hopelesswrites

[hopelesswrites]

Time Takes Away

♥ ♥          Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader 

Summary: Time gives. Makes plants grow. After a bad first date, an experiment ensues. You trade favours, and time just can't stop giving. But, to whom much is given, much will be required, and if you're not careful, time will take away just as easily.

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes

Author’s note: so, i asked for requests and got a lot (thanks babes) @nadixm, @charmingballoon, and an anon fed me three that turned into this: upstairs neighbours who set each other up on blind dates. lmk your thoughts!

Wordcount: 3.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

Joe’s balcony has no right being this nice.

You’re holding the watering can a little like it’s a glass of wine. Loose wrist. Pinky out. Lazy tilt. Not on purpose, obviously, but there’s something almost indulgent about it, the way you pour slowly, evenly, across the soil of the rosemary.

It’s because of the sun. You don’t get this kind of sun on your own balcony. The building across the way throws yours into permanent shade by two in afternoon and refuses to apologise for it.

You want the sun to burn your skin after two as well, please.

Joe’s balcony, on the other hand, gets light like it was specially designed for it. Big, unapologetic rectangles of it, warming your forearms, the bridge of your nose, your knuckles as you tilt the can again. It’s lazy and gold and warm enough that you’ve started to time your watering with late daylight. You tell yourself it’s just practical. That the water evaporates slower this time of day. That you’re helping.

His parsley’s completely giving up. You make a quiet noise of disapproval and pinch the dead bits off with exaggerated care, like Joe might be watching, even though you’re almost entirely certain he isn’t home. You’d knocked before letting yourself in, waited the full three seconds, and told yourself out loud that it was fine, it was just the plants.

You’ve got a key. That makes it official. You’re not breaking in. You’re performing a service. You are, you remind yourself, being useful.

Neighbourly.

You love Joe’s balcony.

You love your own flat, but God, you’d move in an instant to have this sunlit outdoor space for yourself. It’s great. You love every aspect of it. Except for the turf, actually. The fucking plastic turf that he got to cover half of it. You sigh as you stare at it, narrow your eyes at how awful it looks and shake your head. It’s a long story, but Joe likes the feel of it under his feet, so it doesn’t matter how long you frown at it, it’s not going anywhere. You also ignore the one nice chair he has – one. Just one. Not a set, like normal people usually get, but just one, because God forbid someone else wants to have a seat, it’s so stupid, it’s – no, calm down. Please. You said you were going to ignore it.

But the rest of it’s nice.

He’s got plants in matching terracotta pots that he definitely didn’t buy himself. They’re yours, really, in a roundabout way. You pick them up when they get leggy. Repot them when he forgets. You mention neem oil and a spray bottle with a tone in your voice that sounds like you’re a bit mad at him, even though you’re not.

You like taking care of things.

Even if they’re not technically yours.

Especially when they’re not technically yours.

You’ve just crouched down to check the droop of the basil when there’s a sound behind you that feels too sudden for it to be casual.

And then–  

“Jesus!”

You drop the watering can which clatters to the floor with a dull thud, spilling the last of its water over your ankle. You don’t scream, not exactly, but you definitely gasp in capital letters as you press both hands to your chest.

“Oh my God,” Joe says, grinning at the way you ducked into yourself. “You scared me.”

“What– you scared me!” you exclaim, but you’re already laughing, doing your best to ignore the way he carries a cologne-smell that says he’s only just walked in.

His shirt’s half-buttoned as he leans a little out whilst stood inside still, and he looks like he’s amused to have found you out on his balcony. Like he was hoping to catch you in the act of something criminal, not just crouched next to a tomato plant that he hasn’t watered since April.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, even though he clearly did judging by the stupid grin he can’t seem to lose.

“I thought you were out,” you say, picking up the dropped watering can and trying your best to get your heart rate down. You brush your hand over the wet ankle like that’s going to fix it.

“I was,” Joe says, stepping outside now, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I am. Well. Was. I’ve been on a date.”

You exclaim a loud, “Oh?” your intonation saying, tell me more, one hand on the little table you keep threatening to steal for your own balcony.

But then he scrunches his nose and doesn’t match your energy.

“Yea.”

He leans over and flicks one of the dead leaves you just pinched. “It was shit.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then you give a small, awkward laugh and gesture vaguely at the plants, the sun, your entire presence. “Sorry, I’ll be out of your hair in a second.”

Joe doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean back into the flat. Just shrugs and says, “Nah. Stay. Talk to me. I need to speak to a normal person before I lose all hope.”

So dramatic.

You straighten up, brushing your hands on your jeans, and squint at him.

“I didn’t realise a terrible date would turn me into a palette cleanser.”

“It’s a low bar today,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Seriously. She was nice, technically. Friendly. Pretty. Just...”

You wait.

He shrugs. “Not much else.”

“God,” you say, “that’s how I hope every man describes me when they get home.”

Joe rolls his eyes and leans on the balcony railing beside you, the one nice chair remaining noticeable empty. It feels silly that neither of you sits in it, a bit like on the tube when you hope that the one other person standing beside you would just take the last seat just so you don’t look stupid for not taking it yourself.

It’s why Joe needs two of them, you think.

“It wasn’t like that. I just… I talked to her for a week, you know? Good messages. Normal human interactions. No red flags. Thought, maybe…”

“Let me guess. Were you wrong? Was it red flag central?”

“I was so wrong,” he says, with enough theatrical tragedy that it makes the both of you laugh.

“How bad was it?”

He winces. “There was a song. She kept trying to get me to guess the song she had stuck in her head by humming random bits of it and this went on for like half an hour, and I–”

“Did you know it?”

“No fucking clue what she was doing.” The face Joe makes prompts you to cover your mouth with your hand to hide your laughter.

“–And then she started talking about the power of… I don’t know, whatever the fuck, positive vibrations? And how my aura was probably too closed off, and apparently I was giving of pisces vibes?”

Your hand does nothing to hide your snort.

“I don’t even know what that means!” Joe sighs like the afternoon aged him and lets himself fall into his one nice chair - finally. “Anyway. I couldn’t focus. I kept zoning out. Every time she started talking again it was like… white noise.”

“Wow.” You press a hand to your heart. “Romance really is alive.”

“Sorry, I swear I was nice. I tried to be nice. I tried all the… all the, you know, this school corridor nonsense. The whole, ‘I’m not asking you out, I’m just giving you my geography notes’ kind of thing.”

You have zero idea what he’s talking about.

“Is that how you flirted in school?” you ask.

“I didn’t,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. “It’s… I swear it’s the apps. They ruin it before it’s even started, really.”

You’re smiling now, amused despite yourself, watching the way he grimaces like he’s still recovering. “You poor thing. This is what you get for joining a dating app that looks like a perfume ad.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is.”

Joe squints at the ivy trailing along the railing. “Looks good. Did you trim that?”

“Don’t deflect.”

“I’m complimenting your gardening.”

You did trim the ivy, and it’s lovely that Joe actually notices that you do more than just dumping a bit of water into some pots. Joe’s right. The ivy does look good. Then your gaze drifts to the basil again, which is starting to yellow at the edges. Not dry, but soft. Soggy.

You lean over it with a sigh. “You’ve been watering again.”

Joe glances up. “Yea, I… I thought I was helping.”

“You’re not,” you say gently, touching a leaf between your fingers. “You’re slowly drowning them.”

He winces. “Oh, well. Shit. I thought more water was good.”

“They don’t need more water. They need consistency.”

Joe raises an eyebrow, amused. “You talking about plants or people?”

“Both,” you mutter, checking the rosemary next. “You really need to stop.”

“Stop Raya?”

That’s not what you meant, but, “Yes, actually. Stop advertising yourself with a slideshow set to music which is all vibes and no actual information.”

“That’s…” Joe fishes his phone from his pocket and huffs a laugh. “Yea, that’s exactly what it is, actually.”

“It’s hot rich people set to moody music. You don’t swipe on a person, you swipe on how much money you think their parents have.”

Joe raises a hand like he’s ready to defend himself, but you keep going.

“At least on Hinge you have to write something. Make an effort. You learn how someone uses punctuation. You know. Foundational things.”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “You’re on Hinge?”

“Mhmm.”

“And you’re giving me grief about my app?”

“Hinge has words. Words matter. I can weed out the serial kills by the third prompt whereas you just got to stare at someone’s tits and then were told you aura sucks.”

“You’re single,” he says, flatly. “I rest my case.”

“That’s not my fault.” You narrow your eyes at him. “No offence, but… men suck. That’s not the app’s fault.”

“Are you saying your profile is flawless?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re an expert?”

“I’m... yea, sure. I’m a reluctant expert. I’ve been on the front lines.”

Joe tilts his head, eyes squinting in mock interest when suddenly, he holds his hand out, palm up. “All right. Hand it over.”

“What?”

“Your phone. I want to see your profile.”

You blink at him. “You’re not serious.”

“Completely serious. You mock my app, I want to see yours. You’ve insulted my aura– my pisces vibes.”

You wish you were better at hiding your smile.

You hold each other’s gaze for a moment before you sigh, reach into your back pocket, and pull your phone out. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, it’s mutual destruction. I get to see yours too.”

Joe grins like he’s won something and the next thing he says is easy. “Deal.”

You exchange unlocked phones like it’s a hostage negotiation, and in a flash you think of everything on your phone that you wouldn’t want him to see. If this motherfucker is going to go into your notes app, you swear to God…

You throw your phone a nervous glance, and see that he finds and opens Hinge without hesitation. Somehow, that’s a relief. “So, what’s your vibe, then? Clever captions and pictures of you posing with cups of coffee?”

“I am clever, and I do like coffee, but, no.” you correct.

He scrolls for a moment. His eyebrows go up.

“Oh wow. You’re actually trying. You’ve got a poll on here.”

“It’s called effort. You wouldn’t know anything about it.”

You tap at his phone until you’ve found Raya. His music starts playing, and you immediately wince.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You chose this song?”

“It’s a cool song!”

Unfortunately, he’s right. But you’re not going to let him know that.

“I feel like I’m about to watch your biopic.”

He doesn’t look up from your phone. “This picture of you with the dog is cheating.”

“Every other picture of you is from a professional fucking photoshoot, don’t talk to me about cheating.” You spit good-heartedly, making Joe grin as he bites his words.

You both scroll silently for a few seconds, each with the other’s digital love-life in your hands, until you suddenly realise something.

“Imagine if we were on the same app,” you say.

Joe pauses, looks up from your phone with just his eyes.

“Thank fuck we aren’t…” you scoff.

He grins before he frowns. “What would be so bad about that?”

You laugh. “Please. We’re neighbours.”

Joe tuts, eyes back on your phone. “Rude. I’d match with you.” And before you can respond, he smirks and says, “You answered this prompt all wrong. No one wants to hear that your ideal Sunday involves hoovering.”

“Why not? It’s relatable.”

“It’s bleak.”

Okay. That’s enough.

“Hand it back.”

Instead of giving your phone back, he turns away a little as he scrolls down a little more, making sure he’s seen the full thing, and then looks at you. He hesitates a moment, but then holds your phone out to you and says, “This is actually such a waste of time, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

You do the same and give Joe his phone back as well.

He gestures between your phone and his before he slides it back into his pocket. “This. Apps. Swiping and matching. Guessing if someone has a soul based on their height, or whatever.”

You snort. He’s not wrong.

You lean against the railing, since there’s no other seat, and stare into the sun that’s slowly setting. The air’s gone pink around the edges. Daylight slipping. God, you wish this was the view from your flat. You’d spend so much more time outside if it was. You let the silence sit for a moment before you speak again.

“Wouldn’t it be easier,” you say slowly, “if noone could Google each other beforehand?”

Joe turns to look at you.

“Like. Forget the curated photos. The ‘what do you do’ questions. The stalking each other’s socials– shut up, we all do that. But wouldn’t it be better if we just… met someone?”

Joe stares at you.

“No pictures,” you continue. “No bios, or prompts, or slideshows set to music. Just... vibes.” You have to laugh at your choice of words. “Vibes, but, literal in real life ones.”

He tilts his head. “You want to bring back arranged marriages?”

You kick his leg, which prompts him to try and reach for it. You’re too fast though, and he misses.

“I mean, come on. You’d probably go on better dates if someone else picked for you.”

“With respect, this sounds like a challenge.”

“It likely would’ve saved you today’s disaster, wouldn’t it?”

Joe grins, slow and bright. “Yea. Okay. Why not? Let’s switch.”

You blink a couple of times before you narrow your eyes. “Switch what?”

“Profiles.”

“What? No.”

“Yes.”

“Joe.”

“One month,” he says, suddenly sitting up. “You take over mine. I take over yours. We set each other up. Blind dates. One per week.”

“You want me to date your matches?”

“What? No, what are you even– no, we choose the matches. We pick them out for each other, set up a date, and then... we send the other person.”

You stare at him. “She was right you know. You kind of do have pisces vibes.”

“I have brilliant vibes. Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? You have another bad date? That’ll happen regardless.”

Um, full offence, what the fuck?

Joe ignores your facial expression. “I’ll run your profile. You run mine. One month. No cheating”

You look at him. His face is all casual confidence, like he’s not suggesting something completely ridiculous, yet... you can’t lie. This is not entirely unappealing.

“I don’t trust you,” you say, hoping it will stop the discussion.

“Good. Keeps things exciting.” Joe replies, keeping it going.

You chew your lip. “You’re not going to match me with every man you feel sorry for and think deserves a nice evening, are you?”

Joe lifts both hands. “I promise.”

“Because I’m not going to allow you to volunteer me into spending time with a bunch of sad losers who look like they have never touched a woman in their lifetime.”

“Deal,” Joe says, and then, before you can protest again, “But same goes for you. No choosing someone because they seem like they need therapy and you think I could help.”

You narrow your eyes. “Not my fault your vibrations are so positive.”

“Fuck off. One month.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Fine. One month. Deal.”

You shake on it. Joe’s hand is warm and dry and feels too comfortable in yours. Like this is something you’ve done a hundred times before. Like this isn’t the weirdest possible idea for two neighbours to come up with over a sunset and an empty watering can.

You don’t let yourself think about how much of your life has had Joe in it lately, and how you kind of only said yes to this stupid experiment because it means you’ll see even more of him. Not just his plants, or his balcony. Him. And you’re not sure what’s more terrifying: the dates he might choose, or the ones you hope he doesn’t.

You’ll think about all of that later.

Right now, he’s already pulling up his app again, whistling under his breath.

“God help the women of Raya...” you mutter.

“And the men of Hinge.” he replies cheerfully.

The experiment has begun.

It takes a minute to figure out how to actually do this, but you figure it out quick enough. When you’re all set, you clap your hands together and nod at Joe.

“Yea? Palette cleansed?”

It takes a second for Joe to understand what you mean.

“Oh, um. Yea. Thanks. And for the plants too, it all looks great, as always.”

“And it will remain that way if you stop watering them every time you get bored.” You step back into his flat to make your way back to yours. “So stop watering them every time you bored, Joe!”

Joe laughs as he watches you walk to his front door where you turn, wave and smile just before you disappear through it, and it’s funny how all of that worked out, he thinks, but… yea, his palette really has been fucking cleansed.

What a little time can do, huh.

That night, Joe dreams of a memory he didn’t know he’d kept.

It surfaces quiet and unannounced, like something waterlogged that finally floats. He’s thirteen, maybe fourteen, still gangly, still unsure in his skin. His school uniform sits stiff around the collar, cheap polyester clinging to the back of his neck. His hair’s too long at the back, and he hasn’t figured out deodorant properly yet. Everything he does feels a little bit wrong, like he’s constantly failing some test he doesn’t know the rules to.

Joe’s not unpopular, exactly, but he always thinks he isn’t the type of boy people remember. Just someone trying to be funny enough so that no one notices how often he feels invisible.

There’s a girl.

Of course there’s a girl.

Pretty in a way he doesn’t have the vocabulary for yet, and he’s definitely got a crush on her, just like everyone else in his year, he thinks. The kind of crush that doesn’t ache yet, but just softly simmers. She’s nice to him. Laughs at his jokes. Doesn't sit with him at lunch because she’s got her own cluster of girls, always tight-knit, always buzzing with secrets, but if he catches her eye across the room, she’ll smile and point a finger at him like she’s caught him staring, and it makes him blush every time.

He thinks of her as a friend, kind of. Though he’s not sure she’d say the same. They don’t really talk about anything deep. Not about parents or dreams or how sometimes he feels like he’s floating just outside the center of everything.

But sometimes they walk part of the way home together. She’ll tell him something ridiculous that happened in PE, and he’ll laugh, and they’ll part ways, and she’ll spin around with a wave and a promise of seeing him tomorrow, and he’ll pull a stupid face to make her laugh again which turns his cheeks bright pink.

He’s got a big fat crush on her. The kind that makes your chest hurt in a good way. The kind that makes you want to write her name in the margins of your homework, but he’s got no idea what to do with it.

So, he… he doesn’t really do anything.

Which, honestly, feels fine.

It feels safer.

He likes what they have, the looks across the lunchroom, the exaggerated shoulder bumps in the narrow hallways, the loud laugh when he says something dumb, followed by a teacher telling the both of them off for it.

Why risk changing any of it?

She’s not making a move either, so he tells himself that’s a sign. That this is just what it is, and that it’s good enough for him.

He tells himself that more than once.

And then, like most things, time slips by. Quietly. Carelessly. School ends. Summer ends. And then she’s just… gone.

No more lunchroom glances.

No more slow walks home.

No more excuses to make her laugh.

He doesn’t remember the last time he saw her. That’s the worst part. That time moves so fast you don’t even know when it takes something away.

In the dream, she’s still laughing. Still pointing her finger at him from a couple of tables over. And he’s still blushing. Still waving.

Still hoping.

He wakes up with the echo of it in his chest. This strange, soft ache he hadn’t realised he’d carried all this time, and he wonders, just briefly, what would’ve happened if he’d ever said anything.

If he had ever reached out his hand to hold hers.

If he’d ever told her that he liked her.

If maybe, just maybe, she might’ve said it back.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson

@dailyobsession, @eddie-munsons-balls, @eddies-puppet, @eddiemunsonslatinagoddess, @elvendria

@emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee, @ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959

@hazelenys, @joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore

@lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets

@nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney

@readergf, @royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420

@songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73

@werepartnersnow, @witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

add yourself

[hopelesswrites]

Guys of course Joe was in a good mood in Aus, we’re always a bundle of joy, everyone loves Aus

[hopelesswrites]

[hopelesswrites]

silver surfer: *kicks johnny off her surfboard into space*

johnny: hear me out... i think we had a moment 🤭

[hopelesswrites]

My man finally in my country and im not even there 😔

joe arriving in australia

[hopelesswrites]

can we be rude to joe after a rough day and instead of him turning soft, it just turns him on?

oh, um....................................... yea why not Wordcount: 2.7K

---

Thunder

"Hey! How was your day?" Joe calls out when he hears the door open.

"Can we fight?"

The door slams, and Joe has to ignore the little buzz that runs down his spine. Has to ignore the immediate tightening of the muscles in his lower stomach. The way his mind draws an instant blank.

Joe doesn't think he's weird.

Doesn't think there's something off about him.

Thinks he very normal, actually. Totally regular. A bit boring, maybe, if you ask some of his friends. Definitely tame.

He's got interests he shares with others.

Has groups of people he hangs out with, people that he blends with, and he never sticks out like a sore thumb.

He doesn't feel different. Knows everyone is different on some level, but overall, he's got plenty in common with others and doesn't worry about what others think of him.

But.

He knows there's one thing though...

"She's got some... some rough edges, doesn't she?"

You do.

Having some rough edges is one way of describing you. He thinks he's heard every variation of it by now.

"She's got a bit of a short fuse."

"She's not afraid to bite back immediately."

"She'll let you know what's on her mind."

Or simply, and he's only ever heard your own friends call you this without getting in some serious trouble: a bitch.

"Oh, this isn't what I ordered... can you go be a bitch for me, please?"

Joe's well aware that not everyone appreciates you in the same light that he does. That not all of his friends know how to deal with the instant reaction you let yourself be lead by. If there's something you don't like, you're quick to let someone know.

Assertively.

Or, you know, aggressively.

He loves it.

Loves the deep frown that finds your features easily. Loves the immediate outraged facial expression when you hear something you don't agree with. Loves that your assertiveness reads as pure aggression sometimes.

Loves it with his mind.

Loves it more with his body.

Sometimes he'll poke the bear just so he can experience it. That's not weird, is it? He understands this is where he... differs from others, though. He sees it when he gets invited somewhere, sees the looks some people give each other when he shows up with you by his side. You don't easily gel with everyone, but that's okay. You don't need to. You need to gel with Joe and Joe alone, he thinks.

The front door of his flat gets slammed with such force, the lock doesnt even latch. It bounces right back, nearly gets you in the fucking face, and fuck off, if you were strong enough to rip it from its hinges, you fucking would have.

Joe hears how it takes two tries.

Hears how constricted noises of sheer frustration leave you, and knows that you've likely been keeping those stuck in your throat for at least the past two hours.

Time for them to get out properly.

Joe feels his neck heat up when a bag gets thrown across the hallway.

He's got to quickly hide his little smirk as he pushes whatever work he has in front of him aside.

He asked you how your day was, and you responded with "Can we fight?"

Yea... yea, he can fight.

"Who are we fighting?" he calls back to you as he hears your footsteps get closer, holding his breath and squaring his shoulders in preparation.

Joe hears you huff before you step into the doorway, and...

You look pissed the fuck off.

"You. I'm fighting you."

He's looking at your face flushed in deep red, your jaw tightened like a steel trap, lips curled back in a snarl, and two dark narrowed eyes that burn with barely contained rage. Your furrowed brow casts deep shadows over your expression, and he can hear how raggedly you're breathing through flared nostrils.

You're barely restraining yourself from exploding.

Joe's immediately turned on.

"Me?" Joe starts, sounding slightly offended as he gets up from his seat with raised eyebrows. "What have I done?"

"What haven't you done?"

Joe knows he's done nothing wrong. Knows that your anger isn't aimed at him in the slightest. He's just... there. You've stepped into a safe space for all of the pent-up rage to be released, and Joe knows you want to shout at circumstance until your voice goes hoarse.

It's just that circumstance doesn't fight back, and sometimes you need a bit of... resistence. A bit of push-back.

That's okay.

Joe can push back.

Joe knows how to push back.

Loves to push back, actually.

Loves it because it only makes you go in harder.

"The fuck you mean?" Joe stalks closer, and has to try so so hard to not give away how he can feel strange excitement inside of his chest. Inside of his underwear. "Hmm? What are you talking about?"

Joe sees how your fists tremble at your sides, knuckles whitened and shoulders rigid with tension. Sees how every muscle in your body seems to coil up, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

The air crackles a little.

There's thunder behind your eyes.

"Do not..." you warn, eyes squeezing into even smaller slits as you hold up one of your hands.

That's the most tense hand he's ever seen.

Joe takes another step, narrowing his eyes to match.

"Don't what?"

You can see how Joe's breathing grows slightly heavier, and it's exactly the fuel you need to sink into your anger even deeper.

"Don't you fucking dare talk to me like that, you–"

You get cut off by Joe's facial expression.

Little bitch boy lets his face drop and briefly flicks his eyes upward.

"Did you... did you just roll your eyes at me?!"

It just takes you two steps forward to be able to use both hands to violently shove him backwards.

Joe knew it was coming, was already bracing for it. The blast to his chest goes straight to his dick, yet he barely moves, which is infuriating in and of itself.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Joe snaps, voice tight and harsh but annoyingly quiet giving the volume you were taking deep breaths to produce.

"What I'm doing?!" yea, you’re much louder, and it's stupid how that somehow gives Joe the upper hand. Going in for another push to his chest makes Joe grab hold of you by both your wrists. "All I fucking did was work hard," you're fighting to be let go, but Joe's grip is too strong. "Did what I was asked to do," you try to pull away, bending left then right, but it's of no use. "Showed up on time, spent hours of my time doing prep and– let me go!" your voice cracks on go, revealing raw emotion you weren't planning on letting slip through.

Joe lets go when he hears it, slightly startled, and for a moment you just stand opposite each other.

Panting.

Dark eyes.

Tight mouths.

It's so fucking hot, Joe can feel himself spurt precome and fears you'll be able to see a wet patch form in his jeans.

"You–..." you don't even know what to say.

Just know you're angry.

Know that Joe is always game for you to let it out on him.

He will always encourage you to raise your voice and just fucking tell him what's bothering you because if you keep it all inside he knows there's going to be a day where he gets a phonecall and will have to go pick you up from a twenty-four hour custody hold.

But he doesn't have to be so fucking smug.

Look at that face.

Fucking hell.

"You think I'm just going to let you–..."

Let him what?

What's the actual problem?

What is it you want?

A strained grumble of sheer frustration leaves you as you push both your palms into your eyes for a second.

It makes Joe's head swim to see you like this. He tries not to show it, but he has to pull at his jeans a little to allow himself more room where it's starting to become uncomfortable.

You catch it, and your outrage finds new focus easily.

There's thunder in your heart.

"Are you fucking..." you begin, eyes going from where you can see the clear outline of his dick bulging to his eyes and back.

"How hard are you right now?" you challenge, doing your very best to sound repulsed.

How dare Joe get turned on by this?

You ignore the effect Joe's earlier grip had on you.

Joe just scoffs.

Looks you up and down for a moment, and then lets his lowlidded eyes settle on your scowl. Is it bad that he loves you most when you look at him like you want to murder him?

Joe turns the tables as he lowly answers your question with one of his own, "How wet are you right now?"

Your face screws up further.

"I'm not–"

It just takes one big step for Joe to close the distance between the of you until he's on you, presses you against the wall with his chest and gets his face right in front of yours.

"No?" Joe snarls, breath fanning across your mouth.

You're caged in, both his hands on the wall either side of you, and you want to scream about how Joe has the audacity. About how he's insane for thinking he can just overpower you like this after the day you've had.

But it's hard to hold onto the desire to scream at someone when the sting of their mouth pressing against yours is biting in the best of ways. Joe kisses you, and it's a punishing, painful thing. You don't immediately register how Joe's teeth sink into your bottom lip, but when it does, you want to respond with cruel bites of your own.

You don't get the chance. One of Joe's palm curls around your throat to keep you in place as he pulls back, snarling, "Let me ask you again."

You're struggling to breathe and nearly lose your footing as Joe uses his legs to push yours apart before he grinds up against you hard.

"How wet are you right now?"

"You fucking–"

"Ah, ah. Answer the question."

Joe's face remains impossibly close to you, forcing eye-contact. You don't manage much more than a thin whine as an answer, your tough facade slowly cracking. It's not going to take much more for it to all fall apart.

You test the grip Joe's got around your throat and find it's annoyingly weak.

It's just that Joe's other hand is occupied trying to get into your trousers, fumbling with the button, the zipper, trying to push down enough of the fabric, because you're not answering his question, and he needs to fucking know.

With the grip around your throat slackened, you use both your hands to pull at his arm. It's enough to turn Joe's clasp back to steel, shoving you against the wall even harder as he tightens his fingers around your throat once more.

It makes your eyes roll back.

"How wet?" Joe asks one last time, a hand pushing into your underwear to find out for himself. A pathetic little noise escapes you when you see Joe's eyes grow darker.

"So wet..." you constrictedly breathe into his mouth, both hands now on the waistband of his jeans and it makes him groan.

"Y-yea," Joe lets his fingers slide, his whole hand slicking up. "So wet."

"H-how ha-..." the words break off and die in your throat, you can't fucking speak. "How hard–"

"So hard." Joe easily answers, moving back in to kiss you on the mouth with his hand still on your throat, and it's a strong fuck hand. Rough. It's hard to breathe when Joe kisses you like this.

Somehow your hands manage to undo Joe's jeans, and whilst Joe's hand curls around to the back of your neck, his tongue spearing into your mouth without mercy, your hands push at cotton until you've got him in your hand.

He wasn't lying.

Not that you thought he was.

You know a single glare across a room can make all of his blood rush down south.

Joe's doing everything right with his fingers, and you move yours in a way that makes Joe turn even harder somehow. He's holding onto you so tightly it's painful, but you don't want him to let go, it's got your head spinning.

There's thunder in your throat.

Joe doesn't think he's weird. He keeps his eyes closed as he kisses you unrelentlessly. Can't look you in the eye when you push his dick down to make it fit where you want it to go. Your underwear is halfway down your thighs, and Joe's sit around his knees, and Joe doesn't think he's weird, but you're both writhing with burning bodies desperate to connect and relieve whatever's left of the anger this way.

Joe wasn't even angry.

Just matched your energy.

The world slowly fades around you as Joe fuck you up against the wall. Your hands claw at his back, and you wish you were able to pull a leg up, but there's nothing you can do. You're confined by your clothes and Joe's strong arms that practically hold you up as he thrusts up into you.

"Fuck," you breathe into his mouth as he keeps kissing you, words swallowed up by him before they dissolve into low groans.

The pace is unrelenting.

No measured rhythm.

No soft sweet words whispered.

No gentle touches.

Just a brutal, pressing, clawing need that starts as a rigorous way to put you in place but very quickly blurs into a wild chase of shared pleasure.

Thunder in your soul.

It's all about the orgasm, and Joe fucks you like he hasn't got the time, filthy and frantic and it happens quicker than you thought it would. Your own orgasm sneaks up on you unexpectedly, and Joe kisses you the whole time. When he's not kissing his mouth hovers just in front of yours, breathing harshly as your noses touch, only briefly moving away to involuntarily drop his head back when he feels you squeeze him.

You look lovely when you come.

Gorgeous as you come undone.

Jaw slack, eyes rolled back and fluttering.

It's a sight.

He can watch this all day.

But he can't help himself. Doesn't think he's weird, but knows there's something missing, and so right as he can feel how euphoria ebbs away from you, he leans in and lets his teeth scrape over your face harshly. Bites into your jaw with enough force to leave teeth marks.

"Ow, what the fuck?!" you yank your head back, brow in a deep frown and, eyes full of renewed outrage, and... that's all he needs.

You feel how Joe pulls out just in time to spill over his fist onto your thighs and the underwear that still resides there. Low and drawn-out grunts wash over your face as Joe pushes his forehead against yours with force, and it kind of hurts, just as the grip he's still got on your neck, but then, slowly, all of it eases.

Joe relaxes, and so do you. Fists loosen, and you realise you've been pulling at Joe's shirt with both of yours so strongly, it hurts when you unfurl your fingers.

All thunder's gone.

Just a light throb of where Joe held onto you too tightly, lips that burn from where he bit into them too harshly, and a sore throat courtesy of the shouting you did and the shouting it tried to constrict.

But the thunder's gone.

You feel lighter.

Better.

More like an actual human being.

"I asked..." Joe suddenly speaks, voice surprisingly clear, and it pulls you back to reality. "How was your day?"

Joe doesn't think he's weird. He loves the snarl, the glares, the moody grumbles... but he loves this more. The way he can see through and past all of it. The way your mouth curls up into a smile you don't want to give him, because he just left teeth marks on your face.

Loves the way the both of you are reduced into fits of childish giggles, Joe's come on your legs, yours all around his dick still, when you dryly answer his question.

"Fine."

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

@eddie-munsons-balls, @eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@notverywise, @overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf

@royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

Add yourself

[hopelesswrites]

I loooove him! Everything he wears, idc how absurd his fashion choices are.

WHY is every piece of clothing here a different colour. Who put this together? Have they not heard of outfit sandwiching?

[hopelesswrites]

idea: joe breaks up with you just for a reaction (so many of your characters are avoidant-ish and detached so that’s obviously the vibes lol), he doesn’t get one, and it drives him insane — like still thinking about you — obsessed — while on the other side of the world energy (very ‘one that got away’ coded except joe realizes his mistake and grovels in a very confusing way (because he broke up with you???))

omg jfc stop calling me out like this !!!!!! (you're so right, here you go) Wordcount: 2.5K

---

Let Go, Be Caught

Joe says it like he’s asking if you want the last biscuit.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded like he’s trying to casually hug himself, and you’re rinsing a mug, half-listening, until the words slot together into something sharp.

“I think we should break up.”

There’s a pause as you let it register.

You look up.

He looks down.

“Oh.”

That’s all you say. Just that. Oh.

Joe frowns and shifts like he thought the floor would drop out from under you both, but then… it didn’t. Nothing really happened, and now he’s just sort of left standing there with his dramatic little script in hand, confused as to why no one’s clapping.

You set the mug on the rack and wipe your hands dry on a tea towel. The rest of the dishes will have to wait a sec.

“Yea… yea, okay.”

“Wh–… okay?” Joe repeats, tone clipped, eyes huge. He pushes off the counter like he might pace, then doesn’t. “You don’t have anything else to say about that, do you?”

You shrug, a little slow, blink a couple of times and find that… no, you actually don’t.

“I don’t know… what would you like me to say?”

That throws him. He scoffs softly, caught somewhere between wounded and annoyed. You think he probably expected tears. Maybe a big “Why?” or even a slap. Something at least a little theatrical. Something that proves he means enough to you, that whatever the two of you have means enough for it to break you now that he’s taking it away.

Instead, you dry the inside of the mug you’ve just washed and don’t say anything.

If Joe wants to break up, then that’s what you’ll do. Who are you to tell him no?

Joe leaves before you finish putting the dishes away.

And, listen… it’s not that you don’t care, per se.

It’s just that–… you know Joe.

You know his shapes.

You know how he’ll try really hard to peel back a layer and then gets embarrassed about having done it when he finds that you were holding onto that layer for a very specific reason. You know how he’ll scramble to cover himself up with misplaced jokes and evasive manoeuvres that only really ever make sense to him until you giggle and can pretend it never happened.

You know him.

And you know, deep down, that whatever he’s trying to do now isn’t really… real.

Not really.

It’s nothing more than a flare shot into the sky to get your attention. A weird fucked up test that you think he secretly wishes you would fail, because your failure would mean a win in his book, and, sorry mate, but… you’re refusing to play.

He said he wanted to break up, so that’s what you do.

It’s radio silence for about a week, when suddenly, a midnight text lights up your phone.

“hope you’re doing ok”

Then another two days after that.

“did you ever finish that spanish film we put on and then only saw the first 10 minutes of?”

You don’t respond to either one, and you think Joe eventually will get the message. The one you’re sending by not sending him one.

There’s a long gap then.

A whole lot of silence.

Just– nothing from either one of you.

Until suddenly, out of nowhere, at 4AM on a Tuesday morning:

“I dreamt you punched me in the throat. Just woke up and wanted to say, fair enough”

You don’t reply, because what the fuck do you even say to that? Two blue ticks is all he’s getting, but – and you hadn’t meant for this to happen – he gets them immediately. You cringe inwardly when you see his online status, and hope he doesn’t ask what you’re doing up at this hour. Why you read that text the very second it came in.

No other message comes though.

Not immediately.

But you think something must have changed on his end, because a couple of hours later, you receive a couple of voice notes. The first one he sends is just 2 minutes of muffled sounds, a very low conversation happening somewhere in the background. It gets quickly followed by another in which he apologises because he hadn’t meant to do that. Now, it’s turned into a fairly constant stream of quick short little clips, all random stuff. He’ll hear one of the songs he likes in a shop and records some of it to send to you. He’ll find a spider by his washing machine and quickly needs to tell you that he thinks it’s the same one you saw run underneath over a month ago.

You listen to all of them. Give them the blue ticks he’s seemingly after, and never send anything back.

Not long after that he leaves the continent, maybe, or at least the time zone. You can tell from the delay between his messages. In the timestamps on his voice notes.

His messages turn into funny complaints about his hotel room that weirdly smells like old bananas and how he can’t sleep because of it. About how he doesn’t have enough pairs of socks and is now washing a couple of them in the sink with shower gel. About how he never managed to rinse all the suds out properly and realised his socks were foaming when it rained the next day.

You don’t answer any of it.

Joe broke up with you.

He really said, hey let’s not be together anymore, and you’re merely obliging his request. You think maybe he forgot. Forgot that he had watched you calmly do your own dishes and then suddenly said he didn’t want to be with you anymore. Part of you thinks you should remind him, maybe… but you find are unwilling to.

It’s obvious that Joe thinks you don’t give a shit about him – not in the way he gives a shit about you, anyway – but… you still listen to every voice note, still read every message like it might unlock a version of him that realises he’s made a mistake.

You’re scared that version of him might not actually exist, when, on a Sunday afternoon, you open your front door, sunlight slanting over your shoulder, and–…

There he is.

Joe.

He looks like he’s been standing there for a while. Jacket zipped up to the top, hair an unwashed and unruly mess, longer than you remember. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, half-deflated, like even that doesn’t want to be part of this.

He doesn’t smile.

You don’t move.

For a moment, it’s just breath and the distant sound of traffic from the main road ‘round the corner that fills the silence in between you. You think about shutting the door and walking past him like you’ve not seen him. About saying nothing at all, because it feels like that’s been the trend lately, and letting him live with the silence he once handed to you like it was meant to be a gift.

But then his mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

“I–…” He stops. Swallows. “Hi.”

You arch a brow. “Can I help you?”

Joe exhales like you’ve punched him. Not hard. Just sharp enough to bruise.

“You never answer my messages.”

“You broke up with me.”

Joe’s mouth pulls into a grimace-smile hybrid. There’s nothing he can say to that. He did break up with you. “Can I... can I come in?”

You think about it for a moment.

He’s not owed entry just because he showed up. But… he did show up. In person. Looking like he barely survived the trip over. So, you step aside, curious about what he thinks he has come over to fix.

Joe walks into your flat like it physically hurts him. Like every step weighs more than the last. He walks over to your sofa, but doesn’t actually sit down. He just sort of hovers in the middle of the living room like he’s forgotten how furniture works, fingers flexing at his sides like they’re looking for something to hold onto but are coming up empty.

You do sit, cross-legged on the sofa, and you watch him as his eyes glide across the room and stop at the sink.

“I um…” he starts and has to clear his throat before he continues, “I made a mistake, I think…”

You nod.

No shit.

“Yea, I know.”

His head snaps to look at you. “You... you what?”

You tilt your head and can’t help the small smile that forms.

“Joe. You broke up with me like you were telling me I was out of oat milk...”

He stares down at you, blinking too fast. Then he laughs, helpless and hoarse, and sinks down onto the sofa like the tension holding him upright finally gives out.

“I thought you’d stop me,” he admits. “Or at least... argue. Cry. Something.”

You don’t say anything but wonder if he knows why that was something he wanted from you. If he’s aware that he would’ve had a better chance getting the reaction he was after had he just asked.

“I kept waiting,” he says. “Every day after. For a message. For… anything, whatever. I thought maybe if I gave it long enough, you’d crack and call me an idiot and yell at me for being such a coward and then… I don’t know…”

He rakes his hands through his hair, and you realise it’s why his hair looks the way it does. He’s probably been doing that all day.

“I kept playing it over and over in my head. The way you just said ‘oh’ and went back to washing the dishes... sort of made it obvious you didn’t love me. That I hadn’t really ruined anything, because maybe…” Joe swallows like the words are embarrassing to speak into existence. “Maybe it wasn’t really real in the first place.”

He pauses and then slowly meets your eyes.

“Am I crazy for thinking that?”

You inhale deeply and slowly as you look at each other for a moment.

If Joe wanted to know if your feelings for him were real, he could’ve just asked. He didn’t need to see if you’d break down by telling you he didn’t have any of his own.

“Joe,” you say slowly, “You’re an idiot. And a coward. You’re not crazy for thinking that.”

Joe cracks a small smile.

“But you’re insane for breaking up with me just to see if I’d fight for you. And you’re even more insane for convincing yourself that when I didn’t, that it meant I didn’t care.”

Joe lets his eyes fall to where your hands rest in your lap, and then softly asks, “But did you?”

You look at him then.

Really look.

His jacket is creased and worn. His eyes are bloodshot like he’s slept on his sofa for a month. He’s skinnier than before. Paler. Makes his blemishes stand out more. And there’s a fragility to him you don’t think you’ve seen before. Like someone who’s been walking on a tightrope and only just now realises how high up he actually is.

“Of course I did,” you say on an exhale. “But you made it a game. And I don’t play games like that. Neither should you. We’re not in year fucking seven.”

He closes his eyes. Something inside him folds.

“I thought I’d win you back with words,” he says. “You always liked the way I talked. I thought maybe if I said the right thing, at the right time, you’d fall back in.”

You can’t help the laugh that stutters out of you. “You thought soapy socks would win me back?”

“I know.” He drags his hands down his face as he smiles a little defeatedly. “Jesus, I know.”

Silence laps at the room again, but softer this time. Little bit more gentle. Comfortable, almost. You secretly think that maybe the soapy socks actually did sort of win you back…

“You’re right,” he says then. “We’re not in year seven, and I’m an idiot and a coward, and I wish I never said what I said… I might be asking for a lot, but I hope you can forgive so we can both forget.”

He’s trembling. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But you can see it.

You know Joe.

Know his shapes.

You can see it in the way his jaw tightens. In the way he’s still holding his breath, waiting for you to crush him with bad news.

You think about all the ways Joe’s failed you.

Think about the way he stood in this very room, pulled the pin, and then waited for you to explode.

About the way he scoffed at you when you didn’t explode, and then just walked out without saying another thing.

But then you think about this version of him.

Scared.

Human.

Trying.

“Okay,” you say, and it comes out just as dry as that initial ‘oh’ that had fucked up Joe’s entire world for a long while.

He blinks. “Okay?”  

“Yea. Okay. But no more loyalty tests.”

He groans. “No, that’s not– I wasn’t thinking. I just– I felt like you were already halfway gone. Like I was trying so hard, and you were barely hanging on, and I thought… maybe if I let it go, you’d catch it and grab hold of it.”

He’s breathless and reaches for your hand to clasp in between both of his. You let him take it without issue and look at where he presses it against his chest as you refrain from telling him that it was impossible for you to grab onto something he made disappear.

That feels like something he’s going to have to figure out by himself.

He’ll learn eventually.

And he’s lucky you’re willing to give him the time.

You tighten your fist to let him know that you’ll grab if there’s something to grab onto, and he feels it with both of his.

“You um… you used the past tense, just now. When I asked if you cared… does that mean that–… I know you just said we could forgive and forget but–…”

You lean back slightly, stretching the arm of the hand he’s still holding.

“Joe.”

He nods, swallows audibly as his brow furrows deeper. “Right. Sorry. Dumb question.”

“No,” you say, softer now. “Not dumb. Just… just late.”

His face twists like he might cry as he shifts forward slightly, reaching out like he might touch your knee, but then he aborts the mission halfway.

“I don’t… don’t know where to go from here,” he admits, because saying you would move on is different from actually going ahead and putting it into practice.

“Neither do I.” you smile, sad and tired. “But give it a good try, and maybe I’ll start replying to your voice notes with some of my own… okay?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or fear. Likely both.

“Okay?” you repeat, softly shaking your hand making all of him sway as he laughs.

“Yea… yea, okay.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson

@dailyobsession, @eddie-munsons-balls, @eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emotionaldreamer

@everythinghasafacee, @ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys

@joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness

@loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq

@niallersfreckles, @overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf

@royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

add yourself

[hopelesswrites]

I just reread all of Double or Nothing because it's genuinely one of my favourite fics of all time SO GOOD

But I was wondering how do R and Joe reconcile their wake up routines once they're together? Snoozer v non-snoozer

bet!joe's back! turned himself into snooze!joe (not by choice lmao) thanks for the request, hope you enjoy! Wordcount: 2.4K

---

Before Daybreak

Joe doesn’t understand how your brain works.

Can’t fathom how it’s even possible that you don’t just... wake up. The sound of your alarm was meant to wake you up. That’s how it worked. People sleep in silence and then a loud noise wakes them up. It’s how the world had been designed.

How can you, barely awake, turn it off and doze right back off to sleep again?

Joe’s brain works different. Joe’s brain doesn’t work like yours.

He hears an alarm and he’s... up. Just... awake. Groggy, and tired still, sure... but definitely awake. Unable to just go back to sleep. He thinks if you were both cavemen still, you probably wouldn’t have survived very long. You’d sleep right through a bear sneaking in. It’d eat your face off and you’d just sleepily murmur, “Nooo, five more minutes.”

And it’s not like he hasn’t tried.

For weeks he’s tried, because if you love snoozing so much, surely there’s bound to be some amazing secret to it he just hasn’t discovered yet.

So far though, he’s come up empty.

Your phone explodes into the darkness. Cheerful, chirpy, loud and fucking merciless.

Joe’s eyes fly open instantly.

Boom.

Awake.

He turns his head, finding you a soft lump under the covers, one of your arms flung across your face whilst your alarm keeps chirping on the bedside table right next to you.

“Babe…” Joe tries, voice hoarse and low. A hand wanders over and taps you on your hip a few times. Turn that shit off.

You give no audible response, but simply move a hand over to find your phone, groaning slightly as you press snooze. The second sweet, blessed silence takes over again, you sink back into the soft fuzzy brain space that exists between the night and the morning. Joe tries joining you there, eyes still closed, face pressed into his pillow, but, alas. It’s of no use.

A couple minutes later, your phone jumps alive again, and even though Joe knew it was coming, he still jolts and sits up in bed like a man possessed.

You’re on your back, hips twisted, serene as a Disney princess, not stirring at the shrill noise or even the movement in the bed. Joe frowns at you for a full ten seconds before you reach for your phone again.

He sees you press snooze in real time.

Through gritted teeth, Joe says your name, a low warning to his tone that you miss entirely.

“Mm, five more…” you muffle an unfinished sentence, face rubbing into the soft warm fabric that surrounds you.

“How many five mores will there fucking be?” Joe grumbles, moving the covers aside and getting out of bed. It’s too early still. He should’ve been asleep still.

“It’s part of the process.” you reply, eyes still closed.

“Yea, well,” Joe stands up, turns and leans over to slap what he thinks is your bum under the covers. You softly groan to it, eyes remaining firmly shut. “My process is called sleep. Yours, for whatever reason, is called torture.”

And Joe can’t lie.

You look super peaceful, all soft and cosy, hair a halo of chaos that surrounds your face… yea, you look lovely. So comfortable. Relishing the mental stretch of the early-morning-ritual you’d carefully crafted for yourself. He could easily watch this for hours.

Just… maybe not at 6 in the fucking morning.

Joe doesn’t like how he’s deeply affected by disturbance and broken sleep. Where you prioritize emotional softness, he unfortunately needs to prioritize physiological necessity.

He needs to sleep until he needs to wake up.

No weird in-between lull that has very quickly turned into a point of daily friction for the two of you. The broken mornings shape his whole mood. His energy for the day.

Joe stares at you until your phone, once again, interrupts him, another alarm you’d set rather than the previous one you’d just hit snooze for, disturbing the peace and quiet.

“Why does it have to sound like a fucking fire drill as well?” Joe swears under his breath, walking around the bed. He might as well go and make himself a coffee. “Can’t you set it to one that sounds like… a breeze?” Joe thinks of anything he’d rather hear the sound of. “Or like, a hug, maybe?”

“Too soft,” you reply, barely awake. “I’ll sleep through that… this one works.”

“It works on me, too.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t get much more out of you than a slight hum.

Joe supposes he’s lucky that you were friends before you became something else together, and that bickering has been a solid constant that brings the two of you together rather than pull you apart. He can just tell you that he’s annoyed without being scared of offending you beyond repair.

Walking down the hall on his way to the kitchen, he can’t help but think that surely Izzy must hear all of your alarms too. The walls in your flat aren’t made of solid concrete — he knows because Izzy set some very strict rules about... other... noise complaints. And it’s not often that she chooses his side in any of your little spats, but he’s certain that in this case it’ll be two against one in his favour. He’d bet on it, should someone challenge him.

Joe’s already finished most of his coffee when you stagger into the kitchen just past 7. He jokingly checks a wristwatch he’s not wearing and says, “Good afternoon!” like you’re a teenager who hasn’t left her bed all morning.

To retaliate, you take his mug from his hands and finish whatever’s left of his coffee before you shove him aside to make yourself a fresh new cup.

You’re lucky he really likes you.

When Izzy shows a sign of life, sort of glaring at the two of you as she shuffles into the kitchen already dressed, but definitely not warmed up to the idea of having to be awake yet, Joe doesn’t wait to bring up the issue.

“Maybe she’ll listen to you…” he begins, turning to face your flatmate. “You can’t tell me the... the fifty alarms that you can hear coming from her bedroom every morning aren’t fucking with your sleep.”

Izzy gives Joe a deadpan stare.

Oh yea, he’s totally right. Joe’s already smirking slightly, ready to tell you how unhealthy snoozing really is, and how you should listen to your poor flatmate who you’ve been torturing for years.

But then Izzy speaks up and says, “It’s not the alarm. It’s you, Joe.”

Oh.

What?

It catches Joe by surprise so much so that it makes you snicker softly as your eyes don’t leave the two mugs of hot coffee you’re preparing.

“Me? But I—”

“Your alarm monologues. Your Shakespearean betrayal speeches— your deep-breathing despair.”

Joe really thought Izzy was going to agree with him. Instead, he unexpectedly finds himself in her direct line of fire. And she’s not done yet.

“I don’t even hear her alarm anymore, but it’s you, every single time, like you’ve just been drafted into a war you didn’t sign up for.”

You’re full on giggling now, and Joe can’t believe the position he has found himself in.

“Do you know what it’s like to be woken up by the slow, rumbling tragedy of your soul trying to process that she likes to snooze in the morning? Your voice, it’s like a fucking foghorn married a cello that run an emotional support podcast together every time her phone goes off.”

It’s too early for this, Joe thinks.

“Izzy,” you warn, but your laughter completely kills the effect.

“You get so fucking narrative in the morning.” Izzy squeezes her eyes shut as she says it, her forehead etched into a deep frown.

And Joe knows that he can yap, that he’s good at finding a lot of words to describe how he feels, but, he thinks it’s for good reason.

“I’m expressing my distress!”

Izzy pushes past him and grabs a full mug of coffee, the one Joe thought you were making for him, and says, “Well, consider expressing your distress with your inside thoughts, Hamlet. Just once, I want her alarm to go off and not hear you cry, ‘Why does the world hate me?!’, because it’s honestly getting really fucking boring.”

Before Joe can even reply, she disappears into her bedroom again to finish getting ready for work.

He’s left sort of perplexed.

When he turns to look at you, you’re looking at him with a little amused half smile that he doesn’t appreciate.

“I mean…” you start, speaking into your own morning brew, “You do turn a little into a Victorian widow about it, don’t you? She has a point.”

And... yea, okay.

Maybe she does...

But so does he!

He has a point too!

If you don’t have to get out of bed until the clock hits 7, then why would you set eighteen alarms that go off at various intervals from an hour before?

Without Izzy backing him up, Joe is forced to find different ways to ease this stupid habit out of you.

He gifts you a gradual wake-up light that is meant to replace your alarm.

It doesn’t work.

Well, it does work, because it easily replaces all of your phone’s snoozing alarms, but Joe kind of forgot that... he also has eyes. A light turning on in your bedroom doesn’t just wake you up. And even though it’s definitely a more peaceful way to start the day, Joe is still left to stare at the ceiling, fuming in silence for an hour before he needs to get up.

Next, he tries a pillow-based vibrating alarm, one that’s marketed towards heavy sleepers, but he runs into the same issue. He had been unaware — and had come to learn the hard way — how often you end up sharing a pillow together. It’s very cute. Almost romantic enough to feel a little embarrassed about having to tell his friends about it. But when that pillow is also your vibrating alarm clock? Not so great.

It’s unfortunate that he likes you so much.

That he still wants to come and sleep over so badly.

That he genuinely misses you when he spends the night in his bed on his own, convincing himself in those moments that your snoozing isn’t actually so bad, that being on his own is definitely worse.

He wishes he still felt that same way when he jolts awake from your alarm, set to a softer volume now as you tried to compromise, and he’s wearing fucking earplugs.

He wakes up from your alarm whilst he’s wearing noise-canceling earplugs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Joe grumbles. He had been so determined to out-sleep the snooze siege, had been so sure that this was actually going to work.

And yet...

Joe wakes up inside of his noise-cancelling cocoon and can’t fucking believe that you haven’t.

“Are you fucking joking right now?!”

Joe’s voice pulls you from your slumber more than your phone does.

“You cannot sleep through that when I can hear it through these high quality too fucking expensive new noise-cancelling earplugs. Not a fucking chance!”

He’s angry enough to feel the itch to reach over and turn your phone off entirely, even though he vividly remembers how angry you’d been when he’d done that once before, and how awful he’d felt after.

But he still wants to.

He really, really wants to.

Joe continues swearing loud enough to prompt a barrage of pounding from the other side of the wall where Izzy’s fists bang in protest.

“Fuck off, Izzy!” Joe’s tone is laced with that raw, unfiltered annoyance that slips out when exhaustion wears down restraint. He’s done. So, so done. He could’ve had another full sixty minutes of blissful sleep that you’ve now ruined for him.

However, the shouting across the flat before the sun’s even dared to edge the horizon, shadows still speaking in full voice, quickly stops when you let a hand snake over Joe’s bare chest.

You somehow find an answer to the issue without even thinking.

The simple solution just sort of... happens, completely organically, underneath the thick covers of your bed.

Joe starts to speak once more, but the breath he draws turns into a shudder, and he goes still beneath your hand which slides across his soft skin until it curls around his side and pulls.

Something in the air changes.

The early morning shifts.

Joe easily lets himself be pulled into you, and whilst his warm body curls around yours, your other hand finds your phone and turns chiming the alarm off.

Off.

Then Joe watches as you squint at the bright screen of your phone as you unlock it and turn off all other alarms too, one by one. Next, it gets dropped besides your pillow and you turn around to face him. You groan softly with the movement, pulling him closer until your bodies fit together like they were always meant to.

“Can you make sure I get up at seven?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, nose tucked somewhere near his collarbone.

And... oh.

Yea.

Joe can do that.

Joe can... yea, Joe can be the alarm.

Your alarm.

He can be part of your snoozing if this is what snoozing is, absolutely. So he nods, barely a movement, and presses a kiss into your hair like a promise.

Suddenly, snoozing turns into something gentler— not a battle against the day, but a shared quiet wrapped in warmth and, more importantly, each other.

Suddenly, all frustration slips from him in an instant, and he melts into the slow hush of your breathing and into the tangle of your limbs.

Suddenly, Joe is gifted a whole hour of hands that roam lazily beneath soft linen sheets and over sleepy skin, fingers tracing the familiar curves of comfort.

After a moment, Joe shuffles down and buries his nose into your chest, snuggling into the space as he inhales deeply before dragging his face up and into your neck. He finds he doesn’t actually care about the time so much if he gets to spend it like this, right here.

He feels like an idiot for not working that out himself sooner.

When the clock ticks past seven, he murmurs your name against your temple, and you grumble something unintelligible, nuzzling closer. And really, who is he to complain about a frivolous thing like snoozing when playing a part in it means he gets to kiss the curve of your shoulder and feel your fingers comb sleepily through his hair for a bit?

Snoozing, as so it turns out, isn’t really about sleep.

It’s about these soft, golden minutes before the day begins, where nothing matters but bare skin, and comfortable warmth, and the sleepy weight of love.

Joe thinks he might have just learnt how your brain works.

Finds it’s not so unfathomable after all.

Finds that his brain actually might work just the same.

If this is what mornings will look like from now on, then maybe snoozing isn’t so bad after all.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

@eddie-munsons-balls, @eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf, @royale1803

@sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47

@take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @witchwolflea

@xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

add yourself

[hopelesswrites]

https://www.tumblr.com/icallhimjoey/769345688851103744/i-asked-for-pyjama-vibe-joe-and-forgot-about-his

Ohhh can we get a soft pyjama and glasses Joey? Like him wearing the combo for the first time because it’s a new relationship and we looooove it. Or us stealing the shirt after freaky time. Or idek! The possibilities!

soft pyjama and glasses joey, at your service Wordcount: 2.1K

---

Not A Wink

“Wait, can you… wait here. Wait, no. Just. Yea… wait here and, also, um... yea, maybe... maybe close your eyes a second…” you pushed Joe away from your closed bedroom door, two hands to his chest.

Joe took hold of both of them as he laughed, easily letting you push him back, stepping backwards down the hall.

“What are you hiding in there that I can’t see?”

You were having a hard time hiding your own smile.

“No, nothing, I just… I’ve got to just check something, quickly. Just in case. Wait here.”

You were the cutest girl he’d ever met. Joe couldn’t quite believe he was allowed into the home of the cutest girl he’d ever met.

“Close your eyes.” You insisted, and Joe couldn’t help laugh more, his arms stretching as you walked back to your bedroom, touching until you were out of reach.

“I can’t see anything from here!”

“Close your eyes!”

Joe gave you a deadpan stare, shoulders dropping, but joy never leaving his face. When you waited by the door, hand on the handle, and looked at him in silence for a moment, he rolled his eyes and finally complied.

“It’ll just be a second,” you said, your smile evident in your voice.

Joe heard a door open, then soft footsteps, some light shuffling, and then silence. He wondered if he was going to be able to tell what needed a last minute wipe down. As if he was going to care about a crease in your bedsheets. You should see his bedroom…

“Okay, ready. You can open your eyes.”

Joe’d been a good boy and had really kept his eyes closed. When he opened them, it was to you stood in your doorway, both hands behind your back, biting down on your bottom lip as you smiled.

Cutest girl in the world.

“Yea? Am I allowed in?”

Joe got to see your bedroom exactly as you wanted it to look every day, but how you never managed to leave it. With everything in its place, no dirty laundry on the floor, no clothes on the clothes-chair, no half-empty mugs on the bedside table and, most importantly, the bed made.

You never made your bed. You’d do it once when you changed the sheets, and then left a rumpled mess behind when you rushed out of bed after sleeping through your alarm each morning.

“Wow,” Joe said, overdoing it a tad, just to fuck with you. “This looks like a hotel room.”

It didn’t. Not really.

“Thanks.” You smiled, ignoring his humorous tone and taking the compliment as if he’d really meant it. When you looked at him, you saw how his gaze had landed on where you slept in your bed. He pointed a finger as he raised his eyebrows.

“Is this from where you send me voice notes every night?” Joe took a step forward, his eyes on you as his index finger still pointed at your pillow.

You nodded, teeth digging into your lip. It was impossible to lose your smile.

“This is…” Joe started, looking at your bed for a moment, scanning the sheets and trying to picture you in that spot. No make-up, pyjamas on. Face in your pillow, phone in hand. In a short while, he wasn’t going to have to imagine that anymore. “This is sort of strange, isn’t it?” Joe mused, turning his face to see you stood in your doorway still.

“Why?” you asked, watching on as Joe sat down on top of the covers, acting like he just took a seat on a throne which made you giggle. “You’re making it strange.”

“It’s like I’m visiting a famous landmark.”

You grinned as you watched him sensibly bounce on your mattress a couple of times, getting a feel for it.

“It is like visiting a famous landmark.” You joked, and then quickly added. “Don’t leave a Google review though, I move around a lot in my sleep and I couldn’t bear the negative feedback.”

Joe laughed as he got back up, couldn’t help his arms reaching out to grab hold of you as your face beamed with pride at making Joe laugh like that. You bit your lips so hard, you nearly drew blood.

For a moment you just stood like that. Close. Holding each other, faces just inches removed, twin smiles about to burst. You weren’t going to get a wink of sleep this night.

“Did you um,” you cast your eyes down to his button-down shirt. To his jeans. “Did you bring a more comfortable outfit?”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I brought my pyjamas?”

“Were you planning on watching a film in jeans?”

Ha, he thought. A film. If he’d got the chance, he’d be watching you more than he’d be watching any film this evening. His eyes tended to stick to you with too much ease.

Like right now.

“Or is this a no-bottoms sort of evening?” you challenged light-heartedly.

Joe’s eyes scanned your face a moment as he grinned.

“I brought pyjamas.” He then said, leaning down a little in hopes of sneaking a kiss.

You let him sneak one without any fuss. Warm lips of a warm smile to warm lips of a warm smile.

“In your overnight bag?” you teased, having made a big deal of the backpack he’d walked in with earlier, before dinner.

“In my overnight bag.” Joe didn’t mind how the simple fact that he brought some things over was somehow entertainment he was providing you with. It was either that, or the bad puns he’d make, and a giggle at a pair of soft pyajama bottoms didn’t feel quite as embarrassing as an awkward joke would likely make him feel.

Joe was told to change whilst you made your way into the bathroom to take your make-up off.

You felt real butterflies about the prospect of having Joe over properly for the first time ever. This was the first time you had made plans that extended to the next morning. This was going to be more than just some raunchy touching in your living room before he’d leave just before or just after midnight to go sleep in his own bed.

You were going to be wearing pyjamas around each other.

Brush your teeth in your bathroom before you’d crawl into bed together.

Prepare and have breakfast in your kitchen the next morning.

You swiped a cotton round over your eyes and heard Joe move around in your flat. Just him existing on his own in your space made your stomach flip. Halfway through your facial cleanse, Joe suddenly appeared behind you, and for a moment, you smiled at each other in the mirror. He was still in his button down, but his jeans had been replaced with a pair of faded black joggers. For a moment you thought maybe he had a question about something, but before you could even ask, he stepped forward and casually placed a dark blue toiletry bag next to the sink.

So domestic.

You refrained from opening it and having a peek inside as you finished up in the bathroom, hair tied up, face clean and bare. You made your way back to your bedroom to change into your own pyjamas and found evidence of Joe left behind. His charger in the socket on the side of the bed where he’d be sleeping. His backpack to the side. His clothes semi folded in a messy pile on the dresser.

Looking at all of Joe’s things in your bedroom with the background noise of him pottering about in your kitchen made you smile so much, you wondered when your cheeks were going to grow sore.

So domestic.

“What do you want to drink?” he called across your flat, and earlier, when Joe had offered you a drink in your own home, it had solely been to make you laugh. This time, it didn’t feel so much like a joke as it felt like he genuinely wanted to do something nice for you. Get you a drink so you wouldn’t have to get it yourself. A simple sweet gesture that probably wasn’t meant to make you feel the way it did.

There were so many things about the beginnings of a new relationship that you didn’t like.

The risk of letting a new person into your life wasn’t lost on you. Letting someone in too quick, too soon. Revealing too much of yourself too quick, too soon. The vulnerability that opened you up to the possiblity to get hurt...

Scary stuff.

But the excitement of it all? The constant uncontrollable smile you couldn’t seem to wipe off your face. The butterflies wreaking havoc inside of your stomach. Giggly breathlessness that turned nerves into excitement. The way all of it could make you feel lightheaded in the good way?

Fucking gold.

With your body in a soft cosy outfit, you found Joe in your kitchen wearing an outfit not unlike your own. For a fraction of a second, the nervous thought of Joe getting to see you in your factory settings crossed your mind.

But then you saw his glasses.

Joe hadn’t yet worn his glasses in front of you, and stood here in your living area now, in a cream-coloured cotton long-sleeved shirt, you couldn’t help the way that made your eyebrows pinch together.

How could a man look sexy and adorable at the same time?

“Glass of–... uh oh,” Joe turned around holding up a freshly opened bottle of wine, but stopped mid-sentece when he saw your expression. “Sorry, was I not meant to–”

“No, no!” you cut him off, and tried your very best to keep the laugh that bubbled up inside. “No, that’s– yes. Yes. That’s fine, yea. I would love a glass, thanks.”

Joe frowned a little in confusion, eyes narrowing, but his smile unwavering.

“It’s just,” you hestitated telling him. Thought maybe he wouldn’t appreciate what you considered to be a genuine compliment.

“Just... a bottle of wine that you were saving for a special occassion that I wasn’t meant to open?” Joe made a face, and it was becoming a little bit embarrassing at how easily he had you in stitches. “Or what?”

“No,” you laughed, and Joe couldn’t help the slight muddled huff of laughter that escaped his nose. This really wasn’t helping the cute allegations. “No, it’s just that,” you tried again, grabbing two glasses from a cabinet and placing them down in front of Joe. “You look...”

Before you finished that sentence, you let your eyes dance over him. The flash of selfconsiousness across his face only endeared him more to you.

“A mess?”

“Cute.”

You weren’t sure what kind of reaction you were expecting, but you definitely didn’t think the comment was going to make Joe blush so fiercely. Hadn’t anticipated him turning slightly shy as he put the bottle down, dropped his head to his shoulder as he squeezed his eyes shut whilst an arm reached to pull you in.

“Sorry,” you said through a giggle as you got trapped into a tight hug.

“Stealing my compliments now, are we?”

“I think it’s the glasses,” you gladly accepted the firmly pressed kisses to the top of your head.

“You think?” Joe pulled back a little and adjusted them on his nose as he looked at you through the lenses.

“Yea, I do.” You smiled, peering up at him, hoping that if you smiled and looked at his lips for long enough, he’d get the hint.

He did get the hint, but didn’t give you what you were asking for before he got both his hands on your face, both thumbs on your cheeks, both pinkies hooking your jaw.

“Guess I’ll keep them on then.” Joe managed to say through a kiss, and he said it like he’d be doing you a favour.

Which, he would be, actually. But he was joking, so you laughed against his mouth, and the giggle made Joe want to eat you alive. Swallow you whole. Squeeze your bodies together until they weren’t able to ever unstick again.

There was an open bottle of wine on the counter next to you, a TV waiting for someone to press play on its remote, and a bed eager for two bodies to occupy it all the way until the morning.

But Joe was kissing a cute girl in her kitchen, glasses bumping into her nose, and felt no rush to move out of the hold you had on him.

Cutest girl in the world.

Yea, he wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep this night.

---

The Taglist

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

@eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719

@munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @notverywise

@overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf, @royale1803

@sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47

@take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @witchwolflea

@xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

Add yourself

[hopelesswrites]

Guys i am first and foremost a Joe Quinn blog but have a Spencer Reid moment rn. BUT, Joe keeps creeping up in my mind and i cant shake him, hes like an ex im still in love with.

[hopelesswrites]

This was so precious

you can keep talking ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ●ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ spencer reid

spencer reid who speaks in statistics and spirals. who gets so excited when his mind begins to string facts and patterns together, he doesn’t even notice the hours slipping past. who gestures wildly with his hands while talking, voice bouncing softly as he explains a theory, a memory, a moment from his childhood—until he notices you’re quiet. too quiet.

spencer reid who finds you curled up beside him, asleep. and something in his chest tightens. not because he’s angry—he could never be—but because some wounded part of him thinks, of course. of course he bored you. of course he talked too much. he shuts his mouth instantly, lips pressed together in a quiet, familiar regret.

spencer reid who gently adjusts the blanket over your shoulders. who brushes a hand over your hair with the softest touch, the kind only someone who adores you would know how to give. he whispers “goodnight” even though he wasn’t finished. he never really is. the silence that follows is a lullaby he’s learned to live with.

you who wakes up with guilt curling in your stomach like smoke. because you remember the way his eyes dim when he thinks he's too much. you remember how he once told you he learned to count the seconds people stay interested before they drift. and now you’ve gone and confirmed it—you fell asleep.

you who cups his face in your hands and whispers you’re sorry, so sorry. and spencer who looks up at you like he doesn’t understand why you're crying. he says it's okay, really, but the way he avoids your gaze tells you it still stings. so you make him sit back down. you ask him to tell you everything from the beginning.

spencer reid who blinks in surprise, then slowly starts again. who watches your eyes this time, tentative and cautious, until your hand finds his and stays. and when you repeat back what you remember, ask questions, lean forward with that soft look only meant for him—he realizes you’re listening. you always were. you just needed rest.

spencer reid who talks slower now, but with the same love. and you who never interrupts, who makes mental notes of every reference, every name, every thread of thought that lights him up. because to love spencer is to listen. and he’s never been so quiet in his heart before.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[hopelesswrites]

i have a silly request for spencer x reader where it’s clear reader likes him and they go to a trip somewhere far and cold and the bau needs to double like in season 5 and morgan is similarly like no i don’t want to share with reid and reader just excitingly stands up like i’ll take reid then!!! hahahahah

sharing — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of working on a case, reader has a nightmare, mention of an unsub who fixated on reader once, a/n: hiii !! love this idea <3 i mixed like 3 requests together so i hope that's fine <3

You tugged your jacket tighter around yourself, shifting on the worn-out lobby couch as Hotch finished debriefing the team on tomorrow’s case.

Just as he was about to dismiss everyone, Hotch hesitated, then delivered the news.

“We have to double up. There aren’t enough rooms.”

It didn’t even take Morgan two seconds before he blurted out, “I’m not sleeping with Reid.”

The rest of the team grinned, some chuckling under their breath, while Spencer—poor, oblivious Spencer—just blinked, looking mildly offended.

You bit back a small smile at his expression, the way his brows furrowed just slightly, like he was mentally calculating why Morgan would say that. Before anyone else could volunteer (or more likely, protest), you spoke up.

“I’ll share a room with Spencer,” you offered, perhaps a little too quickly.

The room went quiet. All eyes turned to you, then to Spencer, who blinked at you like you’d just spoken in an ancient, dead language.

“You… want to share a room with me?” he asked, voice tinged with genuine surprise.

Heat crept up your neck. Oh no. Had you been too obvious? It wasn’t exactly a secret among the team that you had a soft spot for Spencer—well, a secret to everyone except Spencer himself. The man could profile a serial killer in seconds but remained blissfully unaware when someone was flirting with him.

Under the weight of the team’s knowing glances, you swallowed, suddenly nervous.

“Uh, yeah?” you said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. “I mean, if that’s okay with you?”

Spencer opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “It’s—yes. That’s fine. More than fine.”

Morgan snorted. “Damn, Reid, try not to sound too excited.”

Spencer shot him a glare, but you caught the faintest dusting of pink on his cheeks.

Hotch, mercifully, cut in before things could get more awkward. “Alright, it’s settled. Keys are at the front desk. We meet back here at 7am.”

As the team dispersed, you grabbed your bag and moved toward the stairs, hyper-aware of Spencer falling into step beside you. The narrow hallway seemed to shrink around you, as you finally arrived at your door.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Spencer murmured, voice low, almost hesitant.

You glanced at him as he fumbled with the key, the old lock stubbornly resisting. “Do what?”

He let out a quiet huff, adjusting his grip on the key. “Volunteer just because Morgan didn’t want to share a room.”

The implication in his words—that he thought you’d only stepped in out of pity—made your chest tighten. You watched as he wrestled with the door, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“I didn’t volunteer because of Morgan,” you said softly.

The key finally turned with a reluctant click, but Spencer didn’t push the door open. Instead, he paused, his fingers still resting against the handle as he turned to look at you.

“Then why?”His voice was quiet, curious,

You held his gaze, willing yourself not to overthink it. “I volunteered because I like spending time with you, Spencer.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his lips slightly parted, as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard you right. Then, slowly, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, voice softer now. “Thank you. I… I like spending time with you too.”

The sincerity in his words sent a rush of warmth through you, and you had to fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. Instead, you smiled and reached past him to push the door open, trying—and failing—to ignore the way your heart was fluttering wildly in your chest.

The room was exactly what you expected from a budget Alaskan motel—dimly lit with two queen beds that had seen better decades. But the blankets looked soft, and a small chocolate mint sat on each pillow, a token gesture from the management. You stepped inside, toeing off your shoes with a tired sigh.

"Comfy," you mumbled sarcastically, poking at the mattress before flopping onto it with a dramatic exhale. The springs creaked in protest, but you didn’t care. After hours of travel and a grueling case briefing, even this lumpy bed felt like heaven.

Spencer hovered near the doorway, his messenger bag still slung over his shoulder, watching you with an amused tilt to his lips.

"You wanna use the bathroom first?" you asked, already burrowing deeper into the pillows, your eyes drifting shut.

A soft chuckle escaped him. "Yeah. It doesn’t seem like you’re getting up for a while now," he observed, his voice warm with fondness.

"Mhm," you hummed in agreement, a lazy smile curling at your lips. You cracked one eye open just in time to catch the way Spencer’s gaze lingered on you. He gave you one last small smile before disappearing into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

The second he was alone, Spencer braced his hands against the edge of the sink and let out a slow, shaky breath. His reflection stared back at him —wide-eyed, flushed, utterly overwhelmed.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to survive this night.

I mean, hello—he was sharing a room with you.

You. The one who laughed at his rambling facts even when no one else did. The one who always remembered how he took his coffee. The one who had somehow, without him even realizing it, become the axis his world tilted around.

And now you were lying right there, just a few feet away, looking unfairly soft and sleepy and perfect.

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He could not afford to overthink this. Not when the alternative—letting himself imagine what it would be like to crawl into that bed beside you, to pull you close and press his lips to the curve of your shoulder—was so dangerously tempting.

He splashed cold water on his face, willing his heartbeat to slow.

Just get through the night, he told himself.

Spencer went through the motions mechanically—brushing his teeth, washing his face, changing into his sleep clothes—all while his mind raced a mile a minute.

When he finally emerged, the door creaked softly, revealing you still sprawled across the bed, though now with your bag half-unpacked beside you. A sweatshirt was draped over the chair, your toiletries neatly lined up on the nightstand. You’d clearly tried to make yourself at home in the brief time he’d been gone, but the way you curled into the pillows, one arm tucked under your head, suggested you hadn’t moved much.

“Are you done?” you mumbled, cracking one eye open to peer at him. Your voice was thick with sleep, but the way your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket betrayed your nerves.

The entire time he’d been in the bathroom, you’d been silently battling your own heartbeat, cursing yourself for volunteering to room with him.

What were you thinking? Sharing a room with Spencer Reid—the man who made your stomach flip with just a glance, the man whose mere presence turned you into a flustered mess. And now you were trapped in this tiny motel room, with nothing but a few feet of space and your own racing thoughts between you.

Spencer hovered awkwardly near the bathroom door, his fingers drumming against his thigh. “Yeah,” he said, then cleared his throat when his voice came out too quiet. “Yeah, it’s all yours.”

You pushed yourself up with a small groan, rolling your shoulders as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed.

“Thanks,” you murmured, grabbing your toiletry bag and shuffling past him.

The brush of your arm against his sent a jolt through both of you, and for a split second, Spencer’s breath hitched. His eyes flickered down to yours, lingering just a beat too long before he quickly stepped aside, giving you space.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you, and you let out a shaky exhale, pressing your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.

Get it together.

Outside, Spencer stood frozen for a moment, staring at the closed door before dragging a hand down his face.

This was going to be a long night.

Twenty minutes later, both of you were settled in bed. Spencer propped up against the headboard with a book in hand, you curled on your side texting Garcia who was flooding your phone with increasingly ridiculous messages.

[Garcia 11:37 PM]: "So. Two beds or did someone 'accidentally' get assigned a single??"

[Garcia 11:37 PM]: five winking emojis

[Garcia 11:38 PM]: "I need details sweetcheeks. Is our boy in glasses wearing pajamas? Are they adorably mismatched? Does he have bedhead yet?"

You muffled a laugh into your pillow, typing back a scolding reply even as your cheeks warmed. The soft sound caught Spencer's attention - he glanced over the top of his book, watching the way your nose scrunched with suppressed laughter. Something warm and fond settled in his chest at the sight, and he had to consciously school his expression before returning to his reading.

Eventually, your phone slipped from your fingers as sleep claimed you. "Night, Spencer," you murmured, already half-lost to dreams.

"Goodnight," he whispered back, smiling at the way you immediately burrowed deeper into the blankets. He should have turned off his light then, but found himself watching the steady rise and fall of your shoulders instead, the way your eyelashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks.

It took three tries to actually refocus on his book.

As the night went on, Spencer's own eyelids grew heavy. He was just considering sleep when a small, distressed noise broke the quiet. His head snapped up, sleepiness forgotten.

You'd turned onto your side facing him, fingers clutching the sheets with white-knuckled intensity. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at your temples, your breathing coming too fast. Spencer watched, his chest tightening as your fingers twisted deeper into the sheets, knuckles blanching white.

He wasn’t sure what to do.

The logical part of his brain—the part that could recite statistics on sleep disturbances and the neurological response to nightmares—knew that waking someone abruptly wasn’t ideal.

But the other part, the part that ached at the sight of you in distress, overruled it completely.

Spencer set his book aside with careful silence and stood, crossing the small space between the beds in two strides. “Hey,” he murmured, hesitating only a second before placing a tentative hand on your shoulder.

You barely stirred.

His grip tightened slightly, fingers pressing into the curve of your arm. “Hey, wake up,” he urged, voice low but firm.

Your eyes flew open, blinking up at him in the dim lamplight. For a moment, you just stared, disoriented, your breath still unsteady. Spencer had shifted to sit on the edge of your bed without realizing it, his free hand already moving in slow, soothing circles against your shoulder.

“Hi,” he whispered. “You okay?”

You swallowed, pushing your hair back from your face with a shaky hand. “Did I have a nightmare?” you asked, voice rough with sleep—and something like embarrassment.

Spencer nodded, his thumb still tracing absent, comforting patterns on your skin. He couldn’t seem to stop touching you, as if the contact alone could chase away whatever shadows lingered behind your eyelids.

“Do you get them often?” he asked carefully.

You exhaled, slowly sitting up. His hand slipped from your shoulder—only to settle, almost instinctively, on your knee. His thumb resumed its gentle circles, as if his body refused to break contact entirely.

“Yeah,” you admitted, avoiding his eyes. “Ever since that case in Texas.”

Texas.

The word landed like a stone in his stomach. He remembered. An unsub who had fixated on you, his gaze predatory, obsessive.

Nothing had happened but the way he had looked at you, the way his voice had curled around your name during interrogation… Spencer’s jaw clenched.

He hadn’t realized it still haunted you.

"He's locked up," Spencer blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. Then, like floodgates opening, the rest came pouring forth: "Seventy-three years with no chance of parole. The appeals were all denied last month. He's in ADX Florence now—maximum security, complete isolation. His cell is monitored twenty-four seven and—"

You blinked up at him, the haze of sleep slowly clearing as his ramble continued. And then it hit you—the way he recited the details with pinpoint accuracy, the way his fingers flexed against your knee.

Spencer had been keeping tabs on him.

Not just casually. Not just in passing.

Obsessively.

The realization sent a strange warmth curling through your chest. You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his wrist, stilling his nervous ramble.

"You’ve been checking up on him," you said softly. Not a question. A fact.

Spencer froze. His lips parted, then pressed into a thin line, as if debating whether to deny it. But then his shoulders slumped, and he exhaled, long and slow.

"Yes," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. His thumb resumed its absent circles on your knee, but his gaze dropped, suddenly fascinated by the frayed edge of the motel blanket. "I—I needed to be sure. That he was still there. That he couldn’t—"

That he couldn’t get to you again.

You squeezed his wrist, and when he finally looked up, you offered him a small, tired smile. "Thank you," you murmured.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, because the tension was too much and the night was too long, you nudged his leg.

"You’re not sleeping on that lumpy bed over there," you said, nodding toward his untouched mattress. "There’s room here."

Spencer’s eyes widened. "I—are you sure?"

You rolled your eyes, shifting to make space. "Just don’t hog the blankets, Spencer."

He hesitated, then—slowly, carefully—stretched out beside you, his body a warm, solid line against yours. The bed was small enough that your shoulders brushed, and when you turned your head, you could see the faint flush creeping up his neck.

"I'm sorry you have them," Spencer mumbled suddenly, staring resolutely at the ceiling as you shifted onto your side to face him.

"The nightmares," he clarified when you didn't respond immediately, finally turning his head to meet your gaze.

"It's fine," you said, your voice thick with sleep but carrying that familiar dismissive tone he knew all too well. "They'll go away eventually."

Spencer studied you in the dim light, noting the way your fingers twisted in the sheets again, the slight tension in your jaw despite your casual words. He hated this. Hated that you suffered through this alone night after night.

Before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out:

"Did you know physical contact during sleep can reduce nightmare frequency by up to 32%?" His fingers twitched against the mattress, itching to reach out but hesitating. "The pressure stimulates oxytocin production which lowers cortisol levels and—"

He cut himself off when he realized he was rambling, but the damage was done. You were staring at him now, eyebrows slightly raised, that tired smile turning into something more genuine—more amused.

"Are you suggesting we cuddle, Dr. Reid?" you teased, your voice laced with sleepy humor.

Spencer's flush deepened, spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears. "I—that is—statistically speaking—"

You didn't let him finish. With a quiet huff of laughter, you closed the small distance between you, tucking yourself against his side and resting your head on his shoulder. Spencer froze, his breath catching as your warmth seeped into him.

"Like this?" you murmured, already sounding more relaxed.

It took Spencer several heartbeats to remember how to move, but eventually his arm came up to wrap around you, his hand settling tentatively against your back. "...Yes," he managed, his voice oddly thick. "Exactly like this."

The moment the words left his mouth, your fingers began absently tracing patterns against his chest—slow, wandering lines that burned through the thin fabric of his sweater. Spencer's breath hitched audibly, his entire body going rigid beneath your touch.

"Sorry," you murmured immediately, starting to pull away. "I didn't—"

"No!" The word came out too loud, too desperate. Spencer cleared his throat, his arm tightening reflexively around you to keep you from retreating. "I mean... it's. It's fine. More than fine. Actually, studies show that—that light physical contact can lower heart rate and—"

You pressed a finger to his lips, effectively silencing his ramble. In the dim light, you could see the way his pupils had blown wide, the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat.

"Spencer," you whispered, your own heart racing. "Breathe."

He exhaled shakily, his lips brushing against your fingertip before you slowly lowered your hand. For a long moment, you simply stared at each other—both painfully aware of every point of contact, every shared breath.

Then, with deliberate slowness, you returned your hand to his chest, resuming your idle tracing. This time, when Spencer's breath caught, you didn't apologize.

And when his fingers began tentatively carding through your hair in response—his touch feather-light and trembling—you couldn't suppress the small, contented sigh that escaped you.

Somewhere in the back of your sleep-fogged mind, a thought surfaced:

This might be even better than actual sleep.

[hopelesswrites]

Hands-On Learning

Summary: Reader is deep in preparation for her finals, much to Spencer’s frustration. When she creatively incorporates him into her anatomy review, it turns into a pleasurable experience for them both.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, face sitting, face riding, f!masturbation, softdom!spencer, but he's needy and desperate, anatomy terms that may have been used incorrectly (sorry), slight dry humping, overstimulation, yearning.

Word Count: 3.3k

Masterlist

Finals season. 

The ever-dreaded, ever-disliked period between the end of April to June where every student you know is scrambling to absorb roughly four months of material in a matter of weeks.

All bets are off in this lawless space of time. Coffee at 2 AM? Completely advised, go right ahead. Hundreds of dollars spent in food delivery? Sure. Anything to keep the grind going, right? Major papers that should’ve taken weeks to write being done in a frantic three hours? It’s a rite of passage, really. And luckily, you get to spend a much-needed summer break afterwards, recovering from all these horrific decisions you’ve put yourself through. 

Needless to say, your current setup involved many textbooks, flashcards scattered about, and highlighters in the most random of places, all in the name of preparation for this beast of a week. 

And of course, it was all set to the sounds of a very needy Spencer Reid, who’d been begging for your attention since he’d gotten here.

“You’ve studied so much already, I swear. Can’t you take a break?”Spencer questions petulantly, sitting on the bed adjacent to your desk, where you were currently hard at work memorizing the thirty-one pairs of nerves that made up the spine. 

You’d been studying intensely for this semester's finals. By making a couple of well-informed choices beforehand, you were actually quite on track when it came to your learning and retention of material.

For the most part, it seemed like you were on track to sail through all your classes without a hitch. That held true, until you brought up Introduction to Anatomy. 

Anatomy was fun, by all means. Interesting labs, interesting people, interesting content. However, what daunted you more than anything in pertinence to the material was the enormity of the terms and vocabulary you were expected to know in time for the exam.

“I haven’t studied enough.” Is your quick response, a small smirk finding its way to your lips. Despite loving your boyfriend, there was a certain pleasure in seeing him so desperate for you, a power-rush that felt unbelievably good.

And to your credit, you really were hard at work memorizing these terms. As much as you enjoyed his company (and the sex he wanted to engage in), it simply could not take precedence over the task at hand. 

“You know, multiple studies recommend at least twenty minutes of a break for every hour you study, for peak brain efficiency, and you-” He checks his watch, mentally calculating how long you’d been at that desk. “You’re due for at least an hour’s worth of break at this point.” 

You finally look up, your finger halting on the paper it’d been tracing over. “Spencer, you know I’d love to take a break but-” 

He sighs heavily. “I’m aware. This is important. I get it.” He grumbles, flopping onto the bed in a slightly dramatic fashion. 

You giggle at the scene. For all his propriety, there was never a more amusing sight than your boyfriend reduced to base desire and instinct. You take pity on him though, and smile gently at him. 

“Look, why don’t you get out? Go have lunch, do whatever, and come back. Hopefully I’ll be closer to finishing then, and we can hang out then?” You offer, hope in your voice. 

He sighs and nods, lifting himself off your bed. “Yeah, sounds good.” He murmurs, coming over to the desk to place an affectionate, chaste kiss upon the top of your head. “Good luck.” He says, cracking a half smile as he leaves, which you return with a smile of your own. 

The door closes, and you’re left with nothing but silence, and the lateral cutaneous branches looking up at you from their place on the page. Time to work at it, you suppose. 

It’s about two hours later, when you hear the tell-tale knock of your boyfriend at your door, presumably back from his excursion away from you. Your place at your desk is momentarily abandoned in favor of letting him in, and there’s instant delight in your eyes, considering the two cups of coffee he presents to you. One is iced, one is not. Without any words exchanged between either party, the iced coffee is grabbed and you grin. 

“Thank you.” You say, taking a sip. Of course he’d remember your order perfectly. 

“You know, that could’ve been my coffee, for all you know.” He teases, striding into the room. 

You roll your eyes fondly whilst you close the door. “Spencer Reid drinking iced coffee? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Coffee is supposed to be hot!” He protests, immediately, this being an obvious subject of passion for him. “Hot brewed coffee contains far more antioxidants, and doesn’t risk being watered down by ice- oh, and another thing-” 

You stifle a chuckle whilst watching him. This had been an ongoing debate for you two, essentially since the day you met. Your first date had been at a coffee shop. When he'd asked for your order, he looked almost appalled at the prefix of “iced” you’d tacked onto your statement.

Nevertheless, he still ordered it, and did his best to educate you on why hot coffee was “clearly” superior.

Somewhere between lecturing you on caffeine effectivity and nutritional information, you were head over heels. 

“Anyway.” He says, breaking your thoughts, and seemingly done with his argument. “How far are you into studying?” 

You make your way back to your desk, biting your lip as you stand over the material.  “Pretty far.” You murmur, reluctantly. “I dunno. I know I know this material, but I feel like it hasn’t solidified in my brain, you know? Like I need to keep hammering it in until it’s basically muscle memory for me.” 

He moves slowly to be behind you, his hands coming to rub your shoulders gently, soothing the worn out muscles on your back. His touch is warm and reassuring, a quiet way of saying, “You can rest.”

“You know.” He murmurs, softly. “You’d probably do better with a break. Take a breather, let your brain relax for a second.” 

There’s a pause, before he adds in a quiet voice, “Maybe spend some time with me?” His hand comes to move some hair away from your neck, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of it. 

You melt into the movement. He always knew exactly where your weak spots were, where you’d falter and give right into his ministries.

But you know you can’t. You force yourself to breathe and look away, as though that simple act might help you forget how his hands had lingered on you just a moment ago.

“I want to, I swear. But I won’t feel good about taking downtime until I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this.” You say, firmly extricating yourself from his grasp.

He gives another one of his heavy sighs, accepting his fate quietly, knowing he won’t be able to convince you outside of your own accord. 

“Alright then. I’ll just hang out here then.. For however long that might take.” 

You give a small, pained smile. “Thank you. I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You’re not. You could never be difficult.” He responds, immediately, returning your smile with one of his own. “It’s just finals season. I know your  performance will be wonderful, and we’ll have all the time in the world afterwards to spend time together.” 

Your heart melts. You were beyond lucky to have him, and that adoration and knowledge is displayed plainly through your expression. “Thank you.” You repeat, unable to verbalize just how much his support meant to you. “I hate finals.” 

“You and I both.” He shoots back, cracking a grin. “You’re going to do great.” 

There’s no trace of doubt in his tone at all. 

For the next hour or so, you both quietly coexist in the same space, the names of musculature and types of fibers muttered under your breath. After a while, the terms click into place, and with a quiet breath, you let the tension go. The final step in your preparation involved practicing the newly learned terms on a human model. Ideally, it would be one of the fake skeletons in the anatomy lab. Your gaze, however, drifted to your boyfriend on your bed, sprawled out, reading your physics textbook for fun. 

Nerd. 

An almost evil plan enters your brain, and your voice goes sickly sweet as you call out his name. 

“Spence?” “Mm?” He murmurs, looking over the book. 

“Can you strip down to your underwear, please?” A harmless smile plays on your lips as you ask.

Spencer’s all ears as he hears that, and in record time his clothes are shed. “Are you-” “Lie back on the bed.” You order. 

He’s so obedient and eager, immediately complying with what you’ve asked of him without question. You smile, and discreetly grab a washable marker before making your way to where he was laid out. 

“God. I’ve been so insanely needy for you all day. I’m so glad you’re done.” He says, his expression reeking of starvation as you straddle him. You can feel him harden under your touch, and choose to ignore that. 

You lean down, your head at about his chest. His breathing quickens in anticipation, already so turned on from the minimal contact between you two.

Before he can make a move of his own, you pull out your marker and mark the space between his clavicle and shoulder.

“Brachial plexus.” You murmur, much to his utter confusion and dismay. 

“You have to be kidding me.” He says, his look of confusion quickly morphing into one of realization. “I thought you were done-” 

“I’m not.” You say, with a small smirk on your lips. “But I will be, if you’re quiet and let me work on you.” 

He groans. “You’re evil, this is evil. I won’t-” 

“The faster we get through this, the faster I’m all yours.” You interrupt, mostly ignoring him, because you know he’ll do anything if it means touching you by the end of it. 

He takes a pained breath and tries to relax while you work on top of him,  his obvious erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

The pen drags down his chest, as you move down on him to better position yourself in accordance to the medial pectoral nerve you were marking.

“Baby, please.” He groans out, his hands fisting in the sheets below him in an attempt to not grab you and take you right then and there.

The slightest bit of friction seems to set him off, and you can tell he isn’t playing it up in the slightest. He truly was, well and gone for you within this moment.

“Sorry.” You murmur. “Just marking your.. anterior cutaneous branches.. of the thoracic nerves.” The pen drags against a spot on his chest, and he shudders. 

“Won’t this stain my skin?” He says, a slight whine in his tone, doing absolutely anything to free himself from the absolute torture of this predicament he’d found himself in. 

“Nah. It’s one of those pens they use for surgery.” You respond, dragging it along his sternum to mark a few more necessary terms. “It’ll come right off in the shower.” 

You know exactly how to push his buttons. You lean in closer and whisper against his ear enticingly, “We can get clean together.” 

He squeezes his eyes at that, the feeling of your lips brushing against his earlobe triggering an involuntary response, a low moan escaping him. “This is.. so unfair. I just want to touch you. Please.” 

“Not until I’m done.” You fire back. “C'mon. You can be good and wait, right?” 

“Easy for you to say.” He grits out. “You’re not the one, half naked and hard and having to watch you be..” He trails off.

“Be what?” You ask, a bit distracted as you mark another nerve of importance.

“Be.. sexy.” He mumbles out, clearly embarrassed by his own musings. 

A small, wry smile comes upon your mouth. You lean back, a breath of laughter slipping free. “You think I look sexy?” You say, a teasing lilt in your tone.

He rubs a hand over his face, clearly mortified. “Yes. Yes, okay!” He grumbles out, clearly self-conscious by just how much he’s managed to be affected by you. “You’re on top of me, drawing on me, and I’m aware they’re just anatomical terms, but God the way you say them.” 

His voice devolves into a near whimper, pitiful and aching. “It’s killing me.” 

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Killing you, huh?”

“Yes.” He mewls. “Killing me. I want you so much, please. You’re so smart. Please. I know you’re going to do so good on this final. Just please, please, let me touch you.”

He collapses into his words, into you. No pride left, just need.

“Yeah? You think I’m smart?” You murmur teasingly, tracing the plastic of your marker along the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He moans, lowly. “So smart. You’re so hot when you’re working so hard. Makes me want you so bad.” 

Your head turns back, and you can see the wetness of precum leaking from his cock on his briefs. He wasn’t faking it to get your attention. He yearned for you, plain and simple.

Your eyes find his, and they’re full of need, his expression absolutely shameless and desperate. “Please.” He repeats. “Please let me touch you. I don’t care how. Just- god. I can't do this. Please.” 

It’s enough to make you yield. You slide off of him, and he lets out a soft, needy sound, already missing the press of you, until his breath catches at the sight of you stripping, your clothes landing somewhere off the edge of the bed without a second thought.

“You wanna touch me?” You murmur, crawling up the bed a little. 

“Yes.” He whispers, nodding.

The way he looks at your naked body, eyes fixed, hungry, reverent.. it’s almost too much. You feel dizzy from the weight of it.

You straddle his face, a thigh on either side of him whilst you hover over his face, and then you look down. “Touch me then.” You murmur.

He practically growls as his hands wrap around your thighs. “With pleasure.” 

He pulls you down entirely, effectively forcing your core against his mouth, his tongue lapping against every inch of your wet folds.

You moan, your hands coming to grasp the headboard in front of you. There’s absolutely nothing he could be thinking about, besides the taste and smell of you flooding and overwhelming his senses. 

He devours you with a single-minded focus, his tongue expertly alternating between flattening  and lapping you in slow, deliberate strokes, and quick flicks against your clit. It’s all done in service to you, Spencer thinking of the fastest way to unravel you, desperate to taste your release against his tongue– to hear you moan his name and shake above him. 

He gets his wish when another stroke of his tongue finally causes you to come, your sweet release flooding his face, and him eagerly drinking it in. He moans as he attempts to pull you even closer to his mouth (if that was even possible). 

You let out a breathy laugh as he seems to slow down, indicating the end of your session. “Spence.. Oh god. That was so good.” You try to get off him, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad. 

“Again.” He moans. 

“What?” You ask, not sure if you heard him right. 

“Again, please.” He begs, voice broken. “I need you.” 

The absolute depravity and torment in his voice lulls you into complacency, as you assume your previous position above him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby. We can go again.” You murmur, soothingly.

He wastes no time going right back in, his tongue albeit, a little slower now, keeping in mind that you’d just orgasmed, and that you were probably still sensitive. 

He’s right to do so, little high-pitched moans and drawn out of you as you get comfortable again, despite the overstimulation.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, never properly touching it, delaying your next release. After a while of this teasing, you finally moan out his name, your hips shamelessly rocking against him. 

“Spencer, god. Please. Need to come.” You beg, feeling yourself at the edge of a small death. 

Spencer responds in kind, rapidly flicking his tongue against your swollen bud, and in record time, you’re coming again, much to his delight.  He doesn't let up until he's absolutely sure he's lapped up every single drop, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Okay, baby. I gotta get off. Gotta breathe. So do you.” You pant out, as you get off from your seat on his face.

He shakes his head, tugging you closer. 

“Please, wanna keep touching you.” He pleads, eyes teary, your release practically dripping off his chin. His hand digs into your arm with a lustful urgency.  “Please. We can go again. I know we can.” 

You yield to his request, because honestly, who could deny him right now? His hair messy, lips shiny and his voice, fractured and full of ache, barely held together. 

You nod, lying down, on the bed, motioning for him to roll on top of you. 

He rolls over and kisses you, and it’s absolutely sinful. You can taste yourself on him, moaning as your lips easily part and make way for him, the wet warmth of his tongue sliding against yours. There’s nothing held back between the two of you as your lips connect and reconnect, as his hand slowly slides down the expanse of your skin, finding your clit and beginning to rub slow circles against it. 

“Oh god, Spencer.” You moan bonelessly, feeling the effects of your previous two orgasms and the one you were hurtling towards currently taking over you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “That feel good?” 

“God, yes.” You moan. “You always know how to touch me, always know how to make me feel good- oh-” 

He groans in delight as he dives in for another kiss, his fingers sliding across the slick bud even faster now, determined to make you fall off the edge for him one last time. He humps your thigh, practically desperate for some relief for his aching cock as well.

“Say my name.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Spencer.” You wail out, in response. 

“Louder.” 

“Oh god, Spencer, please!” You groan, your body beginning to tense up with the tell-tale signs of an orgasm, your body taut like a bowstring. 

“That’s right, come for me.” He whispers, placing a sweet kiss against your collarbone, his hips continuing their rut in an attempt to chase his release as well.

And with a shout, you come, your body seizing up and succumbing to his touch, your hands wrapping around his neck in an attempt to ground yourself as you experienced the intense pleasure that could only result from being with him.

He seems to follow shortly after to the sound of your moans, a wet patch appearing on the front of his briefs.

You whimper as you come down for your orgasm, Spencer stroking your skin soothingly, peppering little kisses wherever he could reach. 

“You doing okay?” He pants out.

“Better than okay.” You murmur, folding into his embrace, feeling as if you were floating on clouds, or some other poetic description of just how light you felt in this moment. 

“I pushed you pretty hard, huh?” He mumbles, his voice tinged with a slight bit of concern. 

“Don’t worry. I deserve it for teasing you so hard." You mumble.

"Thanks for helping me study, by the way." You tack on, already feeling yourself drift off into a quiet, peaceful slumber in his arms. 

He chuckles a bit, and places a kiss against your forehead. “Glad I could make the lesson... hands-on.”

woah!!! hello!! so unfortunately, much like reader, i have also been swamped by finals :( but, this idea came to me and i decided to write it and try to make my way back to writing even a little bit more regularly. as usual, please like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed this fic. reblogs are basically the lifeline of tumblr, and if you'd like my work to reach more people, i would 10000% appreciate it so much. thank you so much for reading regardless, and i hope it was enjoyable. thank you thank thank you for all your support!!!! <333

[hopelesswrites]

Double Shot Extra Sweet part 2

Read part 1 here

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: your infatuation with Spencer grows as he takes you on your first date.

Note: I've got a small plot going on here, so part 3 is in the works!

-

“Spencer, no one's reading your math books” You sighed when the man in question walked through the door. You watched him put a book into the little library before taking one out.

“No one’s reading your old textbooks” He quipped back, a small smirk on his lips.

“You’re reading my textbooks”

It had been a month since the situation at the club. Both you and Charlotte agreed to stick to daytime activities for the foreseeable future, too cautious of predators out in the nightlife. Spencer rattled on about the statistics of being kidnapped in broad daylight and how the odds are just as likely when you told him your plan.

You had learned a lot more about Spencer in the past few weeks. He came back in like he said that following Tuesday morning and quickly explained the situation and his involvement. You learned he was a profiler for the behavioural analysis unit at the FBI and had been following leads on a human trafficking case for months.

Each day Spencer came in for his coffee your relationship grew. You asked him questions about work, and he asked you questions about your study. You learned pretty quickly, your chosen disciplines aligned nicely, and Spencer made an effort to be a somewhat mentor for you.

Spencer's phone chimed and he looked down frowning at the screen, “I’ve got a case”

“Let me make your coffee before you go, can’t have you out there un-caffeinated”

Spencer smiled “You know the excessive consumption of caffeine can disrupt sleep, cause anxiety and can potentially lead to cognitive decline, affecting a person’s memory and concentration”

You finished putting the lid on Spencer's drink and were about to hand it to him but pulled back, “Do you want it or not?” You asked with a glare.

“On the other hand, it is a natural stimulant and acts on the neurotransmitters in the brain that slows down the nervous system and causes drowsiness, in other words, this case might depend on this coffee keeping me awake”

You smiled at him this time, “Alright, genius, go get the bad guys”

Spencer had texted you that he wouldn’t be back home for a few days. By Wednesday he let you know the case was running longer than expected and that they might be there until Friday. Your heart broke a bit at the idea of not seeing him at all this week. Your crush on him had grown exponentially. Although there was that voice in the back of your head telling you just how wrong it was, he was significantly older than you, yet you couldn’t put your feelings at bay. Spencer had this way of looking at you that made you feel like there was no one else in the room, he had the most intense stare that had you melting under it. You knew you wouldn’t find someone with as pure of emotions as Spencer anywhere else, which made you want him more.

-

Friday evening you were cooking dinner when you got a call, Spencers name lighting up on your phone. Your heart skipped a beat, then a couple more beats, then caught up with itself causing your stomach to do a flip and a shiver to run up your spine. You had only ever briefly texted with Spencer, the only time you had spoken on the phone being that one night you called him after the case had ended.

Slowly you picked up the phone pressing it against your ear.

“Hello?” Your voice was weak with anxiety.

“Hey, it’s Spencer” The man said through the phone.

You laughed at his technological cluelessness, “Yes I know, I have caller ID, how are you, Spencer?”

There was a pause before he spoke again, “I’m good, tired, we just finished with the case.”

You were about to ask him how it went but he continued, “I’m disappointed I didn’t get to see you this week, did you want to go for a coffee tomorrow morning?”

“Are you asking me to cheat on your barista, that barista being me, with you?” You questioned with mock offense.

“Oh, I didn’t really think of it that way”

You thought about your next move, hoping it wasn’t too bold. “How about you come to me in the morning with a travel mug and I make us coffees, then we can visit one of the cafes downtown for a pastry?”

Spencer sighed through the speaker, “Honestly that’s a much better idea, I’m so glad you suggested that, I was stressed about drinking coffee from anyone else”

This made your heart flutter, “It’s a date then” you said instantly regretting it, it wasn’t a date, it was just coffee, why the hell would you say that?

“It’s a date” Spencer confirmed, eliciting more warmth through your body, “I’ll come around 8”

-

You were up at 6 the next morning, tidying and stressing. You had redone your hair three times now, fluffed the cushions on your couch at least 5 times, because it was a date. You had a date with Spencer nerdy dilf FBI agent Reid.

Ever so punctual, you got a knock at your door at 8 o’clock indicating Spencers arrival. You did one final check in the mirror before rushing over to greet him.

He stood so tall in your doorway, clad in a purple button up shirt and a deep purple cardigan, his normally messy hair was neatly tucked behind his ears and he had a black thermos in hand.

“Good morning! Come in” You beamed, almost getting into your customer service character. You didn’t quite know any other way to act around Spencer, obviously you were comfortable enough around him, but majority of your interactions were restricted under the barista-customer formula.

Inside, Spencer toed off his shoes and placed them beside the door, that’s when you noticed his odd socks. You smirked at the sight but decided not to go straight into teasing him so early in the morning. You directed him over to your kitchen where you took his mug and began to make his coffee.

“Do you use the same beans the café has?” He asked curiously, earning a scoff from you in return.

“Of course I do, don’t worry, it’ll be just like getting a coffee in store, I know how important your coffee order is to you.”

“I just like it a certain way and you do it that way”

You turned back to him, noticing how he was looking around your apartment, probably profiling you to filth.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me Spencer” He turned back to you offering you a small smile before you handed him his cup.

“Try it”

Spencer took a small sip, “Good?” you asked, already knowing his answer.

“Yeah good, thanks”

A wave of warmth rushing through your body, and you hid your heated face by busying yourself with your own coffee. You wondered if Spencer was even aware of the affect he had on you. How the routine that you both had created was slowly consuming you, how every tiny instance that reminded you of that first week caused your heart to swell and your affection towards him to grow.

“I thought we could go down to the spot on the corner, it’s a small bookshop with a café attached, they do the best almond croissant, and I am due for my weekly almond croissant” You rambled while you got yourself ready to leave.

“I’ve never had an almond croissant” Spencer admitted, watching you fuss about your kitchen. You stopped in your tracks turning to face him.

“Spencer Reid, you have not lived a life worth living if you have not at least once had an almond croissant, and trust me when I say, you will not be satisfied with just one”

Spencer let out a quiet chuckle while he followed you out of the apartment, “You know you would probably get along with my coworker Garcia, she’s a self-proclaimed connoisseur of pastries”

“As long as she allows me the title of almond croissant connoisseur, I’ll be happy”

You continued to walk a little further in silence when a thought popped into your head. “What are you a connoisseur of?”

Spencer took a moment to think, head facing up as if the sky had the answers before smirking back down at you.

“I’m a connoisseur of baristas”

This made you laugh out loud, “Oh really, know any good ones?”

“Yeah, just one, she’s great”

Your cheeks warmed up again for what felt like the hundredth time around Spencer as you looked at each other, a knowing look in each of your eyes. Spencer was flirting, proper flirting, and god did it do things to you.

Inside the bookshop, the warm smell of ground coffee and old books filled your nose. The owner Carly was not too much older than you. She got all her books from old library stock and donations and made all her pastries herself. You admired the little business she had built here and often found yourself here on the weekends, browsing, reading and drinking coffee.

You wouldn’t admit to Spencer that Carly made a fantastic cappuccino, liking his dependence on you a little too much.

“Morning Honey!” Carly called out, you waved in greeting before guiding Spencer over to the books, tucking yourselves away behind a shelf.

“What’s your genre?” You asked redundantly, knowing the type of books Spencer left in your own little library.

“I’ll read anything; I read a book on aviation last night”

You stifled a laugh, “Aviation, really?” Spencer only shrugged.

“I’m more of a romance type myself” you said, browsing the books.

“Was that one I read from the library box yours then?” Spencer asked, trailing after you.

“Which one?”

Spencers face heated up now, you knew exactly which one. It was less a romance and more a porn with plot kind of deal.

“Ah, that one” You spared him the embarrassment of answering.

You stopped in your tracks pulling out a rather large book. “Fundamentals of Global Air Travel Geography, care to delve further into your aviation journey?”

Spencer laughed, taking the book from you, “Like I said, ill read anything”

“Anything?”

Your devious smirk earned you a cringe from Spencer, “Probably don’t need to read another one of your romance books”

You nodded and continued your browsing, noticing how Spencer separated and started looking at a stack of old leatherbound books further down the aisle. By the end of your browse, you had a couple books in hand and Spencer had his own selection of books. You take them to the counter and Carly rings them up. Curiously you look over at Spencers book and notice one that doesn’t match the others, it was a small romance novel.

“Thought you might be interested” He shrugs passing it over to you.

You thanked him and tried to keep your face as neutral as possible, but inside you were screaming, he picked out a book for you!? This man was a fucking dream.

Once you were finished buying your books and your croissants you made your way over to the park across the street. It was a small dog park that felt a little artificial in the middle of the city, but had a couple small benches with tree cover.

 “When do you graduate?” Spencer decided to ask once you had sat down.

You sighed, hating the question. “I’ve got about another year, I transferred bachelor’s last year and had to extend my study”

“At least you found something you finally enjoy” Spencer offered, taking a bite of his croissant.

“Good?” You asked, earning a small chuckle from the man.

“Really good”

There was another moment of silence before Spencer spoke again, “Do you want to get into forensics then?”

“There's an internship I’m trying to get into, I’d be able to finish my degree by assisting in research and excavations”

Spencer nudged you with his elbow, “Good thing you know a man on the inside”

“Its very competitive” You shot back,

“Exactly” Spencer replied with a smirk.

The rest of the morning went on the same, you and Spencer chatted about his work and your study. He educated you on what he learnt about aviation and impressed you with his quick reading ability when he pulled out his new book on Fundamentals of Global Air Travel Geography. Spending time with Spencer felt so easy, you almost forgot who he was and the circumstances you met in.

Your heart felt full as Spencer walked you home and bid you a good weekend, promising to visit you at work Monday morning. He held himself with high authority around you, but remained timid enough to let you know he was being cautious. You appreciated his caution, because despite how quickly your feelings for the man were growing, you didn’t know how to navigate a relationship with him. Would he even want to be in a relationship with you?

All weekend you were stuck in your own head, questioning your own attraction towards Spencer and doubting the morality of it. You didn’t want to consider it as some forbidden romance, you were both adults and frankly, Spencer was way better than anyone your own age. But were you better for him than someone his own age? You worried yourself about it right through the weekend until you saw him again Monday morning.

He strutted in, giving you a smile with teeth, something you’ve noticed to be very rare. His smile was so beautiful, you cherished any moment you got to see it, reminding yourself how far you had come from the day he came in and couldn’t remove the scrunch from between his brows.

“The usual Dr Reid” You teased when he approached your counter.

“Yes, thank you” He replied, He was wearing a charcoal blazer and a maroon tie, a colourway on him you were very fond of.

“What’s on the agenda today then?”

Spencer fiddled with a display on your counter, straightening the sign in front of you. “I’m guest lecturing today, I’m actually a little nervous”

Your eyes softened, “You’ll do great, I know it”

Spencer perked up, “I get kind of involved in my lectures I forget I’m speaking to students who are barely listening, I’ve been told I need to be more engaging”

You frowned, unsure how anyone could find Spencer anything but engaging, but you acknowledged you were a little biased.

“You successfully taught me that the difference in pressure between the top and bottom of the wing on an airplane causes an upward force that counteracts gravity”

Spencer’s eyes lit up, “I didn’t think you were listening; you were too busy staring at my hands”

Your cheeks burned and you quickly made Spencers drink, ignoring his comment about his hands. He was either clueless or knew exactly what he was doing.

“Have a good day Spencer” You entered customer service mode again, handing the man his drink. He took it from you, taking a sip, watching you over his cup and smiling before leaving.

-

The rest of your day you could not get the thought of Spencers hands out of your head. What had he done to you? Everything about him was perfect, just so fucking perfect, he was consuming you.

The lecture chair itched through your pants, why did they have to upholster these things with the cheapest felt possible? You felt heated and agitated and could not wait for this class to be over so you could go home.

The lecturer was late, and you thought about just leaving before he showed up. You tapped your pencil against your cheek while you tried to revise the weeks content when the door opened and in strutted your lecturer.

Or rather,

Dr Spencer Reid.

[hopelesswrites]

Statistically Speaking

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

words: 600 words

summary: Spencer thought he was in a long-term relationship— turns out, he forgot to tell her.

warnings: none, babe. this is pure fluff <3

“Come on, man,” Derek said, arms folded as he stared Spencer down across the break room table. “You can’t just read a thousand relationship books and think that’s the same as the real thing.”

Spencer looked up from the folder in his lap, utterly unbothered. “Thirty-nine books. And they’re peer-reviewed studies. It’s not about anecdotes, it’s about data.”

Penelope leaned over her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Oh boy. He’s going full empirical. This should be good.”

“It’s not that I think I understand relationships,” Spencer continued, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I recognize functional dynamics when I see them. And I happen to know what one looks like.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah? Like what, The Notebook?”

“No,” Spencer said. “Like me and Y/N.”

There was a beat of silence.

Y/N, seated two chairs down with a half-drunk coffee in her hand, turned very slowly. “I’m sorry, what now?”

Spencer blinked at her like she’d asked if water was wet. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘you and me’?”

He frowned, confused. “I mean us. Our dynamic. It’s a prime example of a healthy relationship.”

Garcia dropped her muffin.

Derek leaned in like he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. “Go on.”

Spencer tilted his head at Y/N. “You seriously didn’t know?”

She blinked. “Know what exactly?”

“That we’re in a relationship. Or— at least something adjacent to one. I assumed we were both aware of that.”

Y/N stared at him.

Spencer, sensing the disbelief, leaned back in his chair and began to list things off like he was briefing a case. “We text every night before bed. You bring me coffee the way I like it— three sugars, not stirred— almost every day, without asking. I’ve picked you up from the airport twice. You’ve stayed over at my apartment more than once, and you steal my hoodies.”

“That’s just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly at Garcia, who was frozen mid-bite.

Spencer wasn’t done.

“We hold hands when we walk across busy streets. You braid my hair when I’m stressed. I read you poetry once and you cried, which I took as a positive emotional response and not distress.”

Y/N slowly set her coffee down. “Okay.”

“I’ve memorized your Chipotle order,” Spencer added, like that sealed it.

“Okay.”

Spencer leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “We literally hold hands all the time.”

“…Okay, yeah, I see where I went wrong.”

Derek lost it.

Garcia was fanning herself with a napkin, whispering “my stars” under her breath.

Y/N looked like she was debating the moral and logistical weight of throwing herself into the nearest garbage can.

Spencer, meanwhile, just looked vaguely betrayed. “How did you not know?”

She gave him a look. “Because you never said it out loud?”

“I thought it was implied!”

Derek clapped once, loud. “Oh, I live for this.”

Garcia blinked. “Cool, so I’ve been third-wheeling a relationship that wasn’t even technically happening. Love that for me.”

Y/N turned back to Spencer, who was still trying to solve the mystery of how she missed this.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “Just… surprised. I really thought we were on the same page.”

“Well.” She exhaled, slow and a little amused. “We are now.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re officially dating?”

Y/N shrugged. “Statistically speaking?”

That got the smallest smile out of him.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

a/n: first spencer fic can i get a whoop whoop (i hope this is good, oh god)

[hopelesswrites]

a fic based on a

"I can do it myself" gf and a "i know you can but let me" boyf

would be so cute (with spencer obvi)

capable — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader is braiding her hair, a/n: haiiii !! hope you like this <3

You stared into the mirror, tilting your head slightly as you tried—and failed—to get a proper look at your reflection from the side. Both hands were tangled in your hair, fingers fumbling as you attempted to weave the strands into a braid.

It wasn’t working.

A frustrated sigh escaped you, loud enough to draw attention.

From the bedroom, Spencer paused mid-motion, the pillowcase in his hands momentarily forgotten. He glanced toward the bathroom, where you stood with your back to the door, still wrestling with that stubborn section of hair.

Dropping the pillowcase onto the freshly made bed, he padded quietly toward you.

You caught his movement in the mirror before he even reached you. A small, knowing smile curled at the corner of your lips as you met his gaze through the glass.

"I can do it myself," you said, though your fingers had already stilled, hovering uncertainly over the half-finished braid.

Spencer stepped beside you. His smile was soft, patient.

"I know you can," he murmured, already reaching for the loose strands slipping from your grip. "But let me."

You hesitated for only a second before letting your hands drop, surrendering to his touch. The moment his fingers brushed against your hair, a familiar warmth bloomed in your chest—something giddy and light, fluttering just beneath your ribs.

"When did you learn to braid hair?" you asked, watching as his fingers worked with surprising precision.

He hummed, brows knitting together in concentration as he carefully wove another section. "Did some research."

You snorted. "Of course you did."

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, barely noticeable if you hadn’t been studying his reflection so closely. "I researched it because of you," he admitted, voice low, almost sheepish.

"Wait, really?" You nearly turned to face him, but Spencer nudged you back with a gentle press of his fingertips against your shoulder.

"Don’t move," he chided softly, though his lips quirked in amusement.

"Yeah," he continued, smoothing down a wayward strand before continuing the braid. "You braid your hair at least three times a week, and you tend to sigh at least four times while doing it. Figured I’d help you out." He smiled at you through the mirror, that warm, crooked grin that always made your stomach flutter.

A slow, disbelieving laugh bubbled up in your throat. "You kept track?"

Spencer shrugged, but the way his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary betrayed his nonchalance. "I pay attention."

Your chest tightened at that—because of course he did.

Spencer Reid noticed everything, from the way you tapped your pen against case files when you were thinking to the exact number of sugars you dumped into your coffee.

You smiled to yourself, watching as his long fingers weaved the strands together. When he finally smoothed it down, securing the end with the hair tie you’d been struggling with earlier, you reached up to touch it.

"It’s perfect, Spence," you cheered, twisting your head slightly to admire his handiwork.

He ducked his head, that shy, pleased expression he got whenever you praised him. "It’s just physics, really. Tension and distribution of—"

"Nope," you interrupted, spinning around to face him properly now. "No nerding out. This was sweet. Admit it."

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it, fighting a smile. "...Fine. It was sweet."

A mischievous thought struck you. "Y’know," you mused, reaching up to toy with a loose curl near his temple, "I should return the favor."

His brow furrowed. "What do you—"

You didn’t let him finish. Grabbing his wrist, you tugged him toward the edge of the bathtub, pushing him down until he sat with an undignified oomph. Before he could protest, your fingers were already combing through his hair, separating a small section near the front.

"Absolutely not," Spencer said, though he made no move to stop you.

"Oh, come on," you teased, twisting the strands with far less finesse than he’d shown. "Just one tiny braid. For fun."

He groaned, but the way he leaned ever so slightly into your touch gave him away. "This is revenge."

"It’s bonding," you corrected, grinning as you secured the ridiculous little plait with a bobby pin.

Spencer looked—well, adorable. The tiny braid stuck out awkwardly against his otherwise tousled curls. You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

"You’re never doing this again," he muttered, but when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, even he couldn’t suppress a tiny smile.

(And if he left it in for the rest of the day, well—neither of you mentioned it.)