#why are his hands so tiny what's wrong with him

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part Three

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

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

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

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

Word count: 21.2k

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

main masterlist part one part two

Fuck.

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

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

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

So why the hell were you late?

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

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

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

Spencer.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

You stared down at your phone again. 

4 days late.

The screen blurred as you blinked too hard.

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

You exhaled, long and shaky.

Okay.

But you didn’t want to do this alone.

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

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

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

So you called him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You burst out laughing—loud and unrestrained.

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

“Yes?”

“Can you stop at the store, actually?”

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

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

Silence.

Dead silence.

“…Spencer?”

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

And he hung up.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips twitched. “Multiple?”

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

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

He blinked at you. “But I can try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him.

He stared back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked. “Okay. Hit me.”

“I need a cup.”

Spencer stared at you. “What…?”

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

“The Solo cups?”

“Yes.”

“From under the sink?”

“Yes.”

“For… pee?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when it hit him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I hope our kid gets your laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Negative.

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

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

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

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

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Every last one.

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

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

You were relieved because you could still breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should you cancel?

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

And your heart drops.

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

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

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

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

You practically shriek the word. “No!”

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

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

So, instead, you crumble.

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

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

You don’t look up.

But you feel the bed dip beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That last line earns him a reluctant sniff-laugh.

He takes a cautious step closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m very aware.”

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

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

“Don’t push it, Reid.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now he was home.

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

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

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

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

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

He was back. Finally, back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer blinked. “Oh.”

His towel slipped out of his hands.

“Ohhh…”

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

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

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

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

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

His hands gripped the counter tighter. “Jesus—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t see his hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer made a soft choking noise.

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

You paused, watching his face.

“Or just later?”

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

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

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

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

It only took seconds.

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

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

And then he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked. “Jesus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—then—he began to move.

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

And then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

It was happening to you.

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

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

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

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

No. He launched into a monologue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimpered something unintelligible.

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

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

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

And with one final, perfect thrust—

It did. You shattered.

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

Behind you, Spencer choked on a gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asked softly.

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

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

“Good possessed or bad possessed?”

“The sexy kind.”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

The first thing you felt was wet.

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

Your eyes flew open. Wide. Alert.

Shit.

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

Yours was not.

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

It was bad.

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

Which meant—Spencer’s sheets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To figure out what the hell to do.

But then—behind the door—you heard it.

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

Double shit.

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

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

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

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

You winced. Of course, he noticed.

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

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

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

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

But the relief didn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the sound of soft shuffling feet across hardwood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That did it.

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

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

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

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

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

“Even though I own three kinds of bleach?”

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Spencer—”

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

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

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

“But Spencer, really—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Spencer snorted.

You groaned, eyes still closed. “What?”

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

You didn’t have the strength. “Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was a death wish.”

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

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

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

—

You hadn’t expected this errand to be sexy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happened.

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

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

And you?

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

Because Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you tried. You really did.

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

But then he put the car in reverse.

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

Your rational mind just… left the building.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

You weren’t even pretending to behave anymore.

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

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

Relentlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “And in the hallway?”

Spencer groaned. “You need to stop talking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

Knock knock.

Both of you froze.

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

A beat.

Then again.

Knock knock.

Slightly louder this time.

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

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

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

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

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

“Act natural,” he whispered frantically.

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

“I am trying!”

Another knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “No? Who’s Ethan?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You heard the lie. Spencer never lied.

But you didn’t jump in to correct him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer flinched at that but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

“That’s enough!”

The words cracked through the apartment like a thunderclap.

Silence slammed down in their wake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a final wound on his way out.

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

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

He let you take it. 

Gratefully.

Desperately.

…

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

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

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

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

Spencer stilled.

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

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

You nodded slightly, waiting.

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

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

Spencer offered it willingly, if slowly.

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

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

“And now?” you asked softly.

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

You nodded, squeezing his hand.

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

He gave you a small, fragile smile.

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

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

You took a breath, steadying yourself.

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

Spencer blinked at you, his fork pausing midair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You reached for his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wouldn’t. Not even a little.

—

The headaches didn’t just start.

But you didn’t know that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another pause. Then: “A couple weeks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t argue.

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

…

But the migraines… they didn’t pass.

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

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

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

Still brilliant. Still kind. But dimmed. Distant.

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

And you’d heard of this version before.

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

The Spencer who had used.

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

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

And you knew he was clean. You knew it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed.

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

But it took so long.

So long.

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

But over time, it became suffocating.

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

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

So you stopped reaching out.

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

And somewhere in the middle of it all…

You forgot how to be his girlfriend.

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

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

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

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

Because you were still fighting. Every day. 

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

He looked... wrecked.

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

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

And your heart just about shattered.

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

He looked like he didn’t believe you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not speaking. Not rushing. Just holding on.

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

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

…

Spencer stays the night.

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

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

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

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

But it did.

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

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

It was enough.

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

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

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

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

In the morning, it was… normal.

Almost eerily so.

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

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

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

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

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

Or if it ever would.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it is.

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

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

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

From then on, he tries.

In the smallest ways.

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

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

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

It makes you tear up.

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

And you let him try.

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

You hold space for all of it.

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

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

This part isn’t easy either.

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

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

But you do it anyway.

You look at him—really look—and say:

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

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

So you keep going. Gently. But honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

But Spencer doesn’t.

Because he listens.

He always listens.

And more importantly—he responds.

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

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

You nod, already tearing up. But you don’t drop his hand. You hold tighter.

Because now it’s out. The words are real. The air between you isn’t full of what-ifs and almosts anymore—it’s full of truth.

And from here, you can finally start again.

…

Rossi notices it first.

The way Spencer walks a little lighter into the bullpen, his satchel slung across one shoulder and a barely concealed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The way he lingers longer in conversations again and doesn’t just nod and disappear into the nearest file. The way his eyes brighten when his phone buzzes, and your name lights up the screen.

He’s back.

Not just showing up. Not just surviving. But present.

And for a team that’s seen him hollowed out by pain—grief, migraines, trauma, silence—it’s everything.

So Rossi, in his infinite paternal wisdom and subtle Italian flair, throws out the idea over coffee one morning like it’s nothing.

“Team night at my place this Friday,” he says, handing Hotch his espresso. “The usual—music, wine, enough pasta to drown a horse. Partners invited.”

Hotch raises a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It always is,” Rossi grins. “And that’s the point.”

The word spreads quickly—Penelope is already planning outfits and playlists, JJ starts texting around to see who’s bringing what, and Spencer?

~

It’s a quiet afternoon when your phone buzzes.

You’re in the middle of some mundane work task, one of those peaceful moments where your brain is finally unoccupied just enough to hum again. You glance down at your phone, expecting some spam notification or a reminder you forgot to cancel.

But it’s him.

Spencer.

Spencer Reid — who still, despite everything you’ve been through together, texts like he’s composing a letter with a fountain pen. The preview on the lock screen reads:

Would you maybe want to come with me to something?

You smile before you’ve even unlocked the phone.

You can practically hear the cadence of his voice in the phrasing. See the way he’d glance away when saying it in person, fingers tugging at the corner of a folder or the hem of his sleeve, his mouth twitching with nerves and hope.

You type back:

Yes. Absolutely. What is it?

There’s a pause—a longer one this time—and then:

Rossi is hosting a team dinner. Just something casual. Partners invited. Everyone will be there. I’d like you to be there too. With me.

Your heart swells. Not because it’s a party, or because you get to be in a mansion, or even because it’s a rare invitation into his work life—but because it’s him.

Of course.

You send it immediately, no second thoughts, no edits. And almost instantly, the three little dots appear. Then a single message comes through:

Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.

But you do. You really do.

You put your phone down, and for a moment, just sit in the warmth of it all.

Because even through the screen, you can feel it—that tiny shift in Spencer’s world. That quiet loosening of his shoulders. That sweet, boyish, barely-there smile you love so much.

~

He asked. You said yes. And something inside him—tight and long-held—finally lets go.

Because he’s not just inviting you to dinner—he’s inviting you into something. Back into his world, where you belong.

The week flies by, and by Friday night, you're practically bouncing in your seat as Spencer drives you through winding roads and tree-lined driveways. He’s wearing that soft sweater you love, the one that clings to his arms just right, and his hair is freshly washed, curls soft and neat, like he tried extra hard.

When you arrive at Rossi’s mansion—stone archways, glowing windows, and the smell of garlic and rosemary floating through the open door—you’re met with warmth. Laughter. Familiar faces.

Penelope squeals when she sees you, immediately wrapping you in a glittery hug. JJ hands you a glass of wine before you’ve even made it past the foyer. Derek grins, claps Spencer on the back, and says, “There’s the man of the hour.”

But the best part— The best part is how natural it feels.

You and Spencer move through the house like you’ve always been a pair. Like the distance, the silence, the months of aching and not knowing how to reach each other are finally, finally behind you.

He keeps a hand on the small of your back as you walk into the kitchen. He leans in to tell you little jokes while you nibble from the charcuterie board. When someone teases him—probably Morgan—you rest a hand on his knee and feel him exhale with laughter instead of flinching like he might have weeks ago.

And later, when the group settles into the living room with glasses of wine and soft music playing in the background, you find yourselves tucked into the corner of Rossi’s oversized sectional, Spencer’s arm around your shoulders, your head against his chest.

You’re back in your groove.

You feel it in the way he laughs again without hesitation. You see it in how he looks at you—like the storm has passed, and you were his shelter the whole time. You feel it in yourself, too—in the quiet calm beneath your ribs, the safety of this, whatever this is becoming again.

And as the team jokes, reminisces, and bickers affectionately around you, you can’t help but close your eyes for a moment, smile into his sweater, and think—

We’re okay. We made it. We’re home.

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

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[oaksgrove]

hi love! I hope you're doing alright ♡

im here to request a tiny, little angsty piece. I can picture John being so, so tired from work that he just can't stand being touched, but his beloved needs it so badly, so they go for it (holding his hand) —don't get them wrong, they always ask! but they also had a bad day. John snaps, accidentally smacking their hand away.

little angst, with John comforting withdrawn neurodivergent reader after he accidentally snaps at them, which turns into them comforting each other because "you're tired - no, you are tired", until John moves to seek their touch himself

Tired.

Pairing: John Price x Neurodivergent!Reader

Synopsis: Some days are too much. Too loud, too bright, too sharp. When the world presses in, you don’t need grand gestures. You just need John to understand.

Warning: Sensory overload, brief miscommunication/startled response, hurt/comfort, soft reconciliation

The kettle was screaming again.

High-pitched. Piercing. It had only just started, but it dragged across your nerves like nails on glass. You stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, jumper sleeves stretched down past your hands and gripped tight in your fists.

It was just a kettle.

But it wasn’t.

The hallway light was flickering again, same as yesterday, the bulb stuttering in the corner of your vision. The drawer next to the stove was open again—your carefully organized cutlery now out of order, one large spoon stuffed awkwardly into the teaspoon slot like a mistake you couldn’t fix. And the boots—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

John’s heavy steps across the kitchen floor, back and forth, back and forth like a pacing bear in a too-small cage. He was muttering again, voice low but rough with frustration.

“Fucking brass—changing the op schedule last minute—bloody nightmare—”

You winced.

You weren’t scared of him. Never had been. But the noise, the pressure, the weight of it all pressing down around your shoulders—it was too much today. Too loud. Too bright. Too off.

You didn’t even realize you’d whispered his name until his voice cut through the air, sharp and fast.

“What?” he snapped, turning with a furrowed brow, hand half-raised in mid-gesture.

It wasn’t loud. Not really.

But it cracked something in you.

Your whole body stiffened. Like a rubber band stretched too thin. Your shoulders drew up high and your chin tucked down, sleeves clenched in your fists, throat closing up.

John stopped.

Instantly.

His face changed—brows falling, mouth parting with regret blooming like a bruise behind his eyes.

“Shit—no, love—wait—” he stepped toward you quickly, one hand out, then hesitated, hovering like he didn’t want to crowd you. “I didn’t mean that. Christ, I’m sorry.”

You said nothing. You looked down.

And that was somehow worse.

“I was just—” he started again, then cut himself off with a frustrated sound, softer this time. “Fuck, I was bein’ a right bastard.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he said.

You tried to breathe. The room felt too big and too tight all at once. The kettle shrieked one last time before clicking off. Still too late.

“I didn’t mean to be in your way,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just—everything’s loud today. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

John stared at you. His mouth twitched like he was about to argue—but then he caught himself. He crouched a little in front of you instead, like he was trying to shrink himself. His voice lowered.

“You’re not makin’ it worse. I am,” he admitted. “I know when I get like this—loud, angry—I make things heavier. And you’re carryin’ too much as it is.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

Just tried to unknot your fingers from your sleeves.

“I don’t always have the words,” you said finally, voice thin. “Some days I just… can’t talk properly. Or explain why everything feels so sharp.”

John’s gaze dropped to your hands, your tight shoulders, the way you were trying so hard to regulate even as your body rebelled against the room.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “Not to me.”

You looked at him. A flicker of disbelief passed across your face.

“I’m not good at being…” you trailed off. “Easy. Or quiet. Or normal.”

John’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“I didn’t marry you because I wanted normal,” he said. “I married you because you feel like home.”

A beat of silence. The flickering light still buzzed. But it felt dimmer now—like the world had shifted, just slightly, around him.

“You’re tired,” you said softly. “You’ve been pacing since you got back.”

His mouth tugged into a wry smile. “No, you’re tired.”

You blinked. “Okay. We’re both tired.”

He huffed a warm, half-laugh. Then—very carefully—he leaned his forehead against your chest. Not heavy, just enough for you to feel the quiet weight of him.

“You always let me come back,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I act like a grumpy sod.”

Your hand came up without thinking. Just resting gently in his hair. Fingers threading through the soft, short strands at his crown.

“I love you,” you said quietly. “Even when you’re a grumpy sod.”

He exhaled. His arms wrapped around your waist.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” he murmured. “Sorry for making today harder.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. “You just startled me. That’s all.”

You held each other for a long while—standing in the middle of the kitchen, kettle off, boots stilled, lights flickering quietly above. Nothing had changed. But everything had softened.

And when John eventually pulled back to press a kiss to your forehead, he didn’t say anything more.

He just reached over, finally closed the drawer the proper way, and turned off the light.

“C’mon, love,” he said gently. “Let’s go sit down. I’ll make you tea.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[slvbum]

Rafe soothing Marie ♡ Rafe Cameron!

content WARNING: Rafe × Bunny!Reader marriage, maternity, fussy baby, crying.

based on this request HERE!

No one had warned her about how hard maternity would be. But now it was 2:17 AM and Y/N had been battling to put Marie Thérèse to sleep for hours. The two month old, refused to settle, her tiny fists clenching and her face twisting into a fussy grimace, her cries growing louder with each passing minute. Y/N’s eyes stung with unshed tears, her voice cracking as she whispered soothing words, her bare feet aching from pacing the house for what felt like an eternity. She was finally realising how hard taking care of a baby could be. The weight of her helplessness pressed down, and as Marie’s wails escalated, a sob broke free from Y/N’s throat, her arms trembling as she rocked the crying baby. She was desperate.

Rafe jolted awake at the sound, his heart racing as he stumbled out of bed and followed the noise to the living room. The sight of his wife, tears streaming down her face with Marie screaming in her arms, sent a jolt of fear through him.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, almost panicked as he rushed to her side, worried.

Y/N shook her head, sobbing uncontrollably. “I don’t know why she won’t sleep—she’s so fussy, and I can’t make her stop!” Her words dissolved into a choked cry.

Rafe gently took Marie into his arms, his large hands cradling her small body as he began to rock her, his movements instinctive but unsure.

“Easy, princess. You’re giving mama a hard time.”

His hand brushed her belly with a delicate touch, and to his surprise, her cries softened, her tiny face relaxing slightly. Encouraged, he massaged her belly with careful circles, muttering, “I saw the nanny do this once… says it helps with gas or something.” His voice was low, almost to himself, as Marie’s fussing eased, her breaths evening out. Y/N sniffed, leaning closer, her red-rimmed eyes watching him as he worked like an expert. She wasn’t going to admit it, but she felt a bit jealous. She gave birth to that baby and couldn’t calm her.

“I’m useless as a mother,” she whispered, a tight knot forming in her throat. “My legs hurt, and I can’t even get her to sleep. I don’t deserve her.”

Rafe’s head snapped toward her, his expression hardening.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. He shifted Marie to one arm, stepping closer to his wife, and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “We’re learning together, okay? You’re not alone in this. See? She’s out already,” He looked down the sleeping baby and then up to his wife, she looked so tired that his heart shrink. “Go to bed, bunny. I’ll be with you in second, you deserve magic hands tonight.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[rexhya]

thinking about dragon sukuna who hasn't seen a human like you in ages.

you're a highly qualified wildlife researcher who accidentally stumbled upon a tiny pink creature.

to be completely honest you're extremely excited and extremely scared, you think you've just discovered a new species, reptile like claws, scaly tail ending in fluffy feathers, and the most jarring of all, a human like face that peers at you with glass looking eyes.

the animal looks like a baby of whatever species it came from, so you back away, threes a high chance his or her mother is nearby and you don't want anything to do with what the full grown version of this may look like.

but the pinkish critter only follows you closer, and you realize this is your chance to get a photo, it doesn't seem hostile, maybe the species is docile?

"okay, you stay right there love, i just want a picture okay?"

the small dragon cocks it's head, "okay!"

you scream, your camera flying up and landing in a muddy puddle by a tree, the sound causing the animal to scream as well, suddenly in distress.

you looked like a nice dragon, albeit a bit funny looking without your tail and scales to protect you, but yuuji didn't judge!

maybe your egg had problems before you'd hatched, maybe your father wasn't strong enough to protect you and a slytherin poked a hole in the shell!

whatever the reason, yuuji wasn't one to jump to conclusions so when you'd screamed at the top of your lungs after asking for a picture, yuuji had thought something was wrong, he screamed as well.

and like clockwork, strong loud beats came swooping into the clearing.

you immediately ran the opposite direction, whatever the thing was, it most definitely wasn't going to be as friendly as whatever you'd just seen and even if it was, you weren't taking any chances.

unbeknownst to you, this idea was futile, sukuna catches up to you and you're pinned to the ground within seconds.

his appearance matched that of his sons, pink soft scales, claws that gripped your much smaller neck, a much longer tail that instead sprouted in spiky horns and what you couldn't see on yuuji before, 12 inch horns ( at least ) that curved back into a S shape, with barbaric teeth inside your mouth.

"please don't kill me, I didn't mean to scare him." you tried, tears forming in your eyes as the beast inspected you, and miraculously, released you.

"you speak, what were you doing with my son." sukuna was just as shocked as you were, most of the animals he caught trying to disturb his precious son were aggressive and were dealt with immediately. you on the other hand, could be reasoned with.

"I was just trying to get a picture, i didn't know he could talk, I didn't know you could talk, it just surprised me is all."

sukuna grunted and took a step forward, you flinched and tripped over a root, looking up from this position really gave you a sense of how tall this man-creature really was and it terrified you all the more.

"are you not dragon? why do you act surprised?" sukuna was confused now, you didn't exactly look like a dragon, your teeth were almost as dull as his child, but disability didn't excuse your intentions, whatever those may be.

"i'm, i'm a human." and yuuji who'd been left in the dust as sukuna addressed you, jaw dropped open, a nervous but excited look on his face.

sukuna wasted no time, "then it's settled, you must be killed now."

starr starr

you're glad sukuna's son was there that day, if not for his insistence to keep you alive you weren't sure if you would be able to even do this right now.

the king of dragons, was keeping his jaw open so you could check his teeth.

you'd become a sort of doctor around these parts, and was an unspoken rule that if there was a medical issue they couldn't solve themselves, you were the person to go to.

most of the time, the dragons just wanted to see who'd been able to charm the king into a quiet submission, other times to see if you could be charmed yourself.

"okay kuna, all done! there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with you!"

and the king looks at you, a sort of dissatisfied look on his face.

the two of you stand there looking at each other for a moment.

"my," he clears his throat. "my scales have been aching lately, fix them for me." he demands it, but his eyes are turned, a tiny pink blush rooted on his face.

you blink and que him to sit back in the chair, "okay so what type of pain is it?"

"It's an aching pain. like bugs are crawling all over my skin."

you nod your head in concentration, snapping back you gloves on to rub the back of your hands on his warm skin.

it did feel...slightly prickly but nothing out of the ordinary ignoring the loud thrumming of blood you could feel from his forearms.

"well there doesnt seem to be anything wrong with you...you're symtoms are showing that your..nervous?"

sukuns had never been so surprised in his life, who knew such a being could read him so quickly, his tail swoshed out of the door withith seconds.

because he was more than just nervous, he was

[rori-is-writing]

Conflict of Interest

A The Pitt Drabble Series.

Drabbles | Teen | Dr. Robby x Nurse!Reader | 669 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: An unwanted visitor walks into your E.R. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Angst, Doctors Behaving Badly, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Nurse!Reader

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

[ A/N: Yes, this is longer than 500 words and I'm technically breaking my own rules about what a drabble is but this idea hit me like a freight train the other day and I couldn't not write it. So shhhhhhhhh. ]

You have always been a standout nurse. A tough nurse. You’ve been hit, pushed, spat on, and groped and all of it you’ve taken in stride and continued on like some stoic Buddhist warrior. 

But not today. 

Because today…he came in. 

The moment you walk into the room and see his face it’s like you’re an animatronic that had glitched mid-loop. Your skin feels hot. Your heart thunders in your ears. Your brain goes all staticky. 

“Oh would you look at that!” The older man says with a delighted smile. “I didn’t know you worked here sweetheart—“

But you don’t hear the rest because you’re already backpedaling out of the room and back into the hallway. 

You can feel your skin tingling like thousands of tiny spiders are skittering over it. You want to throw up. To cry. To run out of this hospital and never return. Instead, for possibly the first time in your entire career, you march up to Dana at the nurse’s station and say, “I need someone to switch patients with me.”

Dana frowns. 

“Excuse me?”

“I need a different patient. Any patient. I’ll even take Princess’s fecal impaction.”

“You will?!” Princess gasped hopefully. Nobody ever wanted the fecal impaction cases. 

“Why do you need a different patient? What’s wrong with him?”

You swallow. “He’s my uncle.”

If anything, Dana looks even more confused. “I know nobody is supposed to treat their family and friends but you know nobody here is going to rat you out to admin if you decide to do it anyway right?”  

But you’re already shaking your head. “That’s not why. I just…I can’t treat him. Please get someone else to do it.” And then, without another word you walk away, heading straight for the hallway that leads to the stairwell. 

You need some air. 

Now. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Santos finds you. You stare up at her from your perch on the bottom steps, waiting for her to tell you to get back to work. That you’re pathetic for hiding back here instead of just doing your damn job and treating the harmless old man like you’re supposed to.

Instead, she surprises you. 

“He did something to you.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. 

Her lips thin. 

“I thought so.”

You glance away, wringing your hands to keep them from shaking. 

“Want me to take him?”

You blink.

“…What?”

��As a patient. I’ll take him.”

Your eyes blink even faster. Did…did you hear her right? “But…why?”

“Because you need someone to be mean to him. And I’m amazing at mean.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw your arms around her in an embrace. 

“Okay,” you croak instead. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She said, strangely kind, before a glimmer appears in her eye. “So…how mean we talking?”

You can’t help but laugh, a strangled, pitiful sound if you ever heard one. “Mean enough that he never comes back here again?” 

This time, she smiles.

“You got it.” 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It’s only later—when you’re finally off the clock and indulging in a greasy, well-deserved dinner with Robby—that you hear what happened. 

“Do you know anything about the patient we had today who stormed out of the E.R.?” 

“Oh?” You say casually, knowing immediately who he’s talking about. You hadn’t been there to see it—having been assisting with a complicated trauma case at the time—but you’d heard plenty about it afterwards from your fellow gossipy nurses. 

“Yeah, apparently Santos decided to do a rectal exam. Even though, according to his symptoms, he had no need of one.” He eyed you carefully. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

“Did she?” You say innocently. “Well, she’s the doctor. She would know better than me.” 

He sighed. 

“Do I wanna know?” 

“Not today,” you tell him as you steal his french fry. “Let’s just…enjoy this. Okay?” 

His eyes soften. 

“Okay.” 

Next Drabble | Drabble Masterlist

Thanks for reading! 💙

[eddiesxangel]

Hi, I don’t know if you take requests but i love your writing.

If you’d consider it could you please write a super fluffy fic of

‘Telling Eddie you’re pregnant by giving him a tiny hellfire t-shirt’

Super fluffy like tooth rotting fluff

xoxo

Hi honey! It’s short but sweet, I haven’t written in what feels like ages (3 months) hope you like it 🫣

Tw: pregnancy, flufffff, anxiety, more fluffffff

You can’t tell if your stomach is in knots because you're nervous to tell him, or if it was the tiny human you were growing inside of you making you sick.

Your leg bounced as you bit your lip, staring at the gift bag you decked out in ribbon and tissue paper for your boyfriend.

This was the plan, so why were you so scared?

You’ve been trying a while, months have gone by without success, you wanted this so bad, it didn’t feel real. Maybe the unexpected plus sign that brought you to your knees was wrong? What if you're getting your hopes up and something goes amiss?

Lost in thought you don’t hear the lock click until the bight “Honey I’m home” rings through your ears.

Eddie’s voice, usually a sense of calm, only had you swallowing your bile.

With a deep breath you answered with a soft, “Hi baby.’”

“What is this?” Eddie rounds the corner to see you sitting at the kitchen table with a gift bag subtly trembling in your hands.

“Did I miss something?” Eddie’s face looks of worry. “Annaversary?” his brows crease.

“No. no you’re okay.” you nervously laugh.

What if the test was wrong…

“Can I ask what it’s for?” he takes a step closer, pecking your lips.

You shake your head and silently pass him the bag.

Eddie looked at you with curiosity before letting his eyes roam to the yellow and blue feather light bag in his hands.

With a smirk and a shake of his head, he tore open your delicate wrapping and pulled out a folded up piece of black and white cloth.

Setting down the bag, you watch as he uses both hands to unfold the small shirt you gifted him.

Holding it up to himself, the small Hellfire insignia was hardly big enough to cover his bellybutton.

“Baby, I think they mixed up the sizes.” He chuckles, clearly not getting it.

“No baby they didn’t” you stand stepping closer to him.

“What do yo-” he cuts himself off.

You can see the wheels turning in his head.

“No” he gasps in disbelief.

Your eyes well up, unable to help yourself as a smile breaks your face.

“Yes.” You somehow manage to choke out.

“No” he shakes his head again, but you bring his hand to your tummy to confirm.

Eddie can’t believe it. Months of disappointment, lead to a break of you trying. Still having sex, but without the pressure… and now, you’re growing a baby… his baby.

“Eddie I’m pregnant” You let a single tear slip and Eddie truly thinks his heart is going to explode.

Immediately his arms are wrapped around you so tightly he is picking you up to spin you. Whoops, hollers, giggles, lip smacking and sniffles are filling the quiet space before he gently slides you back on your feet, afraid he might hurt you both.

Foreheads resting together, you watch Eddies beaming face.

“You’re going to be a daddy” you whisper, afraid if you’re any louder it might slip through your fingers.

Eddie can’t help but lean in for a kiss, a kiss so tender, as if he might break you.

“You’re going to be a mommy” his voice cracks, chuckling with disbelief.

Slowly Eddie pull away to look down at the small balled up shirt in his fist. Looking at the tiny hellfire shirt in his hands he can’t believe how small it is. How is something so precious to fit into something so meaningful for him.

You look and Eddie, his cinnamon eyes misted over. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much the nausea completely forgotten.

“How long have you been hiding this?” He questions.

“All of 5 hours” you bite your lip, “it was torcherous.”

“I can’t believe it.” Eddie smiles.

“Me neither” you slink your arms around the love of your life.

“We are going to be a family” Eddie whispers into the top of your head. After a moment of soaking it in, you pull back to smile up at him

“We sure are baby”

[harrywavycurly]

hiii saraah, i’m having the exam (general pedagogy aka literal pain) tomorrow, matter of life and death, i’m terrified, i can’t afford to fail again🥹 not when i studied so hard last 3 weeks, i’m going insaneeee, but your steve fics calm me down even its just a little 😭🫶

Hiii lovey!!! Oh my goodness you’re gonna kick this exam’s ass (or butt sorry for cursing lol) you’re gonna do amazing and it’s gonna go as smoothly as a baby’s bottom! You’ve got this, you’ve studied and you will do wonderful but to help ease your nerves I’ll give you a tiny little Steve drabble. Now be gentle I haven’t written Mr. Harrington is ages so I hope you enjoy and I’m sorry this is the first idea that came to my mind!!💖

Summary: Steve just wants to take care of you✨

“Oh damn.” Steve’s voice is laced with a faint sound of disappointment as he stands at your car door with both hands on his hips, his eyes glaring at the roses he put there earlier this morning that are now a little wilted. “I could’ve sworn she had work today.” He mumbles as he turns on his heal and purses his lips as he looks at the front door of your house.

He quickly walks up the path that leads to your door, giving it a few gentle knocks when he gets up to it. He adjusts his green Family Video vest as he waits for you, not at all prepared for what he sees when you fling it open a few seconds later. His eyes slowly take in your appearance, you’re still in what you slept in the night before because he happened to be the there when you got ready for bed, your hair is a mess and your cheeks and nose are bright red and it makes his chest ache when he hears you let out a small sniffle.

“Oh baby what’s wrong?” He doesn’t give you time to register what’s happening before he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. “You’re burning up-why didn’t you call me? I could’ve had Robin cover my shift and come over.” He lists off questions one after the other as he walks you into the house, closing your front door with his foot.

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Your voice is rough but still has a touch of that usual softness he loves so much. “Know you’re busy.” You add as he places a hand on the back of your head pressing your cheek against the soft material of his t shirt that he has under his vest.

“Me? Busy? Baby I’m only ever busy when I’m with you or-babysitting.” He mumbles into the top of your head as he begins rocking you back and forth, you wrap your arms around him and let out a sigh of content as his warmth spreads through you helping your achy body feel better. “Come on let’s get you into bed and I’ll make you some soup.”

“You’ll make me soup?”

“Do you not want soup? Want something else? Just tell me what you want and I’ll make it for you.”

“S-soup is fine.” You say with a sleepy smile as Steve gently moves his hands so they are resting on your hips, turning you around so he can walk you towards your bedroom. “You don’t have to do all this.” You tell him as he pulls your covers up to your chest after helping you into bed.

“Yes I do.” He says with a smile as he leans over and runs a hand through your hair. “You’re the love of my life-this is the least I can do for you.” You let out a soft little noise as he leans down and places his lips to your forehead for a sweet kiss. “Now I’ll be right back with some water and some medicine to help you less achy okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He just grins before turning to walk out of your bedroom but when he reaches your door he looks at you over his shoulder making you raise an eyebrow at him.

“I’d do anything for you-you know that right?” He asks with nothing but love in his voice making your eyes get watery as you just stare at him.

“I know.”

[gustavnilsson]

But im older?.....

skz fic. this is so bad,but whatever. also ist very short,not my kind of thing,but yeah,this was just a old draft from when i was bored,sooooo

felix x older reader

reader feels mix feelings against felix,their 3 year diffrence is scaring her..While felix is head over heels

Its raining,like its poring down from the sky,like the clouds are crying. Reader just finnished at work,feet hurting,makeup smudging and hair now wet. With sharps steps she walks threw the dark streats of seoul,on her way to her....boyfriends? boy friend? or yeah,felix appartment. He texted her a half an hour ago,saying he needed help with something. She told herself they could take it another time,but just as allways. Here she was,walking in the rain. To felix appartment,again. The water dripped as she stepped inside the appartment building,legs hurting from walking all day as she walked up the seven pairs of stairs. She could taken the elivator,but no,life was just so amazing she was going to take the stairs.

With a little to agressive knock she knocks on felixs appartment. And a half second later he is there like a puppy to his owner,opening the door with a big smile. "ah! y/n,i missed you!" He said pulling her into a tight hug. "i saw you two days ago,felix." He smiles as he kisses her cheek,his blonde long hair brushing her cheek. He was cute,to cute. "But two days is longggg,48 hours,thats not nothing!" He finnaly lets go of her as he steps aside,letting her inside his warm,cosy,smells like a little bit to much home appartment. A sigh leaves her mouth as she stepps inside,felix closing the door walking past her mubbeling something "your soaking!" She is not even listening,he was so carring,it hurted to pull away.

"Here! Take these!" Felix pulls out a pair of pink sweatpants and a black hoodie,all three sizes to big. A laugh escapes her mouth as she gently takes them,walking towards the bathroom to change. The outfit was cosy,warm,but worse of all it smelled like him.

"wow..." Felix said scanning her up and down as he stood in the kitchen,a plate of brownies in his hands. "your..your beautiful,really y/n" ..."thanks,felix...i appriciate it.." ... His eyes meat hers,his full of love,hers full of fear. "lets watch a movie" "okay"

Yeah thats was a hour ago and now their both half cuddled under the soft blankets on felixs couch,his arm over her shoulders,her head on his chest. nobody can hear the movie,the unspoken silence is to loud. it allways have. sence they where little,when y/n used to tease him in middle school how tiny and small he was,or when she gradueted and he just started first year as a freshman. yeah three years wasn´t much,but it was. she was fucking 28 allmost dating a 25 year old. she saw him as little,not as a brother,just to far away from boyfriend. He was everything,would burn the world for her. But what is love if it´s only from one person? y/n could never hate him,never. But could she ever love him? Love him enough that he deserved?

"you okay?" ops,to much thoughts... "yeah,i was just..thinking.." A beat of silence,hope fylling his eyes,or meaby it was fear.. it didnt matter. "thinking about what?".. "us." "us?" "felix we cant ignore-" "ignore what?! That im a little younger tha you?!" suddenly his voice sounded more firm,like he was trying to prove something.. or meaby it was the anger from constant rejection

"your being so drmatic,y/n! do you hear yourself?" "You want to throw away everything we have because of a little age gap?! thats ridiculous!" He was angry,whitch wasnt often,only when somethings wrong,and that meant it hurts more. "im just not good for you!" "How do you know whats good for me?" something flicred threw her eyes,she didnt know,she wanted to,but didin´t. silence.

His hand reached for her cheek,she didn´tn flinch. couldn´t. "y/n..." "y/n look at me,please" Their eyes slowly meet,his eyes fylled with something...her lip trembled. "Why cant you just let me in?" A minute passed,meaby two. Feelt like five. "your to good for me"..."y/n i love you" "i allways have,why cant you see that?" Suddenly a laugh escapes her mouth,her ears turning bright red. All the tension dropping in a moment. "okay,okay lover boy" Felix expression turns into a grin,his hand lifting to her cheek again. "alright,just kiss me already" no hesitation,just his plump lips on hers,a long wedding like kiss,a small giggle in between.

After he ruffels her hair,pulling her into his arms. "is this my moment to finally get to call you mommy?" "FELIX-" "im just kidding!" y/n lands a hard smack right to his arm as he breaks out into laughter,pulling her into him as he kisses the top of her head. "alright,alright,love you" "yeah,love you two.." A beat of silence.

"Mommy."

[strangesthirdeye]

Quiet Mornings and Coffee Beans (Arthur Morgan x deaf! wife reader)

Summary: Day off is spent with loved ones.

Warning: IT'S ARTHUR FUCKING MORGAN. HE'S HOT ASF AHHHH. Fluff, Arthur being lovely hubby, Arthur being Arthur, café, desserts, coffees. Love, cute, love, idk what else. BUT NO ANGST. MODERN ERA

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Arthur Morgan had seen a lot during his week on patrol - car accidents, long nights, city noise, paperwork, and the same lousy vending machine coffee. But today? Today was his. And he was spending it with you.

You were already awake, hair pinned back and apron folded neatly on the couch, ready to open your café. You didn't expect Arthur to wake up early - not after the week he had - but there he was, standing at the kitchen doorway in his joggers and gray NYPD hoodie, a steaming mug in one hand and that signature sleepy smirk on his face.

He signed lazily, "You thought I'd slept through your big muffin-baking morning?"

Yeah, ever since that day. He continued his sign language lesson just to communicate with you without him reaching out his phone just to type something on you. He is too lazy to type. Being a police officer really makes him sick of typing especially to make reports. So that's why he learned sign language. He goddamn learned it fast.

You blinked, surprised, then smiled, signing back. "You worked all week. I wasn't going to wake you."

He set the mug down and stepped closer, signing slowly and with purpose. "I miss you when I work. Let me help. Please."

You smiled at this and nodded before reaching for your car keys. You turned to him again.

"come on, love" you signed and walked out.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

You unlocked the front door while Arthur carried in a crate of new supplies like it weighed nothing. A streak of morning light spilled across the floor, catching dust in the air like tiny stars.

Arthur whistled, surveying your little café. "Still the coziest spot in the city," he muttered before turning back and flashing a grin. "So, boss... What's first? You want muscle, charm, or height?"

You chuckled and signed. "Height. You're on top-shelf duty."

Arthur sighed dramatically as he climbed the small step ladder to hang the new "Summer Specials" sign. You held it steady from below.

"Don't fall. I'm not carrying you."

Arthur looked down, gave a mock-serious nod, and signed, "If I fall, just marry someone shorter next time."

You rolled your eyes, signing with a smirk, "That's your plan to get out of chores?"

He winked. "Every man needs a strategy."

Arthur leaned slightly to the left, stretching out to adjust the "Summer Specials" sign just a little more to your liking. You could tell he was doing it because he wanted it perfect for you - not because it needed to be perfect. His hoodie lifted just enough to expose the back of his police badge clipped to his belt, a reminder that your gentle giant of a husband spent most days fighting the harshness of the world.

You stood with arms folded, studying the placement of the sign. You tilted your head thoughtfully.

Arthur looked down, brows raised. "Too high?" he said aloud, but also signed it just in case.

You gave him a thumbs-up and nodded.

He exhaled in relief and climbed down, boots landing on the floor with a soft thud. "I swear, that thing was about to come down with me."

You raised an eyebrow. "Dramatic."

He laughed. "Only a little." He glanced around the cafe. "So what's next, darling?" he signed.

You walked behind the counter and pulled out a box of cups and lids, holding them up with a shrug. 

Arthur rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles dramatically, like he was preparing for battle. "You're really putting me to work on my day off."

"You volunteered." you signed, rolled your eyes.

"Yeah, but I thought it'd be like... cute help. You know, wiping windows, stealing kisses, lifting one box and getting praised like I moved a mountain."

You grinned. "You can still steal kisses. But you're lifting at least four boxes first."

Arthur leaned over the counter to press a quick kiss to your cheek before grabbing the box. "One down," he signed, smirking. "Three kisses to go."

With soft jazz humming from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner, Arthur helped you stock sugar packets, sweep the floor, and fix the tilted barstools. Every now and then, he would lightly tap your shoulder or wave in your periphery just to make sure you saw him before he signed something. He always made it a point to face you, always made sure you felt seen. He never missed it - not even after long shifts, not even in a rush.

You passed him a dish towel and pointed to the glass panels near the entrance.

He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to be your window washer and your handyman?" he signed, pretending to be sour.

"You offered charm earlier. Prove it." you signed, rolling your eyes with a grin.

Arthur chuckled. "Damn. You remember everything, don't you?"

You nodded. "Especially when it works in my favor." you signed, simply.

You both worked in sync, communicating with touch, smiles, and signs. He refilled the sugar jars while you arranged fresh pastries behind the glass. At one point, you caught him sneaking a chocolate chip cookie and shaking his head as if he was deeply disappointed in himself.

"It looked lonely," he signed with exaggerated guilt.

You gave him a look, to which he quickly added. "I adopted it. Out of kindness."

You narrowed your eyes playfully, still wiping down the pastry case as Arthur finished the last bite of his "adopted" cookie, savoring it like he'd just made a life-changing decision.

"You gonna adopt the rest of the tray, too?" you signed with an arched brow.

Arthur placed a hand dramatically over his chest, signing with mock heartbreak,

"No, no. That would be unethical. One cookie is already a heavy burden to carry."

You chuckled silently and tossed a dishrag at him. He caught it, twirled it, and tossed it right back. The two of you stood there for a moment, smiling at each other across the counter, the quiet kind of moment that didn't need anything more than each other.

He glanced at the clock. "Alright," he said, brushing his palms together. "Ten minutes until opening. How's my hair?"

You gave him a long, deadpan look.

He frowned. "That bad?"

You signed, "You're the only cop I know who shows up with cookie crumbs in his beard."

Arthur blinked, then scrubbed at his face with the back of his sleeve, chuckling. "Damn. Caught by the muffin queen herself."

By 9:15, the smell of freshly baked blueberry muffins filled the café, and Arthur was leaning against the counter, eyeing the tray like a starving man. You caught him and narrowed your eyes.

"You already had a cookie." you signed, eyes narrowed.

Arthur widened his eyes in mock innocence. "I was ensuring freshness!" he signed, fast.

You handed him a muffin with a sigh. "This is bribery so you don't eat five later."

He took a dramatic bite, closed his eyes, and sighed. "I married a genius." he signed.

You sat beside him on one of the stools, arms brushing. For a moment, the world slowed down. Outside, cars pass. Inside, everything was soft and peaceful. He leaned towards you slightly, not to speak, not even to sign - just to exist beside you.

You reached for his hand and gave it a little squeeze.

Later, while you were putting finishing touches on the corner display, Arthur sat on the floor nearby, reorganizing the box of tea sachets by flavor. He looked up suddenly and tapped twice on the floor to get your attention.

"Hey," he signed. "You ever think about how weird it is that we ended up like this?"

You tilted your head. "Weird how?"

"Me. Big dumb cop. You. Café queen. I dunno… It just works."

You chuckled. "I don't think I could've married a barista. I needed someone who'd fight the world for me, then mop my café floors like a teddy bear."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I do make a damn good mop."

"And a good husband."

His expression softened instantly. He set the tea down and knelt in front of you, taking both your hands. Slowly, he signed with careful precision. "I love being your safe place. Even when I'm tired. Even when the world's loud. You're my quiet, and I need that more than anything."

You didn't reply with words. You just wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your forehead to his. His hands found your back, holding you gently.

No sound. No movement. Just steady breath and warmth.

When the doors finally opened, the café slowly began to fill with regulars. Arthur stayed a bit longer, greeting a few familiar faces - off-duty officers, elderly neighbors, even that little boy who always came in with his grandfather for banana bread and left you hand-drawn doodles on napkins.

Arthur squatted beside the boy's table, ruffling the kid's hair as he looked at the napkin doodle of a blocky, square-jawed robot.

"Good drawing. Your robot looks strong, partner" he said, gently.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "He fights space pirates," he said proudly.

Arthur smiled. "I get that. Gotta protect the galaxy somehow."

You watched from behind the counter, leaning against the espresso machine as Arthur patted the boy's shoulder and stood up with a soft grunt. 

He caught your gaze and signed, "Kids these days - draw better than I do."

You replied, "I've seen your drawings. He definitely does."

Arthur put a hand to his chest, staggered back dramatically, and signed, "Betrayal. In my own wife's café."

The café was humming now - steady foot traffic, warm chatter, the clinking of spoons and coffee cups - but there was no urgency in your bones today. Arthur, still dressed in a soft gray NYPD hoodie and jogger, had no radio on his belt, only badge at his side (in case something happens) and no obligation but you.

"Y'know," he said between sips of your best cappuccino, "this place of yours? It's got magic in it."

You raised an eyebrow.

He leaned back in the wooden chair near the window and signed with one hand as he spoke, "People come in tired and grumpy, but they leave with that look - like they've remembered something good."

You tilted your head slightly. "Maybe it's the coffee."

Arthur chuckled. "Or maybe it's the woman behind the counter." He signed it so simply, so matter-of-fact, and then took another sip of coffee like it hadn't just made your heart flip over.

Around 11:00, things started to quiet again. You flipped the sign to "Back in 10" and nodded towards the back where your little kitchenette waited. Arthur followed like a golden retriever, ducking under the doorframe with a grin.

You pointed to the skillet. "Your turn to cook."

He raised his eyebrows. "Dangerous idea, ma'am."

"You promised pancakes."

Arthur scratched his neck, pretending to think. "I also once promised to cut carbs. Didn't work out."

Still, he tied your spare apron around his waist - comically small on him - and started cracking eggs like a pro. You leaned on the counter, watching him, amused.

"You should open your own cafe."

"Only if you run the register and scare away the health inspector," he replied, flipping a pancake with far too much flair.

You stuck your tongue out at him. He gave you a wink in return.

Because it was just the two of you, and because the moment called for it, you ate pancakes sitting on the café floor in the sunbeam near the front window - legs stretched out, syrup on your fingers, his ankle lazily brushing against yours.

Arthur chewed thoughtfully and then signed, "This is perfect."

You tapped your chin. "It's just pancakes."

He shook his head. "It's you and pancakes. That's what makes it perfect."

The afternoon rolled in like warm honey. Arthur helped wash dishes while humming some old outlaw folk song under his breath, the same one you'd caught him mumbling during late-night laundry. He dried the plates with a rhythm, occasionally tossing you a dish towel like a basketball, missing terribly each time.

Later, when business picked up again, Arthur helped serve coffee, wiping down tables and clearing trays while you manned the espresso machine. Some of your regulars looked up in surprise. Even your workers too. 

"Ye finally got the husband t'work, did ya?" Sean teased, your loud mouthed waiter.

Arthur leaned down with a grin and whispered just loud enough for you to see. "She pays in muffins and forehead kisses. I ain't complainin'."

As the sun dipped low and golden light painted the inside of the café, you found a rare quiet minute to breathe. Arthur was sitting at the bar, spinning a spoon between his fingers, tired but calm.

You walked over and leaned your elbows next to him.

He glanced sideways at you, then reached out gently to tap your hand, signing. "Thank you for letting me be part of your world."

You shook your head, smiling softly. "It's our world."

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft - long enough to make your cheeks warm.

Outside, the city kept moving. But inside that café, everything else was still.

After the last cup had been poured and the floors swept clean, Arthur locked the door behind you and offered you his arm dramatically like some cowboy prince. You looped yours through his and leaned your head against him.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Happy tired."

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You know what I was thinking all day?" he asked aloud, then signed to match.

"We should do this again. You and me. No badge. No rush. Just pancakes, bad mop dancing, and quiet."

You reached for his hand and signed,

"Let's make it a monthly thing. 'Arthur Day.'"

His eyes lit up. "Hell yeah. But I want it in writing. And snacks in advance."

You laughed.

And with that, you walked home together in the quiet evening, the scent of coffee still on your clothes and the warmth of a shared, simple day stitched into your hearts.

[hikariyaps]

pairings

word count ☆ 1.2k starring ☆ second year yuta x first year fem!reader content ☆ pure fluff, some mention of injury. a/n ☆ based of request by @yukiiyapper . loved writing this 🫶🏻

yuta okkotsu didn't expect there to be any difference after coming back from a long mission. but what he really didn't expect was another first year student.

he hasn't met you yet, having only arrived two days back and having spent the entirety of his time back at jujutsu high rotting in his dorm. (it was well deserved rest) but the amount of times you'd been mentioned in conversations was starting to get to him, maybe just a tiny bit.

but everything is so clear when he meets you. you were like a ray of sunshine, it was practically impossible to not like you. he might be nice, but he was awkward. you were bubbly, like pure joy condensed. the first time you meet him, was in the training grounds, gojo sensei decided to have paired training between the first and second years for the next two months. one first year would be paired up with one second year for one month. paired training was finally possible after you joined as you evened out the numbers.

the pairings were to be made on the grounds of improvement. where both of them could benefit from the other and it would be not just the juniors gaining some knowledge.

yuji was paired with toge, nobara with panda, megumi with maki and yuta with you. although you weren't there right now, yuta was sure you'll be here in a bit, right?

wrong, you didn't show up at all that day, and when he comes to the training grounds the next day, there you were in all your sweaty, glowy, glory. nobody is up this early so yuta usually trains alone here, getting a head start but it seems like you'd beat him to it and got an earlier start.

yuta just watched you pant and repeat the same fighting sequence with precision and power. he was awestruck, just standing there, katana slumped over his shoulder, mouth agape. he realizes he might look like a creep, what with his exhausted face and dark circles, but right now? he really couldn't care.

you don't even notice him until you turn to get your water bottle. you see him standing there and startle.

'oh my god, you scared me' you breathe out, hand on your chest. 'sorry' yuta says sheepishly. 'you must be okkotsu senpai? right?' 'oh yeah, and you're the new first year?' 'yeah, i enrolled while you were away. oh and i'm so sorry for not being able to make it yesterday!' you start apologizing profusely and yuta panicks and says its all right.

he walks down to you and says 'nobody starts training this early, just me.' and before you could start apologizing or take it in the wrong way yuta say 'i'm glad we can train together now, we are in paired training after all.'

and that was how you first met yuta. the thing with partnered training was that gojo sensei would assess the improvement in the pairs after the training was over. you guys had two months to help each other improve and then showcase your improvements.

by the fourth or fifth day, yuta notices that you're pretty perfect in almost everything, why did sensei pair you guys up anyway? he could've paired you with toge, he thinks.

'something wrong?' you ask, tilting your head, concern flashing across your pretty features. 'no, well, i was wondering why sensei paired us together.' 'oh that's cause we're both special grades!' you chirp, as though it was the most obvious thing ever. 'wait what? you're a special grade?!' 'yeah, you didn't know?' 'not really no' yuta says exhaling and running a hand through his hair. 'that explains why you're almost perfect.' 'why the almost?' you tease, yuta immediately goes red. before yuta can make a fool of himself, gojo sensei interferes and yuta internally thanks the heavens.

☆

yuta and you start training together, eating together and sometimes even studying together. you guys might not know it but practically everyone on campus was gushing about how cute you guys were, even yaga. bets were placed and now the only thing left to do was watch the story unfold.

☆

even after the training period was over, yuta and you hung out all the time and yuta thinks he's falling in love with you. he genuinely couldn't stop thinking about you, the way you talk, the way you laugh, your smile, it's driving him insane. he doesn’t want to break whatever this is. and he has no one to talk to. he'd rather talk to gojo sensei than talk to toge about this type of stuff.

and while yuta's going through this inner turmoil when you realize you like him too. it was a completely normal day, you were fine until nobara brought up the topic of maki liking yuta before they got together and something in you snapped. maki liked yuta? what if she still likes him? does he like her?

a million questions rush through your head and then you pause. wait. why did you care about this? that's when it hit you like a freight train. you were in love with him.

and ever since you realised that, you notice everything, the lingering touches when he's correcting your form, his smile, the look in his eyes, the way he sits around, his voice and you wanted to tear out your hair because you couldn't kiss him.

and then yuta comes back from a mission, scratches all over, he's bleeding. but he didn't go to shoko. he came to you. you open your dorm room door in the evening and when you see him there your heart leaps for joy, then you take in his state, horrified.

you don't even say anything, just pull him inside your room and shove him onto your bed while frantically searching for your first aid kit. you tend to his wounds as though you were performing surgery, whenever he flinched you looked like you were about to cry, whenever he sucked in a sharp breath you mumbled out apologies as though they were a chant. his pain was your own.

when he was finally all patched up, you slap him. he's still in shock and then you grab his collar and kiss him. you kiss him soft and slow, tears running down your face.

'you absolute idiot! you came to you junior instead of going to someone who's actually capable of healing you in seconds! are you stupid! what is something had happened to you?!' you're yelling between sobs, and he kisses you to shut you up.

'i knew my kohai was plenty capable, besides is it wrong to have wanted to see the person i love most while was in pain?' he asks softly after gently breaking the kiss. you stop crying. just hiccup and stare at him. person he loved most? but he's with - oh. 'i love you' you whisper, your forehead leaning against his. 'and i love you too.' he says.

somewhere in the next room, yuji and toge were paying up to nobara and megumi.

©hikariyaps2025

[a99jazzybean]

OR it could be jaycexreader trying pot brownies 😬 I think that’ll be funny and can get spicy. If your are comfortable with it of courseee

This one was cute and fun to write! Thank you for the request!

High Enough

synop: You decided to make pot brownies for your roommate, but realize you don't have enough bud. You decide that using juice from a cart is a good idea. Jayce eats some of the brownies not realizing they have weed in them. He convinces you to get high and shenanigans ensue.

Reader is gender neutral but AFAB

words: 3.5K

includes: jaycexgn!reader, modern au, recreational drug use, weed use, high sex, creampie, smut

a/n: Guys, DO NOT make pot brownies like this. This recipe was inspired by my dumbass friends that poured a cart out into brownie mix. A tiny piece had me knocked out in 30 minutes. Do not recommend.

Dammit… You were all out of bud. You swore you had some left, but found measly crumbs at the bottom of your stash jar. That’s what you get for switching to pens you suppose. 

A lightbulb went off in your head. That’s it! You could use a cart. That couldn’t go wrong, right? 

You grabbed a fresh cart and some needle nose pliers and went to work on the cap. After some careful maneuvering, you managed to get it open without breaking the glass. Dumping it in your mixing bowl, you got to work making some brownies. 

Turning on some tunes, you hummed and danced your way through cracking eggs and measuring flour. The brownies were for one of your roommates, Viktor. A “thank you” for getting you out of a bind on a major school project. 

While they were a gift, you obviously were planning on trying them out yourself. Especially since you were experimenting with using a different form of weed. Probably best to see how you fared before accidentally making your friend green out. 

When the brownies baked you found that this batch appeared to have less of the typical pungent scent than if you used flower. Noted. 

After baking you left out the pan to cool. Deciding you needed a shower after accidentally covering yourself in flour, you headed down the hall. As you bathed, your other roommate returned home. 

Upon entering, his nose and eyes were immediately drawn to the fresh baked brownies on the counter. Mouth watering, he skipped over to the kitchen. As the apartment’s resident baker, it wasn’t uncommon for you to randomly make goodies to share. Jayce saw this as no different. Pulling out a knife, he cut himself a decent piece of brownie. Taking a large bite out of the gooey chocolate, he moaned with content. 

When you walked out of the bathroom, you heard Jayce shuffling out in the kitchen. Eyes widening, you rushed in. It was too late. The man had already scarfed down the brownie, his hand reaching once more to cut out  another piece. 

“STOP!” You yell, hand out. 

Turning around, Jayce gave you a confused wide-eyed stare. 

“What’s wrong?” Oh how naive the man was. 

“Jayce, those are pot brownies.” 

“Wait, really? I can’t taste it at all.” 

“I might have used juice from a cart instead of flower…” You trailed sheepishly. 

“WHAT???” His eyes grew even wider. “Why the fuck would you do that?” 

“I ran out of bud! And I wanted to do something nice for Viktor!” You shrugged your shoulders. 

“Something nice for-“ He let out an exasperated sigh. “ I’m pretty sure what you have created might put the man in a coma.”

You scoffed. 

“I doubt it. He’s got an insane tolerance.” 

“Regardless, I’ve eaten one.” His eyes narrowed at you. 

“Don’t blame me! You ate one without asking!” 

“You bake things all the time! How was I supposed to know?” He was growing very concerned. 

“Hey, let’s calm down.” You softened your voice. The last thing you needed was for Jayce to spiral. 

“How are you feeling?”

“I can already feel my head getting lighter.” 

“Okay, so we know it hits pretty quickly.” You walked up to him slowly, taking his hand to help ground him. 

He grasped yours tightly. 

“I’ll keep an eye on you, kay?” Your thumb traced circles on the back his hand. The tender action made him shiver. 

“What if you joined me?” Gears were turning in his head. 

“What do you mean?”

“Eat one too.” He gave you pleading puppy dog eyes. 

“Jayce, we have no idea how this will affect you, much less me.” You shook your head at him. 

“Were you just planning on giving them to Viktor?” He eyed you suspiciously. 

“W-well, no. I was going to try them-“ 

“Then try them. Since you were already planning on it.” He cut you off. 

Those damned pleading puppy-dog eyes had you wavering. Really, what would be the harm? As long as you stay home you should be fine, hopefully. 

Nodding, you gave his hand a squeeze of reassurance. He beamed at your response, making your heart swell.

Ushering you over to the counter, Jayce cut out a piece for you. You took it, giving the treat a once-over. Looking at Jayce, he was shifting side-to-side impatiently. Eyes blown out, leaving a tiny visible ring of a hazel iris. 

“This is what that D.A.R.E. officer warned me about in eighth grade.” You sighed, then took a bite. 

Chocolatey goodness filled your senses. Jayce was right, you couldn’t taste anything off about the brownies. Oh, that was dangerous. 

You swallowed then looked at Jayce expectantly. 

“What now?”

“We could chill in my room, or yours. Doesn’t matter to me.” He shrugged nonchalantly. 

Jayce really, really did not want to be left alone right now. And if you were going to be in the same state as him might as well do it together, right? It’s not like he was expecting anything out of it. After all, you were very good friends. But in his weed addled mind, there was a teensy part of him that was hoping for maybe something more. 

See, you were absolutely fucking gorgeous in the man’s eyes. While you had been close friends for a long while now, Jayce secretly wished for something more. 

It didn’t help that the two of you had enjoyed the occasional sloppy make out sesh that followed an evening of drinking. Giving the man just a taste of what you had to offer, and nothing more. 

The thing was, you also wanted a little something more as well. Not necessarily a relationship. But having a hot piece of ass like him around was tempting to say the least. 

“We can chill in my room.” You said, grabbing his hand and dragging him down the hall. 

Jayce had spent time in your room every so often, but it still felt like a sacred space. Especially now when it felt like his mind was floating. 

Once in your room you hopped onto your bed. Sinking into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. This was the best part about being high. Just laying down and feeling it hit you. Limbs sinking down into the plush of your bed. Lifting your head a bit, you spotted Jayce awkwardly watching you. Shuffling in place like he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. 

“Get in here, Talis.” You motioned for him to join you. 

He padded over to your bed, then laid down beside you. A small smile on his face as he watched you in content bliss. 

“It’s so nice to just sink in.” You sighed. 

“I take it the brownie has hit?” 

You nodded with a hum. Allowing yourself to enjoy the pleasant buzz in your head. 

Reaching out, you grabbed Jayce’s hand. He intertwined his fingers with yours and you let out another sigh. 

“You have really nice hands.” You lifted his hand above your face, studying it. “So warm. They’re working hands,” you traced the calluses at the top of his palm, “but somehow still soft. Yes, very nice hands.” You hummed bringing his palm to your lips and placing a tender kiss in the center.

Mouth agape, Jayce stared at you wide eyed. A red flush dusting his cheeks. 

Looking at him, you gave him a sweet smile. One he couldn’t help but return. 

Even though you were holding his hand, the distance between you felt too far. Jayce wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you closer to him. Nose to nose, you giggled. This felt… really nice. Humming, you nuzzled your nose against his. The adorable action made him blush even harder. 

Damn, you sure got physical when high. Not that he minded. 

“Jayce…” You mumbled, then pressed yourself into the space beneath his chin. Your face pushed into his chest. “You’re soooo warm.” 

“I think you’re higher than I am.” 

Shrugging your shoulders you nuzzled into his chest. The man curled his arms tighter around you. Leaning his head down, he pressed a warm kiss onto your forehead. 

“This feels really nice.” You murmured.

The comforting sinking returned. Feeling your body go heavy as you slumped into the man. Almost like you were going to meld with him.

Jayce’s skin was buzzing. Your touch feels ten times more intense than normal. As you curled up into the man, your hands roamed over him. Trailing up his torso and neck, fingers curling into his hair. Slowly they skimmed back down his arms. A pattern of movements that had him shivering against you. God, did it feel amazing. 

“I really like that…” He said softly, kissing your forehead again. 

“Mmm, yeah?” You gave him a dazed smile.

“Yeah.”

Your hands returned to his hair. Fingers scraping against his scalp, making him let out a low groan. 

“You’re like a puppy.” You giggled to yourself as you continued to pet him. “So cute.”

“A puppy?” He questioned.

“Yeah. The way you’re responding to my pets. And you have puppy-dog eyes.” 

“Puppy-dog eyes?” He gave you a confused look, head cocked to the side. Looking exactly like a confused dog.

Giggling again, you snuggled as close as you could to the man.

“Puppy-dog eyes that convinced me to get high with you.” You poked him in the chest. “They’re dangerous.”

He chuckled, puffs of air hitting the top of your head.

“Dangerous.”

“Exactly. So use them for good next time.” You admonished him with a finger. 

“Is this not something good?”

Pondering on it, you shrugged. 

“I’m not complaining, I suppose.” You gave him a sweet smile.

“Anything I can do to make it better?” 

“I dunno. You got any ideas?” You gave him a sultry look. 

He licked his lips nervously, eyes darting between your own and your lips. Leaning up, you pressed your nose against his. Lips just barely brushing against his. Looking into his eyes expectantly, you spoke softly.

“Well?” 

Warm lips crashed into yours messily. The man moaned as soon as he pressed against you. Every fiber of his body on fire when you pressed your lips against his. Teasingly, you lightly lapped against his bottom lip. Jayce slightly opened his mouth, inviting your tongue to tangle with his. You slid your tongue into his mouth, groaning at his taste. 

His hands roamed over your body. Appreciating the fact you wore nothing under your comfy pjs. Large fingers pinched your nipples over your clothes. You squeaked at the sudden sparks of pleasurable pain. He swallowed the sound, moaning against you. He was rutting against your thigh, making you feel the prominent bulge straining against his sweats. 

Pausing for a breath, you slightly pushed away, looking over him. This probably shouldn’t go further. Although there was a burning ache in your groin, you knew that going into this high wasn’t the smartest decision. But you didn’t really make a smart decision on the brownies while sober… so perhaps the night was one ready for many mistakes. Though you didn’t feel like hooking up with Jayce was a mistake. It could be for him though, you wouldn’t hold that against him. 

“Is everything okay?” He wanted to pull you back to him.

“Uh, yeah. I just don’t know if we should continue. I wouldn’t want you to regret anything.” You looked away from him, embarrassed.

“I could never regret anything with you.” His eyes pleaded with you, hips shaking as he did his best not to rut himself against you again. 

His words made your heart swell, a blush flushing on your cheeks. Pushing yourself back in, you gave him a deep kiss. Fuck it. You wanted this, your body was making you feel like you needed this. 

“I’ll take it you’re okay with us continuing?”

“Oh fuck yes.” You pressed your lips against his again, earning you a deep moan. 

Jayce returned to rubbing up against your thigh. Letting out little whimpers at the friction against his hard cock. Feeling his length against you had you drooling at the thought of him inside of you. Through the fabric of his pants you could feel how long and thick he was. It would be a stretch, but you wanted all of the man in front of you.

“C-can I taste you?” Jayce pulled back for a breath. “I really want you to sit on my face.” 

That had you flushing furiously. 

“Are you sure?” You asked softly. A part of you was concerned about hurting him.

“Yes. I want- no. I need it.” 

You nodded, agreeing. He beamed at you before shuffling your bodies on the bed. Rolling himself beneath you. You were straddling his waist and felt the head of his cock through his pants brush against your clothed sex. You whimpered at the friction. 

Jayce reached for your sleep shorts, eyes asking for permission. Nodding, you maneuvered your legs to help him remove the article. After tossing them, he turned to look at you. Groaning at the shiny slick coating your pussy and thighs. Lifting you up, he encouraged you to crawl to his face. Obliging, you made your way above him. Holding onto the headboard, you slowly lowered yourself over him. Large arms encircled your thighs, forcing you onto his waiting mouth. The sudden action makes you cry out. 

With a warm tongue, Jayce licked a stripe down your pussy. Your body was buzzing and sensitive with your high, making the pleasure more intense. Lapping through your folds, Jayce was making you release noises you had never known you could make before. Each whine and moan shot straight to his straining cock. Twitching impatiently as he made you fall apart on his tongue. 

You had to use the headboard to stabilize yourself. Around his head, your thighs were shaking as pure pleasure coursed through your body. Warmth was growing in your belly with each tantalizing lick against your clit. 

Beneath you, Jayce groaned. You were fucking delicious. He felt like he could stay under you for hours. Hearing the sounds you were making made him wish he could just hold you pressed against his tongue. 

“C-close!” You squeaked out. 

Jayce had begun flicking his tongue against you quickly. Each flick builds up your climax. With how sensitive you were, it would only be a matter of time before you burst. His tongue continued to flick against you rapidly. At this point, your entire body was shaking with the build of your orgasm. One perfectly placed swirl against your clit was your undoing. 

Practically screaming, you came on his face. Squirting over his chin with the force that your orgasm hit you. Between your squeezing thighs, Jayce thought he died and went to heaven. Oh he would gladly die squished in your plush thighs, your taste filling his senses. 

He only gave you a brief moment before his mouth was back on you.

“Jayce!” You squealed as he overstimulated your cunt. 

It seemed like he didn’t need to breathe as he continued to eat you out with fervor. Tongue tasting every inch of you, occasionally pushing into you. You could barely keep your body up as the shaking grew stronger. Your climax rapidly grows with each lap against your sopping pussy. 

With a shaky hand, you reach for the top of his head. Fingers curling into his hair. The feeling made him moan against you. 

This time, your orgasm hit you like a train. Crashing through your entire body with a giant wave of pleasure. Above him you twitched and whimpered as his tongue continued to lick you. Eventually you pressed your hand against his forehead, making him let you go.

“T-too much, Jayce!” You whined.

Sliding off of his face, you flopped belly down onto the bed. Jayce eyed your bare ass and legs, licking his lips with anticipation. He slid behind and over you. Turning to watch him, you felt your thighs clench. Flopping against his belly was probably the most enticing cock you had ever seen. Tip flushed an angry red, just begging to be fucked. 

Jayce looked at you, the hunger in his gaze making you shiver. Wiggling your hips, you urged him to continue. He spread your legs, and pressed down on your back. You lifted your hips, whining impatiently.

Because of that, Jayce decided to tease you. Dragging his cock between your folds. Gathering up your ever-accumulating slick dripping out of you. His cock caught on your entrance, making you whimper. Fuck, you needed him to fill you. You felt like you were floating and sinking at the same time. A pleasurable bliss that was about to get better. 

Slowly, Jayce pressed himself into you. Thick cock stretching you out deliciously. Both of you moaned as he continued to push his length inside. His cock brushing against the gummy spot that had you keening. 

“That feel good?” He leaned his body over yours, murmuring into your ear. 

It felt too good. You couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Instead, you decided to nod vigorously. Hoping he would move inside you. 

“Mmm, good.” He crooned, pulling out slowly then slamming back into you. 

Your whole body jolted with pleasure as his cock began to abuse your sweet spot. Head of his length continuing to hit it over and over again. Clutching the bedsheets you were a sobbing mess. The oversensitivity from your high mixed with the pure pleasure the man was giving you caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. 

“J-Jayce!” You cried out and one very intense thrust. 

“F-fuck,” he released a stuttering breath against your neck. “Please cum, please cum for me. I need to feel you. So fucking bad.” He nuzzled into your shoulder.

Jayce would soon be getting his wish. An intense pleasure was blooming within you, making you gasp and moan. This man was making you feel like an overstimulated puddle. Each press of his cock makes the pleasure grow tenfold. Your entire body was ready to shatter. 

And shatter you did. Jayce’s cock thrusting in and out of you, draggin your orgasm along with it. Your pussy clenched his cock, drenching your bed sheets as you came. 

Jayce groaned, but held himself back. He needed to feel you do that at least one more time. 

You whined when he pulled out of you, then yelped when he flipped you over. A brief moment of soberness had you remembering that he was actually really strong. Then your stoned brain chimed in with how fucking hot it was that he was manhandling you so desperately.

He had you on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders. As he pressed back into your wet heat, he gave you a sloppy kiss. The two of you catching eachother’s moans of pleasure. He pushed up your shirt to your shoulders. Warm hands cupped your breasts, teasing over your nipples. The action makes you shiver all over. 

His hands moved to your waist to give him more leverage. Fast thrust pummeled the sweet spot within you. Jayce managed to hit it perfectly in this position too. Crying out, you felt a sting of pleasure. Thick fingers were circling your abused clit, sending sparks shooting through your body. Moans and whimpers escaping you with each circle. Your hands clenched his biceps for purchase as your body shook. 

He could feel your pussy pulsing around him. Another climax building inside you. He chased your high, wanting to cum with you. Knowing he could burst at any moment, Jayce hoped you would join him. The tightness in his balls was growing a bit too unbearable. 

As if your body was answering his wish, he felt you clench against his length. Unconsciously thrusting your hips as you chase down your orgasm. A scream of pleasure ripping out of you as you gushed around him. 

Warmth filled you as Jayce was granted his release. Cock twitching deep inside you as hot ropes of his cum poured in. A pleasurable feeling that seemed never ending. Jayce’s orgasm lasted long after he had fully unloaded in you. Cock overstimulated with the feeling of your tight twitching walls around him. 

Both of you came down from your orgasm highs. Still extremely high from the brownies. Something that could easily be read based on your drooping eyelids and dopey smiles. Before pulling out, Jayce kissed all over your face. You giggled as his lips pecked all over your cheeks.

“That was amazing.” He purred against your neck, giving you a kiss. “You are amazing.” 

“You feel sososososo good, Jayce.” You pressed a kiss to his lips. 

With a groan, Jayce pulled out of you. His eyes transfixed on your pussy now dripping out his spend.

“That’s hot.” He looked up, chuckling at your confused expression. 

Kissing your forehead, he stood up. 

“I’ll get us cleaned up.”

After a moment, Jayce returned with a wet washcloth. Softly he wiped you down. You softly thanked him for helping you. He responded with a sweet kiss. 

When you were both cleaned up, Jayce returned to snuggle up in your bed. Large warm arms held you close to him. You felt yourself drifting as Jayce spoke to you softly. The man letting out a stream of compliments and fond memories. Occasionally he would kiss you, feeling like he was drowning in your lips. 

“We should do this again.” Jayce said softly.

“Yeah? Yeah.” You giggled, answering yourself.

“Though I think we could skip the brownies next time.” 

[snoopylover69699]

Sweet thing

Rick Grimes x reader

Warnings: Age difference, Dom/sub dynamic, DDLG elements (no “daddy” kink), Dumbification (reader is very ditzy/naive), Praise kink, Light degradation, Oral sex (blowjob teaching), Fingering, Creampie, Slightly rough sex, Dacryphilia (crying), Dirty talk, Possessive/protective Rick, Reader is very soft and trusting,Consensual power imbalance, Aftercare, Pet names (baby, bunny, sweet girl, etc.)

Summary You think Rick’s the kindest man in the world. He knows better — but he’ll do anything to keep you soft, obedient, and sweet for him. You’re a little dumb, a little messy, and completely his.

7k words

It’s quiet tonight.

The kind of quiet that used to mean safety before the world turned into teeth and ash. Now it just feels… wrong. Like something’s coming. Like the dark itself is holding its breath.

But you’re humming. In the tiny corner of the house you turned into something soft. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through dusty cans like it’s a game, mumbling the expiration dates under your breath and giggling when you get one wrong. That light laugh, like nothing’s ever hurt you.

Rick watches from the doorway. Arms crossed. Shoulders tight. Hand resting near his holster always. But his eyes are only on you.

“Hey, Rick?” you ask, holding up a can of peaches like it’s gold. “Look what I found. These are your favorite, right?”

You look proud. Like you just saved the damn world with syrup and metal.

Rick doesn’t say anything for a second. Just watches the way your hair falls in your face, the way your oversized shirt slips off your shoulder. You’d found it in someone’s closet last week. Claimed it smelled like “old man cologne” and decided that meant it was Rick’s now. You wear it constantly. Said it makes you feel safe.

You make him feel like he’s choking.

That’s not fair. You didn’t ask to be this soft. This good. This trusting.

He crosses the room, crouching down next to you. Takes the can gently from your hands.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “My favorite.”

You beam. That doe-eyed, worshipful look that makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t deserve that look. But he takes it. Like everything else you give him — without question, without hesitation. He’s greedy like that. Rotten to the bone, but god, he wants.

“You did good,” he says quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Real good, honey.”

You preen. Like a puppy. Like a little thing desperate to be told she did well.

Rick brushes a thumb over your cheek. Watches you lean into it like it’s instinct.

“You always wanna be good for me, don’t you?”

Your lips part a little. You nod. So eager. So easy.

“Of course, Rick. I wanna make you happy.”

He closes his eyes for a second. Guilt flickers behind them like headlights in the distance. But it’s gone just as fast. He doesn’t have space for guilt when you’re looking at him like that.

Like he’s the sun.

Like he’s not blood-soaked and half-mad and barely holding it together.

“You do,” he whispers. “You make me real happy, sweetheart.”

You crawl closer. Kneel between his legs without thinking. Lay your head against his chest. You’re quiet now, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

“Sometimes I get scared when you’re gone,” you admit. “But I know you’ll always come back. You always do.”

Rick exhales through his nose. Wraps his arms around you. Holds you tighter than he should.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he promises. “No matter what.”

You hum, soft and content, like that’s all you needed to hear. And maybe it is.

You don’t ask where he goes. What he does. Why his hands shake some nights when he thinks you’re asleep. You think he’s a good man. Think he’s kind. That’s what he tells you, and that’s what you believe.

It’s beautiful.

And Rick’s pretty sure this blind obedience and worship you have for him is the best kind of love he’s ever received.

He’d do anything to keep you like this.

Docile.

Trusting.

This dumb, about who he is and what he’s done.

He kisses the top of your head. Lets the rot fester under his ribs where you’ll never see it.

You shift against him, mumbling, “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

He strokes your back slow and steady. “You never have to ask, honey. You’re mine.”

You smile, already half-asleep against his chest.

And Rick? He smiles too.

Because he knows: if he asked you to follow him into fire, you’d do it barefoot and smiling.

All because he said it was safe.

———

You’re on the porch, legs swinging off the edge, feet bare and dirt-smudged.

Sun’s dipping low. The air smells like pine and ash and something sweeter maybe it’s you.

You’re holding your knife wrong again. Rick watches from the doorway for a long minute before he says anything, just soaking you in like he always does like it’s the only clean thing left in the world.

“Sugar,” he drawls, “what’d I tell you about holdin’ it like that?”

You blink up at him, head tilted just a little too far. “What? I am holdin’ it right.”

Rick raises an eyebrow, walks over slow.

“You’re holdin’ it like it’s a spoon,” he murmurs, crouching beside you. His hand wraps around your wrist, adjusting your grip, firm but careful. “You plan on stirrin’ soup or stayin’ alive?”

You giggle. “Maybe both.”

Rick huffs a laugh, low and quiet, and taps the side of your head with two fingers. “Ain’t nothin’ up here but cotton, huh?”

You gasp. “Hey!”

But you’re grinning. You like when he teases you like that. It makes you feel little. Soft. His.

“You know I’m not that dumb,” you say, pouting a little.

Rick cups your cheek in his calloused palm. “Didn’t say you were dumb, baby girl. Just said you’re… not exactly tactical.”

You blink. “Tacti–?”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead. “Means you got no idea what you’re doin’ with that knife.”

“Oh,” you say, all light and sugar. “Okay.”

That’s what gets him. Every time. You never argue. Never bristle or bite. You just trust like whatever comes out of his mouth is gospel. Even when he’s half-scolding you, half-laughing, he can see how much you soak it up. Like you want him to fix you.

“C’mere, bunny,” he says, taking the knife from your hand and setting it aside. “We gotta talk.”

You shuffle into his lap without hesitation, arms around his neck. His hand lands on your thigh solid, grounding. The other slides around your back.

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?” he says low, close to your ear.

You nod immediately. “I know, Rick.”

“I keep you safe. Feed you. Give you a bed to sleep in. And all I ask is that you listen.”

“I do listen,” you whisper. “I try so hard.”

He smiles against your temple. “You do, baby. You’re a real good girl.”

You whimper at the praise just a tiny, breathy sound and he feels your body melt against his like wax.

“But there’s a few things I need you to start doin’. No more goin’ out alone. No talkin’ to strays that wander near camp. And if I tell you somethin’ anything you do it. No questions. Understand?”

You nod again, smaller this time.

Rick tilts your chin up so you’re looking right at him. His eyes are all steel and fire.

“Use your words, sugar.”

“Yes, Rick. I promise.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “See? When you just listen to me, everything works. You don’t have to think so hard. I’ll do the thinkin’ for you.”

You giggle. “That’s probably for the best.”

He lets out a real laugh this time low and husky and kisses your cheek.

“I love how sweet you are,” he murmurs. “My soft little bunny. Got nothin’ in your pretty head but me, huh?”

You blink. “And peaches,” you say, solemn.

Rick stares for a beat.

Then he shakes his head, grinning like the devil, and pulls you closer.

“God help me,” he mutters. “I picked the dumbest girl in Georgia.”

You beam.

“But she’s mine.”

———

The campfire’s glow barely reaches the treeline, but you’re out there anyway twirling on the edge of shadows, humming that same tune you always hum when you think you’re alone.

Rick sees you from halfway across the clearing, rifle slung low. His jaw tightens. You look like a candle in the wind pretty, but god help you, so fragile.

“Sugar?” he calls, voice low and dangerous.

You freeze, head tilting as if you didn’t know you’d been watched. “Rick?”

He steps forward, each footfall measured, predator-slow. You lift a foot to step back, but the roots catch your toes and you stumble face-first into the dirt. Dirt flies. Your knees scrape. Your palms burn.

Before you can even blink, he’s there. His hands big, shaking hands are under your arms, hauling you up into his chest. He’s mad. You feel it radiating off him like heat.

“You dumb little bunny,” he growls, voice rough as gravel. “What the hell are you doing out here by yourself?”

Your breath hitches. You open your mouth to explain—“I just wanted to—” but the words twist in your throat. Tears sting your eyes. Not from pain, but from panic.

Rick’s face softens the instant he sees them.

“Hey,” he says, voice dropping two octaves. “Hey now, don’t cry.”

You can’t help it. Tears spill down your cheeks before you can blink them away. You’re crying because you’re scared of him scared of getting hurt, scared you almost got left behind scared he’s disappointed.

He wraps you tight, one hand cradling your head as the other presses into the small of your back.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, and you feel it—this trembling in his voice. “I’m here. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

You hiccup, burying your face in his chest. His stubble scratches your cheek, but it’s the safest place in the world right now.

When you lift your head, your vision’s blurry; two bright spots of firelight dance in his eyes. He cups your face, thumbs brushing tears away.

“Look at me,” he orders gentle. “Look at me, bunny.”

Your lips part, and your eyes find his. They’re so dark right now, fierce and protective, like they could burn anything that threatened you away. You blink again, swallowing.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so stupid.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Don’t you ever say that again, sugar. You’re not stupid you just… you get wrapped up in things.”

You sniffle. “I just wanted to see if I could help.”

He breathes out a shaky laugh. “Help how? You’d gotten yourself killed, baby.”

Your cheeks flush at the scolding heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Then your eyes slide shut and tears bloom again, not at his anger but because you hate that you made him worry.

Rick’s lips find your forehead. And then surprise you feel him kiss the corner of your eye, then your nose, then the soft curve of your lips.

Your breath hitches so hard you think you’ll choke. His kiss isn’t hungry at least, not yet it’s protective. Worshipful. Like he’s claiming every tear as his.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You nod, too stunned to speak. He tilts your chin up with one finger, brushing another tear away. His thumb lingers, tracing the line of your jaw.

“Such a mess,” he rasps half amused, half in awe. “But you’re my mess.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m yours,” you whisper.

Rick’s eyes darken. You think you feel the world shift. He drags you closer, one hand at the small of your back, the other still cradling your cheek. His palm warms yours, and his thumb traces slow circles over your lips—felt but not quite touching.

“You trust me, right?” he murmurs, as if asking permission even though he’s already taken you in his arms.

You nod, breathless. “Always.”

His lips brush yours—soft at first, brushing, tasting of ash and something sweeter. Then his mouth parts, and he deepens the kiss. It’s gentle but urgent, like he needs to know you’re really there. You melt against him, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing too fast. You can still feel his lips on yours, feel his chest rising and falling, smell his hair. Your vision swims.

“Come on,” he says quietly, gathering you into his arms as if you’ll blow away in the night wind. “Let’s get you inside before you fall apart.”

You nod, clinging to him. As he carries you toward the cabin, you rest your head on his shoulder and giggle, tiny and breathless.

“You’re such an overprotective old man,” you tease, even as your heart still pounds.

He grunts. “Shut up, sugar.”

You snuggle closer. Tears may still be on your cheeks, but they’re different now tears of relief, of being wanted, of being utterly his.

And in the flicker of that campfire’s dying light, you realize: you’d follow him into the dark a thousand times over, as long as he’s the one carrying you.

———

You’re already crying again when Rick finds you.

Folded up in the corner of the cabin, hands over your face, whole body shaking like you’ve been caught in the middle of a storm. Your shoulders jump with every sob, and the sound soft and broken slams into Rick like a bullet to the ribs.

“Baby,” he says, already crouching down. “What happened? What is it?”

You don’t answer at first, just sniffle harder, dragging the back of your hand across your face. Your lip wobbles. Your eyes are glassy, wet, red around the edges. You look up at him like you’re about to fall apart.

“I—I didn’t do anything wrong,” you hiccup, voice thin. “I swear I didn’t, Rick.”

His stomach drops. Rage bubbles up fast, hot and mean, but he swallows it down.

“Who said you did, bunny?” His voice is soft now velvet over steel. He wipes your cheek with his thumb, gentle as anything. “Tell me.”

You stammer through it, tripping over your words, but Rick gets the pieces quick enough. Some jerk at camp one of the new ones said something to you. Called you a burden. Said you were just “some dumb little girl Rick keeps around for the view.”

Rick sees red.

That kind of red that drowns everything else out. That quiet, lethal kind of anger that makes men disappear.

He should stand. Go outside. Handle it. But you’re trembling in front of him, crying like your heart’s breaking, and god help him—

It makes his blood heat.

Not just from fury. But from something else, too. Something primal.

It’s the sound of your sobbing small, helpless, instinctive. It’s the way you look for him through your tears, like he’s the only one who can make it stop. It’s the trust in your face even now, when you’re cracked open and raw.

His pants tighten. He curses himself for it but the arousal pulses sharp anyway. It’s not about your pain. It’s about your need. Your obedience. Your softness.

You cry for him like he’s the only one who’s ever been good to you.

And fuck, he wants to keep it that way.

He takes your face in both hands and presses his forehead to yours.

“Listen to me, baby girl. You are not dumb. You’re not a burden. You’re mine.”

You sob again louder this time, but it breaks open something different. Something warmer.

“You mean that?” you whisper, voice shaking. “You really want me?”

Rick growls—low, rough, undeniable.

“I don’t just want you. I need you.”

He kisses you before you can think. Deep and slow and claiming. Your lips tremble under his, and you gasp when his hand slides around your throat not squeezing, just holding.

When he pulls back, your eyes are blown wide and full of tears. You look so pretty like that. So breakable.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

Rick presses his hand between your thighs over the thin fabric of your shorts. You gasp, hips twitching.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Such a sweet little thing. My soft baby.”

He slips his hand inside. Finds you soaked. Lets out a low curse against your neck.

“Cryin’ and drippin’ at the same time,” he murmurs. “Goddamn. You like when I take care of you, huh?”

You nod, dizzy. “Yes, Rick. Please.”

“Use your words, bunny.”

“I want you to touch me.”

He slides a finger through your folds, slow and deliberate. You cry out half sob, half moan and cling to his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

“Such a dumb little thing,” he murmurs, voice thick with praise and filth. “Can’t even think straight unless I’ve got my hands on you.”

You whimper. Your cheeks are still wet, and he kisses the tears like they’re holy.

One finger slips in then two.

You’re hot, wet, pulsing around him.

“That feel good, baby girl?”

You nod frantically. “So good—feels so full, Rick, I—”

He curls his fingers just right and you shatter. You moan again louder this time and your thighs quake, your hands scrambling for something to hold.

“Let it out, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Go on. Cry if you need to.”

And you do.

Not from pain. Not from sadness. But from how good it feels to be wanted. Needed. Kept.

Rick watches you fall apart, breath ragged, eyes glazed, mouth open on a soundless moan. He strokes you through it—tender and possessive all at once.

When you finally collapse into him, panting, trembling, lips swollen and eyes soaked, he gathers you up like you’re something breakable.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your temple. “My soft little bunny. Nobody talks to you like that ever again. You hear me?”

You nod, dazed. “Yes, Rick.”

“Good girl.”

You’re still trembling in Rick’s lap when he scoops you up again, walking slow and sure toward the bed. His grip’s so strong it feels like you couldn’t fall even if you tried. You bury your face into his neck, lips brushing his throat.

“Can’t believe they said that about you,” he mutters, voice thick, low, dangerous. “Like you’re not the sweetest thing I ever had in my arms.”

You nuzzle closer. “I don’t care what they think. I only care what you think.”

That’s what finally breaks him.

He lays you down on the bed like he’s placing something precious. His hands come down on either side of you, caging you in without pressing. Just there. Just his. You look up at him, all watery lashes and flushed cheeks, and the sight makes his cock twitch painfully in his jeans and get harder if thats even possible.

“You know what I think, baby?” he murmurs, gaze dragging down your body like he’s starving. “I think you’re mine. Soft, needy, perfect little thing.”

You nod, blinking. “I am.”

“And you need me to fuck it into you. Fill you up so full you don’t ever forget who you belong to.”

A whimper rises in your throat. “Yes. Please.I want you to.”

He leans down. Kisses the corner of your eye, tastes the dried salt of earlier tears. One hand snakes beneath your thighs, dragging your hips forward, making you gasp.

“You’re so wet already,” he growls. “Drippin’ like a dumb little bunny in heat.”

You gasp again, breath catching. You squirm under him, hips rising, and that just makes him smirk. One hand pushes your shirt up over your chest, baring your breasts. His mouth closes over one nipple hot, wet, tongue dragging slow while the other hand dips beneath your waistband again.

“Rick,” you gasp, fisting the sheets.

His fingers slip back inside you two, then three pumping slow and steady until you’re squirming and whining. He doesn’t stop until you’re panting, eyes unfocused, hips twitching like you can’t control them.

Then he pulls away.

“Rick—!”

“Shh,” he says, popping the button on his jeans. “Gonna give you what you want. Gonna make you so dumb you can’t think ‘bout anything but this cock.”

You watch him stroke himself big, thick, veined, leaking at the tip and whimper.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up.

“You ready, baby girl?”

“Yes, Rick. I’m ready. Please.”

He sinks in all at once.

You wail.

Back arches. Eyes fly open. He’s so big it knocks the breath out of your lungs, but it’s good. It’s exactly what you needed.

“Thaaat’s it,” he growls, gripping your hips so tight it’ll bruise. “That’s my girl. So fuckin’ tight.”

He thrusts again, harder this time. Your moans turn into cries, tears brimming again from the overwhelming stretch. It’s too much but it’s perfect.

He loves it. Loves seeing your pretty eyes swim. Loves how you take it like it’s all you’re made for.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Cryin’ on my big cock like a good little slut. Can’t even talk now, huh?”

You manage a gasp: “S’too big—feels too good—”

Rick snarls and pistons harder. Your body takes every inch, back hitting the mattress with each snap of his hips. You sob again not from pain, but from how full you feel. How safe. How wanted.

“That’s it,” he grunts. “Take it. Let me fuck the dumb right outta you.”

“Please,” you breathe.

That does it.

Rick growls and shoves deep, holding still his cock buried all the way in, your hips pinned hard. Then he starts grinding slow, deep, punishing and you scream his name, your body clamping around him in a tight, messy orgasm.

“Fuuuuck, that’s it,” he growls. “Cum all over me, baby. That’s my good little girl.”

You can’t stop crying. Too much. Too perfect. You clutch at him like you’ll die if he lets go.

Rick grabs your face with one hand, making you look at him. His pupils are blown wide. His hair’s stuck to his forehead.

“You want me to cum inside you?” he rasps. “Want me to fill this little pussy up ‘til it leaks down your thighs?”

You nod desperately. “Please, Rick. Want it. Wanna be full.”

“Fuck.”

He slams into you twice more and groans head thrown back, chest heaving. You feel the heat of him spill deep inside, thick and hot and endless.

He stays inside you, hips twitching, breathing ragged. Then he collapses over you, but not with his full weight—just enough to cage you in again, like he’s shielding you from everything.

You’re both silent for a long time.

Just panting.

Your body still trembles with aftershocks.

Rick kisses your jaw. Your nose. Your eyelids.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “You did so good, baby girl. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You cling to him. Tears slip free again, but these ones are soft. Gentle. Post-release sobs.

He strokes your hair and whispers, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now. You’re mine.”

———

You’re curled up on Rick’s chest, skin sticky, legs still trembling, your face pressed just under his jaw. He smells like sweat and sex and safety.

His hand runs up and down your back slowly, steady as a heartbeat.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice still hoarse. “You with me?”

You nod against his neck, letting out a soft whimper. “Mhm. S-still feel full.”

Rick lets out a low groan, his hand tightening just slightly around your waist. “You are full, bunny. Marked deep.”

You nuzzle closer, lips brushing his collarbone. You’re too soft, too dazed to think much. But when you finally tilt your face up to look at him, your expression is pure sunshine—like nothing bad has ever happened in the world.

He smiles, tired but warm. “You okay?”

“Better than okay,” you murmur.

Rick’s chest tightens. He doesn’t say anything for a second—just stares at you like you’re the only star in the sky. Then he kisses your forehead, slow and deep.

“I know, bunny,” he says quietly. “I know.”

There’s a comfortable silence between you. You fiddle lazily with his chest hair, still lying on top of him, your thighs sticky from the mess he left inside you.

He pulls you up suddenly, cradling your face in both hands and laughing against your lips.

he grins, “it’s cute. You’re my dumb little bunny?”

You pout. “But I’m trying to learn things rick”

Rick’s thumb brushes your bottom lip, and something changes in his eyes—hunger, yes, but deeper too. Possessive. Patient. Twisted up with affection.

“You wanna learn somethin’ important baby?” he murmurs.

You nod instantly. “Yes, please.”

His voice goes lower. “You ever sucked a cock before, sugar?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

He smiles. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you. Only if you want me to.”

You swallow. “I do. I wanna be good for you.”

Rick shifts onto the edge of the bed and pulls you with him, guiding your body down slowly onto your knees. His cock is still half-hard from those big glossy eyes, already starting to thicken again just from watching your pretty little face get serious.

“You sure?” he asks one last time, hand brushing your hair back.

“I’m sure,” you say quietly, moving between his thighs. “Please show me.”

His hand cups your jaw as he strokes himself to full hardness, his cock flushed and heavy, all eight inches painfully hard and wet at the tip from lingering release.

“Alright, baby girl,” he breathes. “Open up. Let’s start nice and slow.”

You obey, lips parting wide. He slides his cock over your mouth first smearing himself across your tongue and lips, letting you taste the leftover slick. Your lashes flutter, and your tongue peeks out.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Get it nice and wet for me.”

He guides you down gently, one hand in your hair. You take the tip first awkward to serious, almost tentative and he moans low.

“Use your tongue, bunny. Yeah… swirl it right under the head. Just like that.”

You try, sloppy and earnest, your mouth already starting to drool all over and rick groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen your big glossy eyes staring at him. You gag a little as you take more, but he pulls you back immediately, thumb stroking your chin.

“Too much?” he asks, voice soft.

You shake your head. “No—it’s okay. I wanna keep trying.”

He kisses your forehead. “That’s my girl.”

You take him in again—deeper this time. Your lips seal around him, tongue dragging under the shaft. Your hand starts moving too, and Rick groans, head tipping back.

“Fuck, you’re learning fast. So good with that sweet little mouth.”

You start to moan a little, the praise making your whole body tingle. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips, and Rick watches it all—mesmerized, wrecked.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “On your knees, all messy for me. Dumb little baby learning to suck cock like a good girl.”

You whimper around him.

“Take your time,” he rasps. “You don’t have to take it all. Just make me feel good.”

You keep going, slow and clumsy but so eager. Rick’s cock twitches on your tongue, and his grip in your hair tightens.

“Wanna finish in that mouth,” he grunts. “You want that, bunny? Want me to fill you up again?”

You pull off, gasping, drool slick down your chin. “Yes, please—want it, Rick.”

“Stick out your tongue.”

You obey, blinking up at him through wet lashes, lips swollen and red.

Rick groans deep in his chest as he strokes himself twice more—

And then he cums, hot and thick across your tongue and lips, moaning your name like a prayer.

You taste him, try to swallow, but some dribbles down your chin. Rick leans forward, thumb swiping it away, then pushing it into your mouth.

“Messy baby,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ good.”

You collapse into his arms again, and he wraps you up in them tight.

“I like learning,” you whisper, yawning.

Rick smiles, nose buried in your hair.

“You keep being this good for me, baby girl,” he says, kissing your temple, “and I’ll teach you everything.”

[joonipertree]

You didn't mean to grimace when you opened your mouth too wide, stretching the cut at the corner of your lips and causing a sting. But before you could even do anything else, two large hands cupped your face and Suguru was instantly face to face with you. His eyebrows furrowed, concern a little too deeply set into his face.

"What's wrong, baby?" He murmured, thumb caressing your cheek.

You suddenly felt too shy to speak, having a hard time keeping eye contact with him.

"I just got a random cut on the corner of my mouth, sugu. It's no big deal." You said, hands on his as you took in the warmth.

"Oh no, my poor lil bubba. Why didn't you tell me?" He cooed.

Suguru could be condescending, he was rather good at it. It applied well when you were being bratty, when someone was pissing him off. And this could count as condescending but it was hard to tell, not with the genuine worry on his face.

"Suguru, I'm a grown adult. There's no nee-"

You were cut off by the very gentle and tiny peck placed on the corner of your mouth. It started with one but was then followed by another and then one more. You stopped breathing at that point, relaxing into him so he could hold you close.

He was so annoying.

"You were sayin', baby?" Suguru spoke with a teasing smile and this time he was most definitely making fun of you.

His hand went under your shirt to your back, using his nails to trace ever so slightly on your skin. It caused you to shiver and your back to arch...wanting to run while wanting it to never stop.

"You tell me when you get hurt, okay honey? I take care of you." He whispered, tracing his fingers to a spot he knew caused you to lose your mind.

"You're so overprotective, Sugu. You don't need to coddle me all the time." Your frown and slightly shaky voice only made you look cuter and Suguru couldn't help but chuckle at it.

Before you could retaliate, his face lowered to your neck and you didn't even think twice before tilting your head to make room for it.

"I can't help it, bunny. You're so so sweet. I just wanna keep you safe and eat you." Suguru whispered and all it did was melt your resolve, causing you to lean on him as he attached his mouth to the most sensitive spot on your neck.

You halfheartedly pushed at his chest, too weak to even be considered a shove, as you whined at him. That's what he loved, when you whined and pouted at him. It only made him want to be a little bit meaner, a little bit more teasing, just so you'd act like that again.

Suguru's teeth grazed your skin and it made your breathing stutter. Your thighs also clamped shut, feeling the heat grow painfully.

"If-if you're gonna eat me then do it properly at least." You whispered, tugging on his shirt to let him know you were needy. He knew.

You didn't need to see it because you felt it, the wolfish grin that took over his face.

[batlcver]

❝Right.❞

That way. Eight weeks was when you separated them from their mother, so he didn't even need to check the papers back in the car to see if he was old enough, he definitely was. He'd still check the papers to be sure if we're being honest. Still that was something to get alongside the brush, and probably dog shampoo too. Before they got into the fun stuff.

❝Yeah, I know where the lizard stuff is, but I guess I never really paid any attention to the other sections. There was no reason, I'd only come in to pick up Ed's stuff.❞

But now he had a reason! A very tiny reason, but a reason all the same. Steering the cart in the direction that Eros had pointed out. The type or design didn't really matter now, it would only be seen in the pantry for like two seconds anyway. Hands on his hips as he looks over the options, before hauling down a relatively large one, definitely not the biggest available, but still decently big. Placing it on the bottom rack of the cart before heading into the next aisle.

He definitely needed puppy food, that was a given, but the brands are where he has to stop and think. Sure, there's not many options, but in a way that made it harder to choose? Would it be wrong for him to choose based on the kibble sizing? Maybe, but that was going to be his method of choice regardless. Hefting up a large bag that showed tiny sized pieces just to set upright in the cart. Next? Beds, a crate, and a carrier. A crate probably wasn't super necessary, but it might be good to have if they did travel around now. Better to get him used to one sooner rather than later.

❝Maybe we'll need a basket alongside the cart.❞

Looking at the size of the boxes for the crates? Definitely a possibility. Huffing as he tries to find a decent medium sized one. The pictures were some help, but it was hard to visualize the listed inches into actual space. Pulling out a few of the boxes to try and get a look at the dog breeds on the pictures. Forty... forty inches was probably good enough? Shooting Eros a look as if to silently go "mmnnm" before dragging out the box and placing it in the cart. Really at this point he was just guessing, but when it came to carriers? That was way easier. He was tiny he just needed a small one, but one that wasn't too small in the event that he got any bigger. Easy! Picking one up and immediately putting it in the cart.

❝Okay, goddamn, this is getting into a workout.❞

Why was stuff so heavy? It's not like he was exactly weak either, maybe not super strong or muscly, but he had a decent bit of muscle to him. Brushing hair out of his face as he walks down to the beds. Okay, so if the craft is forty inches, then he'd want a crate mat that was the same size, right? That's what he was thinking anyway, and that's how it'd go. He'd need two! Two beds, one for the crate, and one for the bedroom. It takes him a minute to find the crate mat, one of the few left of that size, grabbing the thing it dawns on him forty might be too big actually, but it was too late. He wasn't getting that back out and switching it out, bigger is better anyway, or whatever. Tossing it in, okay, dog bed. Brown eyes searching the options, there were a few cute ones, but it's over the second he sees one that looks like a little chaise lounge. He didn't even care if part of it was white, it was going immediately into the cart alongside the rest.

❝Okay. So we got food, bowls, food storage, crate, carrier, puppy pads, dogs beds plural, collar and harness, so we just need... Brush, shampoo, flea medicine, then he can go find his toys and treats.❞

Shoulders slumping as he exhales, they were gonna need a basket for sure. No son of his was going to be skimped on the fun things just 'cause he didn't prepare in advance and get the supplies first when thinking about getting a pet.

❝I'm gonna go to the grooming aisle, if you could get a separate basket, and we'll just meet there.❞

     “ Yeah, it'd jus' be nice t' have f'er her, too. ”

     Not like Agape wasn't good with other animals, but all the same. It was best to make sure these things went smoothly and didn't cause any issues. He'd really prefer they get along and if getting her a little toy meant that she'd be a bit more affable, then he'd get one.

     He watches the little puppy as they walk into the store and he seems to sniff around. Curious about the new area that they're in. How he's all but chasing after Mason and the cart as they move. It's cute – like shopping for a new member of your family.

     Would – they go shopping like this again for other reasons? Was it too early to think about that sort of thing? Probably – he shouldn't focus on that for right now. Just the fact that they were having a good time going out and looking at stuff for the little guy. He seemed so excited at everything, too. His tail just wouldn't stop wagging.

     “ Woah, how gay of 'em. ”

     A soft laugh escaped the smaller as he looked over the little rainbow collar. And one with a cute bow. He was almost tempted, but Agape liked that her current collar could accomadate her bandanas. And yes, he knew she liked it because she would go grab which one she wanted to wear for the day. She was a very smart dog. Very fashionable.

     “ Uh – eight weeks usually but some brands have different requirements. ”

     He canting his head to the side for a moment as Mason started and then stopped himself over whatever he was going to ask. Another chuckle from the smaller before he gestured with his head towards the aisle they needed and headed down that way so he could lead the other. Easier for him to just follow than give directions for something that felt rather simple.

     “ There's alsooo th' actual food in th' next aisle over and tha's where treats and stuff are, too. Then beds are closer t' th' back and toys are ‘round th’ middle. S' organized by like… animal at least. Like fish stuff is in these aisles over here, or lizards or birds or rats, s'nice. ”

     He'd been to the store enough and had enough different pets that he knew where most things were stationed. Or, he liked to think he did. Though – they really had to stay away from the kitty corner or he'd be stuck to the glass for hours wanting to bring another one home. No! Nope, had to remain near the stuff that they needed, for sure.

[lemongrablothbrok]

What the flip flying fuck is wrong with this man I love him

[holeforzenin]

Tw - Dad’s bestfriend Nanami, dark content. Taboo elements. Age gap (21, 43), He doesn't want it but he can't help himself :3

Nanami never thought of you that way.

You were his best friend's daughter. He helped change your diapers and drove you to piano lessons when your dad was too busy. He sat through your school plays with a proud smile and clapped louder than anyone else because of how proud of you he was.

To him, you were sweet, silly, sometimes a handful—but never a woman. Never someone to want or lust over. He's a better man than that. A man with morals.

And he still didn't, at least not until tonight?

The house was quiet and lonely with your parents out of town, so Nanami offered to come over and keep an eye on you—just to make sure you didn’t accidentally burn the place down. It wasn’t anything new; he’d been the only one your parents trusted to babysit you for as long as you could remember. By now, you were used to having him around. He was practically like an uncle to you. A second dad.

You’re curled up next to him on the living room couch, laughing at some dumb comedy movie, dressed in one of those tiny matching tank top and shorts set that left way too much of your pretty thighs exposed against his. He tried not to notice how soft and delicate you felt when you leaned into him, giggling with your cheek brushing his shoulder.

It wasn't sexual. It shouldn't be sexual.

So when you climbed into his lap, giggling and flustered, and warm from one glass of wine—he didn't know what to do. He immediately stiffened under you like your touch had burnt him.

“Sweetheart—” he started in a gentle tone, brows furrowed tight as he held his hands up, hovering in the air like he couldn't dare lay them on you.

“I just missed you so much, Uncle Ken” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his neck as you nuzzled in close. “You’ve been so far away and busy lately”

“Y—You shouldnt be touching me like this,” he muttered. “You can't sit here, not like this”

But you didn’t move. You just shifted in his lap, slowly rolling your hips just once—almost innocent, like it didn’t mean anything, but you both knew better. That’s when he felt it—your warmth pressing down and grinding directly over his cock, right through the thin layer of your shorts and of his slacks.

His breath caught. His hands shot to your waist—not to push you off, but to stop you from doing it again.

“Don't,” he said sharply with a low hiss. “Don't do that”.

You blinked at him with that innocent look on your face—that soft, bratty smile curving your lips. “Why not?”

“Because it's not right”. His fingers harshly dug into your sides. “Because I'm supposed to be looking out for you, not—”

But then you did it again—rolling your hips even slower this time, letting him feel the full heat of your pussy through the soft stretch of your shorts. And his words caught in his throat.

His cock was getting hard.

It wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't even thinking about it. He didn't want this. He didn't want to feel how warm and soft you were, how easy it would be to slide one hand between your thighs and feel you. He didn't want to imagine how wet you might be—rubbing yourself all over him and marking him with your arousal like that— like you didn't know better.

But you did know better. And you did it again.

“Kento...” you whispered, and his whole body flinched like someone pointed a gun at him. You'd never called him that when you were on top of him before. It felt so wrong.

“Stop,” he growled, but his grip on you tightened instead of loosening. “This is—fuck—this is wrong”

You were grinding in earnest now, soft little whines in your throat as you rocked yourself against the thick length straining against his slacks. The outline is his cock denting into your clothed folds and giving your hungry cunt delicious fiction. His cock pulsed with every movement, throbbing painfully. He’s too hard and fucking weak.

His cock is throbbing so meanly beneath the fabric like it’s trying so hard to rip it open and release itself—thick and leaking and twitching with every teasing pass of your hips. “I didn't want this,” he said as if he could still convince himself. “I never wanted this”.

But he wasn’t stopping you. Fuck no—he was letting it happen, making it happen. His hands had settled on your hips in a bruising grip, holding you down firmly and guiding your movements even as he pretended to let you take the lead. His head fell back, eyes clenched shut, lips parted with a strained, choked groan.

You could feel the tremble in his fingertips, the way his breath hitched every time your clothed cunt dragged over the aching bulge again and again.

“I thought of you as my own,” he whispered like it was a confession. “I didn't even see you like this until tonight—until you...”

You moaned softly and ground down just right, and that was it.

He completely snapped.

His hand grabbed your ass hard, fingers digging in the flesh hard enough to bruise as he yanked your body further into him and grinding you against him with a rhythm that was anything but gentle. It was filthy and utterly desperate—like something inside him had snapped like he couldn’t take another second of teasing.

His hips rutted up into you with hard, mean thrusts, chasing more friction like a man starved with his cock still trapped in the confines of his slacks.

He needed it. Needed you. Needed the heat of your cunt dragging over him, the wet spot on your panties growing with every grind. The soft, broken noises spilling from your mouth.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, panting into your neck, breath hot and rough like he hated himself for how badly he was shaking. His cock was leaking through the fabric, a thick stripe of pre-cum that smeared every time he eagerly fucked up into your clothed pussy.

“God, forgive me,” he gasped, voice breaking into a moan, “I can't—I can't stop, fuck—what are you doing to me”

But he didn't stop.

Not even when he came in his slacks with your name on his tongue.