a big fan of Bruce's operating system. I shut everything down, and well... apparently I blocked an entire global surveillance network."

"And Bruce?" Diana asked, just as calmly.

"He went back to sleep" you replied. "He was up late... work stuff. You guys understand."

"Work, for sure" Hal repeated, without thinking.

You raised an eyebrow. "What else would we do until late, Hal?"

Hal opened his mouth to reply, but Barry jabbed him with an elbow so hard he nearly knocked him off balance. “Nothing! Nothing! You were probably working. You guys… do that. Work. A lot. All the time,” Barry said, his smile strained, his ears red to the roots.

Diana sighed with a hint of resignation and began to enter the house without waiting for further authorization. "We better check quickly. We don't want to interrupt... Bruce's rest."

"Oh, don't worry," you said sweetly as you moved away from the door frame. "He doesn't sleep much."

Just then, Bruce appeared at the top of the stairs. Shirtless. Hair all messed up. And a glare straight at Barry and Hal. "What are you doing here?"

“We thought you were in danger,” Barry said, seeming to evaporate.

Bruce stepped down slowly, crossing his arms. "I'm not in danger. What's in danger is your continued presence in this house."

You giggled, walking casually toward him. You stopped beside him and smoothed his hair, not caring about any witnesses.

"Sorry, love, I opened the door for you. I thought it was Alfred."

Diana, flawless as ever, continued, “The Batcomputer showed a signal of interference. You weren’t responding. We came to make sure you were okay.”

Bruce took another step down. His eyes slid toward you. “Was that you?”

"I'm sorry, love. I accidentally locked everything" you said, your voice so sweet any other man on the planet would have melted.

"So you've decided, what did you buy?" Bruce asked, before his brain could intercept the impulse.

You turned your head slowly, with a lethal smile. "Lingerie. Do you want to see?"

Bruce simply raised an eyebrow. “Jordan, Allen. Three seconds.”

"We're leaving now!" Hal said, pushing Barry toward the door with a desperation unworthy of a Green Lantern.

"Thank you for your hospitality! Sorry for existing!" Barry said, tripping over a rug.

The door slammed shut. The echoes in the hallway hadn't yet died away when Bruce let out a deep sigh, tired but clearly resigned to his fate.

You laughed softly, and before you could say anything, he had already taken you by the waist and lifted you up in his arms with that naturalness that always left you breathless. "Shall we go back to bed, Mr. Wayne?"

"Not until you show me what you ordered from Paris, Mrs. Wayne."

[n1k0laa5]

At some point, you gotta take responsibility.

Yes. You fucking heard me.

Listen, I don’t know why I’m even acting this aggressive but sitting for an hour straight, thinking of what recycled motivational post to make, I stumbled upon something and realized; I. Am. Done.

The Victim Mindset.

Do you.. like struggling more than success? Does it feel safer to wake up here, spend your entire day talking to c.ai bots, affirm 8,000 times, scream at yourself in the mirror for an hour that “tonight is the night” only to roll over and give up??

Do you like that?

Imagine being limitless and choosing to argue with anti’s instead of moving dimensions.

Imagine crying over how you “can’t persist” and “nothing is working” when you’re literally God.

Imagine having a victim mindset and instead of getting your ass up to actually do something about your desires, you cling onto shifting memes and Tumblr motivation.

You can’t be the victim and the God in the same story. You cannot serve two masters, your 3D or old assumptions and your 4D, the real reality. Pick one.

Daydreaming, overplanning, asking 47 bloggers for the best shifting method as if they’re some sort of divine guide for you specifically—you’re stalling. Don’t be pathetic. Don’t ask the same question to different people on here.

No one is gonna shift you. No one’s gonna pull a “Where’s my wife?” — “I shifted her.” move on you.

Many people are addicted to the feeling that they’re doing something because they don’t wanna tackle their internal fear; whether that’s fear of shifting or getting your desires. You’re in a “safe zone” when you feel like you’re doing something to contribute to your journey but simultaneously don’t do anything or maybe don’t even believe and understand your true power.

They have an obsessive dependence on external validation and let other people’s beliefs and experiences dictate their own beliefs.

But remember: You can’t say ‘I want to shift’ and then cling to your old identity like a teddy bear.

It is genuinely not that fucking hard to shift or manifest.

What you “need”:

— Realize you are God. Genuinely. Take that in.

— You decide what works.

— The second you think of it in your mind, you need to completely let go of the 3D. The 3D is a TEMPORARY mirror of your old assumptions.

— Live in your 4D and imagination.

— Persist.

— Persist.

— PERSIST.

— It’s just one decision and persisting in whatever fucking technique you decided works for you.

People, including teens and kids, have manifested and shifted—sometimes on ACCIDENT.

What’s your excuse for overcomplicating it?

[klausysworld]

Come Over

Summary: From an innocent text to a provocative photo to nights in my bed, it’s impossible to stay away but too hard to give in.

It was impossible not to want that man. His voice, his accent, his hair, his pretty face, the little moles on his skin, the stubble of his cheeks, the length of his body, the roughness of his hands...

And he fucking knew it.

I'd catch one glimpse of those eyes and I felt as though he'd already fucked me twice over. My cheeks would heat up, my heart pounding and It was even worse knowing that he could hear me, smell me, taste me with those stupid super senes of his.

It wasn't right, he was hurting people in my life, being a real threat to our lives and yet I was imagining being beneath him, on top of him, any fucking position he wants. But it's his fault. He was the one who stalked for my phone number and he was the one who sent the first photo.

Nothing too provocative to start off with just him in bed, clearly shirtless but nothing revealing. So I sent one back, just my face half hidden by my duvet. I wasn't sure where it was going.

~I don't even get to see your pretty face? The text was innocent enough so I sent a slightly pouty, faux annoyed snap of my face.

-Better? I questioned, tugging the covers back up and nervously watching the three dots.

~Much better, Love. Which was swiftly followed by another selfie, his whole naked chest on display with a slight peak at his abs. The shadows were perfectly placed. I could imagine my fingers tracing over him, my tongue trailing.

In response I tugged my top a little so my cleavage was just visible before fixing the angle and, with a shaky thumb, clicked send. He opened it immediately and within seconds a full view of his abdomen was sent, his adonis belt defines and pointing down to the teasing line of hair sneaking beneath the waist band of his sweatpants. I felt my stomach flutter, my thighs clench slightly as I sat up a little. My fingers curled into the bottom of my shirt, considering taking it off for him.

I must've spent too long contemplating because he was typing before I could even consider it.

~Too much? I wanted to say no and send him something worth his while but the nerves were too much. I didn't want him using anything against me and I knew that he wouldn't deep down but that underlying fear was there.

-I have to go to sleep, I'm sorry. I messaged before clicking my phone off and hiding beneath the covers as if he could still see me. I squeezed my eyes closed, digging my nails into my palms to ground myself.

By the time I woke up it was late morning and I hesitantly opened the unread texts.

~Don't be sorry. ~I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable ~Good night, love. ❤️

They made my stomach clench slightly as I read them.

-You made me nervous is all. Sorry for rushing off, it was childish of me.

I didn't expect a response so quick but it seemed he was already on his phone.

~You're not childish, I understand. ~Have a good day my love.

-You too

I got a photo later in the day of him with bloodied and bruised Damon making me suppress a small laugh at the pissed off expression on Damon's face.

-Is this what you do for fun? I asked with a smile on my lips.

~No, I talk to you for fun. I do this out of necessity.

-So I'm just a bit of fun then? It was a tease mostly but I wanted to push it.

~I enjoy talking to you. It's more than fun

-Mhm. If you say so.

Later in the evening I was sent a photo of his food with a blood bag on the side so I sent a photo of myself with my nose scrunched up as if disgusted.

-Yuck

~Perhaps it's just juice, can't hate it if you haven't tried it He replied making me roll my eyes.

-How would i have ever tried blood??

~You can try mine The answer made my stomach flip and I could almost hear the way the words would roll off his lips. It was teasing and yet somehow I knew he was completely serious at the same time.

~So long as I can try yours of course.

That made my mouth go dry. It was worse that I'd imagined, fantasised about what he was suggesting. Sometimes I wondered if he could see into my mind and knew exactly what to say to get me nervous.

-Kinky

I replied, suppressing a smile as it went through.

~Always.

Klaus proved to be completely shameless all of the time, confident beyond handling. It was undeniably attractive and it made my head spin daily. And the photos were killing me.

Once he knew I liked them that was the end for me.

His body was engraved into my mind, the soft shine to his skin, the happy trail that always dragged my attention south. The beautiful v-line showing me exactly where to look. Occasionally I got a glimpse of the bulge against his sweatpants, just the outline made my skin heat up. It wasn't long before I'd sent back photos of myself in my underwear, mostly in the mirror but sometimes if he knew I was in bed he'd tease me for it.

~Quit jumping up to get to that mirror, love. Show me how you are now.

So I did. Sat up against my pillows with my lace bra on display for him. He was always quick with a complement before a photo of his hand cupping himself through the fabric of his pants.

~You should come over, my love.

He'd tell me and I'd feel my thighs clench involuntarily.

-Why should I come to you?

~I'm more than happy to be invited into your home if you'd prefer that

I'd roll my eyes almost playfully as if he could see me and send another photo of my body, my panties the main focus and my fingers just touching the top of the lace.

~Quit teasing

He'd message before sending the photo that sent me over the end. His cock in hand, thick, veiny, just beautifully perfect and he knew it. I could just stare at it for hours.

~I want you baby.

And that did me in really.

-Come over?

And he did, he always did.

On the doorstep with a lone flower in his hand as if he hadn't charmed me enough. "Well I couldn't turn up empty handed now could I?" He'd murmur with that stupid grin on his face as his hands found my hips and guided me backwards. Sometimes it felt like he knew my house better than I did. He'd always let me knock into something whether it be the couch, a table or a countertop so that he could lift me up and have me in his grasp.

Too many times we ended up knocking a glass off the kitchen side, making me jump and him groan as my mouth left his.

"I'll tidy it in the morning." He'd mumble, trying to pull me back to him. "I'll carry you over it so your little toes don't get hurt."

"Klaus..." I'd sigh and he'd huff.

Maybe in some ways it was an excuse not to sleep with him. Not because I didn't want him, that wasn’t possible, but because I was just so anxious to. He was proud and confident and rightly so. He was...impressive from what I'd seen and I wasn't so sure what to do with him.

So we usually just ended up making out, a lot. It was like his tongue would fuck my mouth as if to encourage me to see what the rest of him could do.

Sometimes he'd get his hands between my thumbs, his thumb stroking the fabric of my underwear and making me gasp but he wouldn't let me leave the kiss. As soon as he managed to hood a finger round my panties I knew I wouldn't be moving, his fingers would be sliding through my folds, curling into me until I couldn't breathe.

"You're so sensitive..." He'd whisper, his words almost sharp like a tickle against my skin. I could feel my body struggling, my thighs shaking and my eyes watering.

"Klaus-" I whined and he kissed the side of my neck, everything he did was encouraging, pushing me to the point of no return.

"Don't beg me, love. Just come for me." And I just couldn't fucking help it.

By the time I got down from the counter my legs were useless and he was carrying me upstairs anyways. "See now, if you let me use something other than my fingers you'd be even more of a mess than you are right now." He's tease as I was tucked to his body, my head against his neck and my legs hanging from his arm as we got to my room. "What happened to all that confidence with those sexy little photos hm?" He questioned, his tone kept light but I knew he was getting frustrated, sexually that is.

"I'm sorry." I'd whisper as he led me down and his features would soften. A kiss would be pressed to my forehead instead of my lips and his hand would pet my hair.

"Don't be. I shouldn't push...nor complain, you're perfect."

Klaus had a way about him that always made me want him.

I was too nervous to do what we both wanted, what we needed, but I started using my hands beneath the covers. He'd lay on his back or facing me, his arm around me and his face resting against the top of my head as soft little breaths left him.

"That's it my love, you're doing it so well." He'd praise, his hands gripping at my skin, my sheets, anything he could grab.

"Like that?"

"Yes- just like that."

Just watching him fall a part, let alone feeling it and hearing it was enough to make me want more. His mouth would latch onto mine to muffle any sounds from him when his hips would move my their own command. It was when he pulled the covers back and I could see him in all his glory. Even when he was spent and soft again it made my stomach drop.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost, love." He'd tease, his voice rough but his gaze was soft. "I wouldn't hurt you." The words always sounded like a declaration.

"I know" I'd always whisper back, settling my head back down onto his chest.

It was strange how comfortable I was over the phone but how anxious I was in person. As soon as he was in reach I felt like my heart would jump out of my chest. But I knew he wouldn't let that happen.

Some nights he'd fall asleep listening to my heart beat, his fingers tapping to the rhythm as he drifted off. I was starting to feel more and more and it was getting scarier and scarier.

Klaus isn't someone I'm allowed, not someone I should yearn for. He'd hurt so many, killed and tortured and yet one text was all it took.

[red-rott]

Do you ever think about Laurent riding his mare? When Auguste gave it to him, and he was so proud of his very fast pony. Finally riding like his brother did.

And when he was alone he'd tend to it, make sure everything's right with it. He'd learned all there was about it; to feed and nurture it propperly, taking responsibility seriously, like his brother did.

He'd have been so happy when his father, a man of strength, probably saw his determination and desire to thrive, he probably thought he made him proud, like his brother did.

He probably spent hours grooming it and talking to it, a confidant that could not use his words against him, as a child both Prince and prisoner in a hostile court. He maybe spent hours mindlessly brushing its mane thinking about the fact that the "protection" his Uncle gave him felt nothing like Auguste's. He'd maybe wash and brush and clean the stall just to ponder that his "attentions" never reassured him, not like his brother did.

Do you ever think about him as a teenager riding when he needed to think, like Jord said, as he watched the young prince ride away more and more often as his birthdays passed, coincidentally getting longer as his reputation was destroyed by the Regent? Laurent probably imagined Auguste riding alongside him in his own, much slower, pony. He'd close his eyes as the sun, yellow and warm like his brother's hair hit his face, it warmed his skin and settled his panicked bones, like his brother did.

Do you ever think of him riding the mare in a hunt, hitting its side hard to ride her at full speed, like he raced with his brother? Do you think for a moment Torveld, in his periphery, head obscured by the radiant yellow of the sun, looked a bit like Auguste? He probably, for a brief moment remembered, the races and laughs, and pats on the head. Until the smell of the mare's blood filled his nose. Do you think it brought memories of Marlas? He'd struck down a mark no matter the cost, like his brother did.

After performing a feat of victory in the hunt, do you think he thought of Auguste as he commanded the servant to cut down the mare, and watched it die by the sword, like his brother did?

[jadegrey711]

Call me

(Bucky x Fem!phone sex operator)

A/N: This gif really got me thinking about how much fun a Fem!phone sex operator x Bucky oneshot would be. So here's my take, Bucky is like more still (winter solider) but like hitman for hire who doesn't work for any side. The end is a little dark but nothing too much. I don't think I'll be making a part two of this though so you'll have to let your imagination win with what happens after this. And as always;

Not my Gif *

If you like my stories you can check out my sideblog @jadegreywriting​​ to see all of them and my masterlist without filtering through my main blog.

I own all rights to this story and do not give permission for my stories to be published, translated or reposted anywhere else. The only places I have published my stories is here on Tumblr and on my AO3 account (LadyAuthor711) 

This story is for 18+ ONLY. It contains sexual themes that are not suited for younger audiences so if you’re under 18 my blog and this story is not for you. Please make sure to read at your own discretion and remember that you are solely responsible for your content intake.

You were surprised as you heard your phone ring with the familar ring tone of your favorite client, and eagerly grabbed the phone and went into your bedroom. Flopping onto bed and trying to calm your racing heart as you put on the familar persona of your phone sex operator voice and accepted the call.

"Hi darling." He greeted you in that familar, dark, rich voice.

"Hiya honey. I wasn't expecting your call tonight." you said honestly. You truly weren't expecting to hear from your favorite client tonight. His phone session usually held a standing reservation with you on Saturday night, usually around 10pm.

"I know darling, but work has been shit and I needed to hear from my sweet bunny."

"Oh yeah? You wanna tell me about it." You asked, as you made yourself more comfortable on the bed.

Bucky let out a let out a sigh. "Just politics darling. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about."

"Hey! I'm not just a pretty voice." You giggled. "I've got a pretty big brain behind this sultry voice, too."

"Oh. I know that bunny. That's why you're the only one I talk too."

"Well then tell me what's got you all worked up honey? That's usually my job." You chuckled and in return heard a deep chuckle on the other end of the line.

"I certainly enjoy getting worked up more from you than from anyone else."

"Well I'm glad to hear it. Means I'm providing an excellent service. Be sure to give me high stars at our end of call survey." You said cheekily, earning another deep chuckle from the other end of the line, before he let out a long deep sigh.

"I wasn't kidding when I said it was politics." He chuckled, when he heard a small gasp coming from you.

"Oh my! I've bagged myself a senator!" You said, fanning yourself even though he couldn't see you. "But, I've seen most of the senators on TV and none of them sound as hot as you honeypie."

"I never said I was a senator, Bunny."

"So, just randomly in politics?" You let out another little gasp. "Are you the man behind the curtain? The puppeter? The pied piper that leads all the rats?" You giggled, earning another laugh from him.

"No. Not in politics at all. More politics adjacent. I keep the wheels moving you could say."

You cocked your eyebrow at that, when a thought came into your mind. "Are you a hitman, Honey?"

The other end of the line was silent for a moment before he spoke.

"What if I was Bunny?"

You covered your side of the reciever and let out a scoff in disbelief, then chuckled. So, tonight is going to be role play? That's a first for your Honey.

"Well first I'd ask if you help the good guys or the bad guys?" You teased.

He took a moment to ponder this before he spoke. "Both. I'm what you would call a neutral party."

"Ah... so you vote Green party!"

You heard a louder laugh came from the line and smiled. It was rare to get your Honey to laugh that hard and when he did it was like music to your ears.

"No, Bunny."

"Are you dangerous?" You asked, your voice going low.

He stayed silent for a moment again, before answering with another question. "Would that scare you if I was?"

"I mean as long as you aren't planning on taking a hit out on me. Then I wouldn't mind. Hypothetically speaking, if you really are a hitman for hire."

"Never, Bunny." He said in a serious tone. "I might be dangerous to others, but not to you; never." He said matterof fact.

"So..." You drawed out. "What's got you all riled up from this job I'm assuming that you're on?"

He let out a sigh. "Just didn't go as I planned. Client is upset, but I couldn't give a fuck."

"Should I ask?"

"I wouldn't Bunny. These things don't need to reach your pretty ears. The only thing that needs to reach your pretty ears, is my voice telling you how much I want to bury myself in that pretty little pussy of yours."

You bit your bottom lip. There's my Honey, as agressive and verbal as ever.

"Would that make your day better? Burying that thick, hard cock in this sweet little pussy?"

He let out a low groan, and you knew he was touching himself. You never did this with other clients, but you found yourself reaching into your little pajama shorts in kind. Your Honey the only one who could pull this out of you; who could make you this wet, this fast.

"That would definitely brighten up my day Bunny."

"Hmm." You let out a low hum as you played with your clit. "I'd be more than happy to help you out with that. Working as hard as you do. The least I could do is greet you when you come home from a long day with my legs spread open for you. My pussy eager and waiting for that fat cock."

"I'd need your mouth first Bunny. It was an especially hard day."

"Of course Honeybunches. I'd love to be on my knees for you, my mouth wet and warm as it takes your big cock. Giving you a proper welcome home from a job."

You could hear him breathing harder on the other end of the line.

"You'd put your hands in my hair and fuck my mouth so good, wouldn't you honey?"

"Yeah baby." He panted.

"My pussy would get all wet just from me sucking your cock off. Just the thought of it right now has got me all sticky honeybunches. Would you let me play with myself as I sucked you off? Or would you be selfish?"

"Depends on if you've been a good girl for me Bunny."

You let out a mock gasp. "I'm always a good girl! You know that honey." you teased.

He let out a chuckle. "Yes you are Bunny. But you're a tease too."

"You love it when I tease you. I'd tease you even with your cock down my throat. I'd run my tongue up and down your fat cock, making sure to circle the top of your pretty cock with my tongue before sucking you back down. All the while, my fingers are buried deep in my pussy, wishing you were there too. I want to be filled completely by my Honey." You moaned out, your fingers finding that spot inside that just made your back arch.

"Fuck Bunny." He said and you knew he was close. "I'd fuck you good and hard, just like you need it."

"Yeah?" You moaned out and the you found he was flipping the script on you.

"Yeah Bunny. I grab that gorgeous hair of yours and wrap it around my fist, pulling you close to me as I pounded into you. Having you on your hands and knees, keeping you so close to me, there wouldn't be an inch of you that wasn't touched by me. And while I pounded into that perfect pussy of yours, my fingers would be busy playing with that clit, knowing that I couldn't and wouldn't cum until you came under me atleast three times."

"Three times?" You teased.

"That's just the appetizer." He whispered and you could practically feel the smirk that you knew was plastered on his face. "If I got my hands on you bunny. I'd ruin you with my cock. There would be no one else, that pussy would be molded and shaped by me; for me."

"Oh fuck." You moaned out dropping your persona for just a moment.

"You like that Bunny?"

"Yeah." You agreed your voice husky.

"My Bunny is just as possessive as I am."

"Oh Honey, yes." You moaned out.

"Is my Bunny touching herself?"

"Yeah Honey."

"That's my good girl. Does that pussy crave my cock as much as I do you?"

"Yes. I'm so empty without you buried deep inside, my honey."

The other side of the line stayed silent for a moment, just the sounds of his filthy moans were heard as you continued pumping your fingers in and out of you, truly wishing it was him inside you.

"Do you hear how wet my pussy is for you Honey? As I fuck my pussy with my fingers wishing it was you filling me up?"

You'd never met or even see your Honey, but you knew he was gorgeous and would be an absolute beast in bed; just by the sound of his voice. You knew he spoke true, he would ruin you just to put you back together and do all over again.

"Fuck Bunny. I'm going to take you away from everything and it's just going to be me and you."

This was different for your Honey, but you were too wrapped up in trying to reach your orgasm to care; so you played along like you usually do with your clients.

"You're going to take me away from my life honey? Treat me like the princess I am."

"Yes Bunny."

"Mmm." You hummed over the line at the thought of finally meeting your honey, the mysterious and so called hitman taking you away from your dreary life working three jobs; to a secluded island where he fucks you silly. "I think I like that idea, honey."

"Good. Now cum for me Bunny. I want to hear those moans and I want you to think of me pounding my cock into that soft and willing pussy."

"Oh fuck!" You moaned out as you felt yourself climax around your fingers, biting down on your lip as your orgasm crashed over you. All the while you heard the soft tell-tell groan of your honey, cumming with you.

You let out a small chuckle as you pulled your hands from your pj bottoms and felt your body calm, in its post-orgasm bliss. "Well you know your special honey 'cuz I don't cum for any of my other clients."

"Just me." He confirmed.

"Just you, honey."

He let out a low hum on the other end of the line. "I'm glad. I don't think I could handle you fingering that sweet pussy for any man but me."

You chuckled. "Oh no honey. It's all for you. But I'm sorry honey, our hour is up and I have to get some shut eye. Which will be much easier now that you've helped me get off. It's very appreciated."

"Anytime bunny. Good night."

"Good night honey." You said before ending the call and smiling to yourself as you plugged your phone in the charger and shut off the light.

As you drifted to sleep you imagined what your honey would look like, and you let your mind wonder to the idea of him whisking you away to some remote place, just the two of you.

And as you drifted, Bucky stood outside your apartment complex, staring up at your bedroom window and gathering the nerve to do just that.

[tobiasdrake]

The Hundred Line: Last Defense Academy 112 - Babysitting

Day 46 of 100. With the huge fucking infodump out of the way, we're back to Free Time. And I was going to do... stuff... Yeah.

I believe the plan was training in the new VR level that includes B-Team. Since I leveled up Gym and now have extra skills to unlock.

They're learning. There's a lot of 10 HP and 6 HP guys on the field right now. Also a bunch of these 2 HP dumpies but they're in the back and on the other side of the field from Tsubasa.

I'm actually going to have to work for this one, but it's worth it for the 3,000 BP.

As for the afternoon... let's do some Gifting. I haven't gifted anything to Shouma yet. What do you get for the boy who thinks he's garbage?

It's perfect.

I knew you'd appreciate it. Now use it responsibly!

...he's definitely going to Solid Snake around the school wearing it.

That does it for day 46. Now, for day 47, I will--

--go fuck myself, I guess. It's time for a Karua flashback.

Fucking roasted.

We're at level 2 in Math right now, though, so I think Karua would be proud of us. It turned out that studying was pointless; It was actually hanging out with Hiruko and Eito that let us absorb mathematical comprehension through osmosis.

Which really just means that Takumi is a social learner. He best acquires knowledge by sitting with someone and going through the motions with them guiding him. Something that crowded school systems often aren't equipped to properly give him.

...though he also doesn't pay attention when people talk and misses important details that have to be re-explained to him later. He only really retains the knowledge when it's relevant to a task he's trying to complete.

It's what makes the preparation section of the Persuasion minigame funny. Takumi isn't able to charismatically talk a person into accepting his ideas by retaining knowledge of them and working it to his advantage; He just spends a day cramming for the test by asking everyone else what they know about the person.

Persuasion minigame has some "glancing at the notes I wrote on my arm while going 'Uh-huh, Uh-huh" energy.

Oh my god, Karua is babysitting. That's humiliating. And appropriate.

Okay, I no longer think these memories are being fed to us. Only that they're narratively plot-convenient.

This one was definitely triggered by the discussion of World Death this morning and the true state of the earth.

That seems likely, yeah. The people running the TRC must know about World Death. It's likely top-secret ultra-confidential information.

Yeah, that makes sense. God, can you imagine living in a box and not even knowing that the moon existed? How do you even explain the moon to someone for the first time?

See, that is exactly why it would be difficult to explain the moon to someone for the first time. Thank you for your demonstration, Takumi.

Do your equations, Takumi.

There's always a takeaway from these flashbacks. Last time, it was that Karua and by extension probably Nozomi wants to look up at the sky with an astronomical telescope. It seems probable that we're going to do that with her at some point. In fact, there's an astronomical telescope as an option in the Gift-o-Matic.

This flashback, I find concerning because the only thing I can latch onto that might be relevant to our circumstances... is the possibility of the moon falling on us.

...

That can't be it. I have confirmed with my own eyes that the moon is still up there in the night sky, so nothing to do with a moon crash can be related to our predicament right now.

Maybe this one legitimately meant nothing, and is just a reflection of our mind rotating the truth of the world outside?

[gwinaesfer]

Thoughts on Dragon Age: Inquisition (and how they relate to my opinion of the Veilguard)

It occurred to me that I never finished this review JDIFSOAJDIOSA I'm a few months late but hey, better late than never. Some of you are aware and were excited for me to play Inquisition for the first time after playing Veilguard, sooo let me yap about it.

Important notes: I have only finished the main story, I don't think I'll play the DLCs but I'll explain this further on (in summary, I'm exhausted and the DLCs are long and hard).

This post is GIGANTIC, and also to respect people who don't like critial content I'm putting it under the cut. If you're skipping this, thanks for the company, I do want to chat more with people who have other perspectives so my ask box is open. Still, reminder that this is MY opinion on how things happened in MY experience, you are allowed to disagree with me.

Let's start on a lighter note, here's everything I absolutely adored about this game:

Straight to the top of the list, the soundtrack. What a work of art, pure emotion in song that takes you on this journey even harder than the game itself. The motifs that follow you throughout the story and remind you why you're there, that you have a world to save and people to care about, how the scores talk between each other. Just UGH, 1000000000000000000000000/10. Personal opinion it is better than VG's soundtrack, not an accident that one of my favorite musical moments of VG was the Inquisition theme building up in Blood of Arlathan.

The scenery. What a BEAUTIFUL game to look at, even with 2010's graphics and resolution, the game looks like a painting wherever you stop. Shoutout to the Dales and the Emerald Graves for making me tear up. I love both game's art style, I have nothing to complain or compare.

The companions*: It's impossible not to love all of them, building a friendship (or relationship) takes time and feels earned, I loved how realistic that felt. Yes some people disagreed with my choices and we didn't turn out friends in the end because of it, it's what happens in life and I actually liked having this sense that no, not everyone loves my Inquisitor for what she does. Romance will get its own topic but the friendships in this game, oh my god. Cassandra opening up and turning out to be really sweet and goofy, Leliana being emotional about everything that's going on, Josephine letting herself relax around you and no one else, literally every single one of the Iron Bull scenes, the Wicked Grace game. Goddamn I love these people. Also while at it, the character designs were on point, chef's kiss.

*Regarding personality, I will have a topic further on about the companion missions but it's in the bad section lmfao.

The romance. You guys saw me going through solavellan hell, and if that was an afterthought that they added later in development I can't IMAGINE what the other romances look like. It's tragic and it hurts but it fits the story so well, I do have an issue with it but I understand in this case that it was added later so it will be lacking. For me personally it was so odd and so sad seeing Solas being a normal person for once and realize that he is a person (Veilguard lays heavily on the mystic aspects of him). I think solavellan is an extraordinary match, I see why it's so popular, you all were absolutely right.

Speaking of her, the Inquisitor. WHAT a character. The responsibility of the world on one's shoulder and the yearning from being completely alone while surrounded by people. I played a Lavellan Inquisitor (duh) and it hits you just right just how hard her life is, someone who belonged to a culture that's completely separate from the rest of the world now having to face all of it, becoming a symbol of a faith she doesn't have. She was to be the Keeper of the entire clan, was taken from that path and lost it without ever being able to do anything about it. She's surrounded by people who don't understand or disregard her beliefs and still fights for all of them. When I played Veilguard I thought it was bullshit that she would leave the world behind and willingly go to the Fade, now that I know who she is I see why she needed to go. GodDAMN what a tragic character and so fun to explore in writing.

Not a Section, but what I'm gonna touch on this next topic isn't good or bad. This is neutral ground.

The Story. I have mixed feelings about the story of this game, mainly because playing it in its entirety was SO demanding, SO boring, that I could barely connect to the story at all. It felt badass in a way that I read about it and thought whoa, that's cool, but after I finished it, I felt like it could be more. Still, a protagonist that unwillingly becomes 1- a religious symbol (REGARDLESS of their faith), 2- a war general and 3- a KING/QUEEN of their own little nation was INSANE. Also loved how much culture there is on this game, Orlais looked so different from Ferelden and the rest of the world, all the bits of Dalish history we could read, talk about and even visit sacred grounds!!! I learned more about the Qunari by just chatting with Bull than playing Taash's quest in VG. Thedas looks so alive in this game, it's refreshing to see.

On another note, however. What made the story move and the conflits it brought didn't seem convincing enough for me. Corypheus is a good antagonist, sure, and his monologues were incredible. I still have no fucking idea where he came from, who he is (was?) and what led him to be there in the first place. If the game told me, I was too tired of it to listen. All I gathered was red lyrium bad, addiction worse, fake(?) archdemon big no no, I barely understood what Solas was doing there too, but only because I already knew about it before playing. If all of this is explained in Trespasser, then sorry, didn't have the patience to play it, but also, if the core of your story is explained in a DLC, that's also bad??????? Anyway, good anchor to go to the bad section of this post.

Most critical part of the post, everything I hated about this game (you're welcome to drop the reading right now XD thanks for the company if you do so, see you around <3)

Playability was my biggest issue with Inquisition. Right off the bat, the camera made it impossible for me to fare well in combat and just navigating the game in general, it took me a few tries to actually grasp it in the prologue (I walked around pressing the mouse keys to move the camera with it instead of A and D). I don't know how Inquisition was released, but it felt like a console game thrown into a PC platform without the necessary changes for it to run well for PC players. I didn't mind the ability bar (or whatever it's called), it took no time at all for me to get used to it, it was the camera that got me nauseous and didn't allow me to actually see the game. 3/10 because of how the companions will blast out their special abilities automatically instead of you having to select them (which saved my ass countless times)

I think it still counts as playability, but the quests came in second as my biggest issue, which is bad because it's.... the whole game. The main quests didn't feel very connected between each other for me because of the sheer amount of side quests available between them. I was completely drained halfway through it, I was SO bored, I was viciously following markers going "I wish I was playing literally anything else right now", I forced myself to finish this game and that shouldn't have happened. "But Gwin, you don't have to do the side quests!" True, and by not doing them I miss out on 90% of the lore in a game known for it's writing, I miss companion quests and opinions that could change my view on certain topics, and generally speaking the markers left on the map would piss me off.

I DID miss companion quests, I didn't finish Sera's and Vivienne's stories at all! I know where I went wrong with Vivienne, I refused to give her the wyvern heart because I didn't know what she was going to do with it, and I found absolutely no way of finding out later? It looked like I was completely locked out of her story (I understand the story reasons of it, the "you didn't trust me with this so fuck off" I guess, but no explanation whatsoever? No way of saying aye sorry I didn't give you this then but I want to now?). I have no idea what went wrong with Sera.

Some of the quests were also SO mundane and so... ??????. For instance why am I, the leader of a newly founded military force focused on saving the whole goddamn world, looking for a goat someone lost in the woods? Why am I looking for a wedding ring your daughter lost in the snow? Some of the early game quests made sense (looking for supplies for the refugees, finding medicine for that one woman, hell even looking for the golden halla had meaning), but the others...? In my opinion Veilguard made better choices in side quests, all of them did feel like they had stakes on the bigger problem at hand, you should help the compassion spirits because they were on the verge of turning/you will uncover an entire demon operation under Minrathous, you should look for the crows missing in Rivain because they were bringing suplies back to Treviso after the dragon attack, those missions helped the storytelling of how fucked up the world was then.

Another thing that Veilguard did WAY better and no one can argue about this, all the companions matter to the story at some point, and all of them show up in big missions where you would expect the whole team to be there. Inquisition had me facing an army of demons with 3 people. Out of TWELVE companions only about half of them were integral to the story. You can spend the entire game without talking to HALF the crew once and it doesn't change absolutely anything. Lelianna and Cassandra mattered because of the Divine, Varric mattered because he's directly tied to how the entire plot started and to Hawke, Cole sort of matters because he warned Haven about Corypheus and he's used in storytelling regarding Solas and spirits, and that's all that comes to mind right now.

It was a good game, it could've been great, even, it had everything to be, but I've said this before, I'll take an imperfect game with great playability over a perfect game that's insufferable to play. It does not push me away from loving this era of Dragon Age history though, it's just not something I'll revisit often.

Thank you for reading, I encourage you to give your opinion (respectfully, please, this is a conversation and not a debate), and I want to make more friends to talk about this.

[koterkot]

i'm probably a system but i have a job so idrc about that rn

[vanilla-bean-buttercream]

"Allies should be okay with hearing hard truths that we have been suffering through for years, because if a child has to experience it, they as an adult can take the time to understand it with their adult brain and their adult emotions, and if they cannot handle that, I shouldn't have to be okay with handling their feelings gently."

and

"Sometimes we go too hard on allies because they're the only person who benefits from the problem who will listen to us, and the anger that we have carried from being wronged for years should not be put solely put on the shoulders of people trying to help us, and they should not have to be okay with being mistreated with the same hatred that people have aimed at us."

Can and should coexist actually.

[fresh-bed-old-sheets]

Ok ok NOW i will finally sit down and do all my work and clean my room and have a shower and then make the perfect routine for myself and Start Following It and then i will exercise and start a hobby and start being good at socialising and create a good relationship with my parents and Never do anything wrong and

[sparkdoesart]

I hate to post this here but i drew it so i might as well

Even if the world wants me to fail, even if i do, i will never stop giving all i have for the people around me. I will be kind and understanding until the day i die.

[lesbianlenas]

i have been very sociable since starting the new school yr vs last yr where i was like not lmfao & i was wondering why that was bc i was a lot more sociable in college and then after starting law school i was like avoiding ppl again for no reason and having a lot of trouble being like idk normal talking to ppl bc it’s like i get really 😐 and i will not give anything to ppl i’m talking to which is truly not me at all personality wise but it is smth i struggle w…..but anyway i was thinking to myself why am i doing so much better like i am quite honestly being more sociable than i have ever been in my life now when not much has changed & i had just majorly regressed but i think i was just really emotionally drained last yr for several reasons and i know the reason i was like that in high school was bc i was stuck living w my dad & that was so mentally/emotionally draining that doing everything including talking to other ppl was so difficult and i was very closed off to ppl bc of that & i think i was going thru a similar experience of emotional/mental exhaustion last yr that just made me really drained & not able to be normal around other ppl 😭 bc the only thing that is different abt me now from a few months ago is that i have really been able to let go of certain things that have been causing me a lot of mental distress for a while & even tho i have been dealing w depression issues as always i have been in a way better place emotionally even if not so much mentally & i have been able to be so much more comfortable interacting w ppl & being myself & not being so closed off it’s very nice 😌 i actually feel normal now & it is helping w my depression a lot too bc having that issue again was making my depression a lot worse too. but basically i feel like a normal person again after spending the past yr feeling extremely uncomfortable & not in control of myself bc of how i couldn’t make myself act normal & being all closed off even tho i didn’t want to be. so i love that for me 😊

[electricpurrs]

do you think if i went to college id have the opportunity to hang out with friends and kiss cute boys. is this where im gonna need to find the motivation to go to college