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reidswrld · 4 days ago

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i love el and their writing more than a diet dr pepper

BALLAD OF A HOMESCHOOLED GIRL !

“It’s social suicide!”

ex situationship!steve harrington x fem!reader

masterlist ; series masterlist ; previous chapter ; next chapter

cw: college au, strong language, arguing, mentions of alcohol consumption, lotttts of cigarettes are smoked in this chapter it’s a very stressful chapter

wc: 5k

a/n: we are…. so back?

You were convinced that you could finally, confidently, and surely say that you hated Steve Harrington just as much as you hated Halloween.

Not because he had gotten a girlfriend, not because he rubbed it in, and definitely not because you knew that he knew that he had successfully made you jealous.

But solely because he embarrassed you so badly at that party and in front of Matthew that you had successfully lost every single ounce of game you’d ever have. You could barely talk to a guy at a party without saying something slightly off-kilter that killed the energy, you apparently became a little too unsteady when you kissed someone, and you had even started to feel so anxious at any pregame that sometimes you couldn’t make it out of the house. Steve and Jade had eventually started to come back around and go to parties with your friends, as expected, and it was like nothing happened. Except now, either Eddie, Sean, or Jared were always by your side, both at your apartment before the parties, and at the parties.

Weeks after that fateful night, however, you found yourself fussing with your hair and makeup in the mirror, trying to nail your costume of the night regardless of how much you were dreading going out. Alex had found some random house party through a friend of a friend, and while she and Robin were dressing in matching ladybug and bee costumes, you were dressing in a rendition of Scooby Doo’s Velma, which consisted of an impossibly tiny red mini-skirt, a bright orange high-necked cropped tank top that was so tight that your ribs kind of hurt, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with no lenses. You and Eddie had originally planned to match with Sean, Jared, and your other friend Nancy, who would be dressed as Shaggy, Fred, and Daphne respectively, but Sean and Jared thought that dressing up like Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World would be funnier. Nancy had quickly also dropped out in favor of some other matching costume with her boyfriend.

So, Steve had asked Eddie to join the costume with Jade, and despite your angry comments and pleading, Eddie had agreed. Steve would dress as Fred, Jade as Daphne, you as Velma, and Eddie as Scooby, because “if he was Shaggy, you’d look like a couple and neither of you would have any real fun”.

You didn’t feel like the night would be any fun when you had put on the last swipe of lipgloss across your lips and opened your door to join the rest of your friends in the living room, where they had been getting ready for the last hour.

“You can’t just change your costume, Steve! We agreed, I bought you the stupid orange bandana, and we thought up all of these cute pictures to take!” Jade complained from near where your couch was, causing you to stop in your tracks on your threshold. You knew you should close the door and give them their privacy. Still, you didn’t move. “It’s literally not even a bad outfit. It’s a button-up and jeans.”

“Babe, it makes me look so weird, and it isn’t my vibe,” He replied, and you could practically hear him roll his eyes. “It makes me look like some dude in a shitty frat or something. I’d much rather wear a t-shirt and pants that I actually like than a pair of jeans that are the color of easter candy.”

Your jaw dropped as you heard the way he was talking to Jade.

“That’s literally his character! The whole point is that he’s kind of clueless, just like a frat dude!”

You turned back toward your bed and snapped to Eddie, who was lounging on your bed, staring at the ceiling and adjusting his dog ears over and over again. He heard you and quickly got up to eavesdrop with you, an eyebrow raised as you both listened.

“Are you calling me clueless right now? Seriously?”

“Yes! God forbid I want you to wear the matching costume to my costume that we planned two and a half weeks ago, Steve!” Jade exclaimed before letting out some sort of exasperated noise. “We have literally everyone else. Just be Fred. It makes more sense.”

“Jade, in case you forgot, you—“

You clapped a hand over your mouth and shut your door as quietly as you could before turning to Eddie, whose mouth was open so wide his chin was practically hitting the ground.

“Please tell me I’m hallucinating. Please, God, tell me that she did not just say he’s changing his costume,” You groaned, gripping the bridge of your nose. “He better not. I’ll flip my shit. Seriously.”

“I’m going to piss my pants if he did. Seriously. She’s going to kill both of you!” Eddie cackled, ushering you out of the way before exiting your room, the Halloween-themed music that had been playing underneath their argument suddenly louder and their voices no longer raised.

You waited with bated breath for Eddie to make any sort of reaction and quickly put on your shoes in the meantime, but after a short moment, he called for you to come into the living room. You sighed and adjusted your skirt before walking out into the living room, your face the picture of horrified the second you saw Eddie and Steve, looking like the perfect pair in their costumes— Eddie dressed as Scooby, as planned, and Steve, with messy hair, a green shirt, and brown pants that were just baggy enough that they showed just a slip of his torso beneath the edge of his slightly cropped t-shirt.

He was dressed as Shaggy.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” You said slowly, voice unsettlingly low. “No. You need to change.”

“You too? I thought you weren’t speaking to me,” He huffed. “This is my costume. I’m not changing.”

“Steve, I’m serious. We specifically didn’t have a Shaggy for a reason, change,” You sucked in a breath, trying to contain your anger and fear that Jade, his girlfriend, who had recently revealed to you that she enjoyed practicing Wicca and other “witchy” practices to get more in touch with her spirituality, would see the two of you standing together in a fucking couples costume. “Please. Just dress up as Fred.”

“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you change, huh? I know you’ve gotta have some blue skirt and white shirt combination that’ll fit the character,” He snorted, picking up the orange piece of fabric that Jade had mentioned and tossing it toward you. “I’ll even lend you the necktie, sweetheart.”

You were seething. His voice was like a million tiny knives, arrogance dripping from every word. You wanted to slap him in the face.

“Steve, I swear to god, I will strangle you with this stupid fucking—“

“Oh my gosh! The Scooby ears look great!” Jade suddenly bounded back in through the front door, bubbly as ever, just as you had lobbed the orange tie back toward Steve. It hit him in the chest and fluttered toward the floor as you turned on your heel and headed for the kitchen, where the liquor everyone had slowly been picking at lay.

You poured yourself a shot of whatever was closest to you, downed it, grabbed the handle, and turned back down the hallway before opening Alexandra’s door, where she, Robin, Sean, and Jared helped each other with their costumes.

“Hurry up guys,” You held out the bottle and mustered up your most believable smile, which made everyone smile back at you. “We gotta get this party started!”

———————

At every party you had attended since the house party where you had yelled at Steve, you had realized very quickly that it was really, really hard to get laid when you had a tall and burly guy acting as your shadow.

You could feel it now, as you were standing on the deck of yet another dingy brownstone on the north side, decked out in your Velma costume. The mesh orange thigh highs you wore did little to help stave off the chill, and your feet ached in the black platform Mary Jane’s you had been wearing all night. Eddie stood right beside you and mingled with a really attractive red-headed guy, leaning into your side as he joked with the man. He was still dressed as Scooby himself but had completed the look with a choker necklace with the “SD” logo on it.

Both of you had been talking to the redhead for at least thirty minutes before he had offered to grab you both more drinks and departed. The second he was out of earshot, you turned to Eddie with a bit of a glare in your eyes.

“Dude, I know you don’t mean it, but you are such a cockblock,” You huffed, taking the cigarette that the boy was handing you as you scolded him. “I’ve been trying to flirt with him and you keep bringing the conversation back to Star Wars. What gives?”

Eddie looked at you like you had ten heads after he lit the cigarette. He jutted his head forward toward you and looked at you for a long moment.

Then, he burst out laughing.

“What? What’s so funny?” You reeled back, cheeks heating up. “I’m serious!”

“Babe, you have to be kidding,” He said through laughter, one arm landing on his stomach. “That boy is gay. Like, gayer than me, gay.”

You groaned and facepalmed with your free hand, the cigarette dangling from your other hand. “You’re joking.”

“Deathly serious.”

“Is my type, just, gay men? Seriously?” You whine, taking a drag before handing it back to him. “That’s genuinely the third gay guy I’ve tried to flirt with in the last month.”

“You’re gaining a bit of a track record, sweetheart,” Eddie tutted, swinging an arm over your shoulder. “I haven’t seen you lip-locked with anyone in weeks.”

“Ugh, I know,” You huffed, leaning into him. “I’ve, like, been in a slump since that stupid asshole—“

“You can say his name, you know.”

“I’d prefer not to. Anyway, since he pulled that bullshit at Nancy’s party I haven’t been able to do anything right,” You elbowed him gently in the ribs before continuing on your tangent. “He definitely put a curse on me.”

“Isn’t Jade the one who is into all the witchy stuff, though?”

“She’s normally really nice though. He probably stole a book or something and cursed me,” You rubbed your hands over your face. “I’m so sick of him. He’s always fucking around, he’s always lurking and staring and I’m sick of it! I don’t know how she deals with him. Seriously.”

“Did you not deal with him for, like, two months?” Eddie snorted.

You regretted telling him the full details of your and Steve’s history every day. Especially right now.

“Emphasis on two months. Not to mention that he didn’t start being an asshole until I decided to stop seeing him if he wasn’t going to get serious,” You rolled your eyes. “And now he has it out for me. Which is rich considering—“

You saw Jade rushing up the stairs of the deck in her adorable Daphne costume, white boots pounding against the wood. She beelined straight for you and Eddie, and you were sure that your heart was going to beat out of your chest.

Once she made it closer, you could tell she was distraught and almost in tears, and you could see a lurking figure following her path up the stairs.

“Can you guys go back home with me? Everyone’s drunk or apparently deciding to be really mean right now,” She sniffled, looking between the two of you, but her eyes lingered on Eddie a little longer, just enough to make your stomach twist. “Please?”

“Sure. This party’s lame anyway,” You ducked out of Eddie’s embrace and poked his arm. “If you want to stay and keep talking to Star Wars guy, I can get us a taxi back.”

“I’ll catch up with you guys out front. I’m not feeling it anymore,” He shrugged and made a motion toward the stairs, where Steve was walking up, a beer in his hand. “Just need a minute.”

“Gotcha. We’ll wait for you, Eds,” You nodded and reached out a hand for Jade, who reluctantly took it and began walking with you. You purposefully put yourself on the side you knew would be closest to Steve as you passed him, and kept Jade close to your side as she wiped at her face over and over again.

As you passed him, you made it a point to bump shoulders with the boy, hard. He stopped and reeled back, his beer spilling all over his green t-shirt and the girl next to him. You winced as she got covered, but continued down the stairs and around the side of the house. It was desolate out front, the porch and stairs empty as the party raged on inside.

You led Jade over to the steps and urged her to sit down on them. You sat beside her but left a respectable amount of room between the two of you as she put her head into her hands. She was full-on crying now, her thick black eyeliner beginning to run underneath her eyes.

“Here,” You reached to the side of your skirt and pulled a red handkerchief out of your waistband— one that Robin had insisted was very “Velma”— and handed it to her.

She didn’t thank you, just used the cloth to blow her nose. Your spine stiffened slightly, but you didn’t sit up straight as a result. Neither of you said anything as you waited for Eddie, both sitting on the steps in your almost identical boots and matching costumes.

The sound of music and voices seeping through the windows felt suffocating at that moment.

You reached back into the other side of your skirt and produced a more decorated version of Eddie’s cigarette case, the 3D gem stickers you had spent a considerable amount of time sticking meticulously around it rubbing against your skin. You popped it open and took out one of your last three cigarettes, placing it between your lips. You reached for the last match that rattled around the case next, striking it against the railing and using it to light the cigarette.

You saw Jade’s head lift in your peripheral but continued to take your first drag, making sure to blow it away from her and up, so none of the smoke would get anywhere near her.

It stayed quiet as you smoked and she sniffled, and you were halfway done with the cigarette before she broke the silence.

“You’re too pretty to be doing that,” Her voice was watery, but firm.

You took the cigarette from your lips and held it in your hand away from her before turning toward her. You tried your best to keep your expression neutral, but your eyebrows still furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“Smoking,” She sniffled again and cleared her throat. “It’s an ugly habit.”

Your spine fully straightened as your mouth parted to say something, but instead, you turned away from her and popped the cigarette back into your mouth. You talked around the roll, your shoulders tense. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll take that into consideration.”

You stood from your seat suddenly and walked away from her, shoes clomping on the concrete as you made your way to the sidewalk. In one hand, you held your cigarette, and you pulled your phone from under your shirt and flicked it open with the other. You pressed the hotkey to call the taxi service you usually used.

You turned to face the alleyway and tapped your foot as you watched for Eddie, holding your phone to your ear. As you spoke to the operator and gave them the location information, the boy in question rounded the corner holding Steve by the arm, a stormy look on his face. You sighed and asked for a second taxi to the same location, and once it was confirmed, you snapped your phone closed loudly. You dropped your finished cigarette onto the ground and used your foot to grind it into the sidewalk as you watched Eddie sit Steve down on the steps beside Jade, where he all but slumped over, his head leaning against the railing.

Eddie met you on the sidewalk shortly after that.

“What happened with her?”

“You’re crazy if you think I actually asked,” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “She bitched about my smoking habit and I walked away before I got mean.”

“She what?” Eddie wheeled around, eyes wide. “You’re kidding. We smoke every time we go out!”

“She said that “it’s an ugly habit” and I’m “too pretty to be doing that”, which, thanks for calling me pretty, or whatever,” You rolled your eyes. “But way to make it backhanded. Like I asked for her opinion.”

“Yeah. Steve told me she flipped out because they were apparently dancing near the window and she caught him staring out the window instead of paying attention to her, and because she’s still pissed that he changed his costume,” He huffed, ruffling his hair for a moment before letting his arms drop to his side. “Which, fair on the staring part, but a little crazy on the costume thing. It’s literally just a costume.”

Your stomach lurched. You had noticed them near the window of the house, and you had noticed Steve staring out of the window multiple times while you had been talking to Star Wars Guy. You also knew that Jade really did not like that Steve was matching with you rather than her. “I hate Halloween. So much. Have I ever told you that?”

“I’m wounded, but I get it,” He shrugged. “D’you get two taxis?”

“Yep. Don’t know who’s going in which,” You sighed and turned to glance toward the street. You saw some headlights coming toward the house and shivered. “Depends on if they make up or not.”

“Because if not—“

“Yeah. Not too happy about that,” Your lips formed a line, knowing damn well that if the couple didn’t make up, Eddie and Jade lived in the same apartment complex, and Steve had recently moved a block away from yours. “But I’ll deal. Is he, like, getting-sick-drunk?”

“No. He’s acting like a kicked puppy because I yelled at him to get his shit together,” Eddie shook his head. “He’s fine. Let me ask what they’re thinking.”

You watched the dark-haired boy walk back toward the couple, and then you heard Jade immediately begin to protest at the top of her lungs, insisting that she would absolutely not be getting into a car with Steve, or with you. You saw Eddie’s shoulders sag as the crunch of tires on the pavement got closer and closer, and then two white and green checkered taxis pulled up right where you had been standing.

“Eddie, cabs are here,” You raised your voice to catch their attention. The couple stood from their seats and immediately separated, walking with an absurd amount of distance for them, as they were normally glued at the hip. Jade stalked toward the first cab, and Steve dragged his feet toward the second one, closest to you. He swayed slightly, but not enough to need help walking yet.

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?” Eddie called as he opened the back door of his taxi for Jade. “Text me when you get back to yours.”

“Yeah. That’s fine.”

Even though Eddie had said that Steve wasn’t drunk enough to get sick, you scanned the area for any litter around and found a stray plastic bag that was crumpled and stuck at the base of a tree, grabbed it, and opened the back door of your cab.

“Get in,” You turned to Steve, who was already looking at you. His eye contact made your skin suddenly warm, but you ignored it and made a motion for him to hop in. He obliged, silently, but not without a bit of a fumble to slide across the back bench.

Once he was in and had buckled his seatbelt, you got into the seat furthest from him much more gracefully than he had gotten in. You told the driver that you were heading to Steve’s address, and you were off.

You tossed the plastic bag in his direction but kept your eyes trained on your hands in your lap.

You could see him grab the bag and lift his head toward you, cocking his head so his hair flopped in his face. “Why’re you giving me this?”

You tried not to snort at his slightly slurring speech. “For shits and giggles.”

“M’ not gonna get sick. I never do,” He scoffed, but there wasn’t the normal weight he usually used around you behind it. “I’ve got a stomach of steel.”

“Well, I’m not paying for the cleaning fee if you do. I don’t have Daddy’s credit card to live off of,” You spared him a glance and said simply before crossing your arms and sitting back in your seat. “In case you conveniently forgot.”

He didn’t say anything, but you felt his gaze burning a hole in the side of your face.

“Y’look really pretty,” He said quietly but didn’t move. Your stomach churned with butterflies, your chest warming with a combination of anger and sadness. “In case no one told you tonight.”

“Stop talking, Steve,” You scoffed. “Just because you pissed off your girlfriend does not mean you can try talking me up when she’s not around.”

“She’s not my girlfriend anymore,” He huffed. “She broke up with me two weeks ago. She just wanted to come to get pictures to show her friends and to say she did a couple’s costume with me.”

You suddenly felt really, really satisfied that she was the one to dump him and practically use him for the night, but also really, really, sad for him.

“Oh,” You hummed.

“Yeah. That’s kinda why I changed,” He sighed, his head dipping. You still didn’t turn. “I didn’t think it was fair that she still got to have her pictures with me and my friends.”

“Didn’t that just make her more pissed off?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And you still let her come and dress up with us?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“That’s sad, Steve,” You tried not to scoff. “Like, really sad. Seriously.”

He went quiet for a second or two, his body turning so he could look out the window.

“Yeah. I know,” He sounded uncharacteristically soft, like Jade had actually hurt his feelings. It made you feel way too many things at once, and you even briefly considered grabbing the plastic bag from him as some sort of safety net for yourself.

“Doesn’t feel nice, does it?” You said before thinking, but didn’t let the embarrassment of your sudden jab wash over you. You knew deep down he deserved to hear it, even if the thought of your words finally hitting him where it hurt made you feel like a horrible, evil, person.

He looked back toward you, his eyes holding the same unrecognizable look that you hadn’t seen since you had last slept together. It made your chest squeeze. He shook his head.

It was silent in the taxi for the next ten minutes.

You realized that hearing about what Jade had done to Steve actually made you a lot less satisfied than you had initially thought. You thought back to how Steve had made you feel time and time again, and how he had hurt you, but then you thought about the good times that had been far and few between. When he had hung out with your friends in the beginning, when the two of you hadn’t told anyone that you were seeing each other. You thought about how he had always watched for you in the group, and how you had always caught him staring, how you could always find him in any room. How he defended you, Robin, and Alex at parties when guys got too close or their joking jabs got a little too mean. How he always asked to partner up on projects, how he always complimented you on how eloquent you were when you presented in class. How he always held you after you had sex, how he checked in constantly to make sure he was doing everything right for you, how he always slowed down when you asked, and listened to you like he wanted to.

Like he cared.

You thought about how Jade got all of that, every day, for months, and thought she was insane for throwing that all away just because all she had wanted in the first place was something to show for it. She wanted him as a trophy, not as a person. You thought she was fucking crazy for giving up all of Steve’s good parts for some stupid pictures to take home to her friends.

Thinking about Jade made you think about how you and Steve ended. He had never indicated that he didn’t want you, he just didn’t want to commit. He didn’t want to show you off just to say he had a girlfriend, he just didn’t want to change anything about the arrangement. Sure, he didn’t know too much about your personal life— well, you weren’t sure how much he truly knew about you. You didn’t really give him too long of a pause over his car to give you the right answers. But, he wasn’t nearly as mean as you had initially painted him to be. Maybe it was your anger, your sadness. But seeing him slumped over in the taxi, pouting out the window like he was in a music video, made you feel a little less angry at him now.

“Can I tell you something without you, like, strangling me?” He said about five minutes away from his house, finally lifting his head.

You dared to turn toward him, heart beating in overdrive. “Sure. No promises.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your heart stopped for a minute. You were sure of it. You just looked at him, eyes not leaving his.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I miss when you didn’t hate me," He said, like it wasn’t a crazily impactful sentence. “We used to be friends, which before you say anything, you know what I mean by that, and then we just … weren’t. And it’s my fault.”

“That was your choice, Steve. You could have just said you wanted to be friends instead of…” You trailed off, gulping for a moment and looking back to your lap. “Whatever we were.”

“Do you not miss being friends?”

“You know the answer to that question.”

“I’m sorry,” He said again, sighing. “But, why didn’t you say that you wanted to be friends?”

The taxi finally pulled up to Steve’s apartment complex, paid the driver with a wad of cash, and got out of the back seat, a strange feeling washing over you. You watched Steve clamber out and close the door behind him, the two-flat he now lived in looming behind the two of you.

“Because you knew from the night that you really met me that we could never just be friends. You’re going into education,” You said, no heat behind your words. “Don’t tell me that you’re suddenly too stupid to not realize that.”

He sighed and nudged a stray leaf with the toe of his Converse sneaker.

“That was a year ago today, you know,” He hummed, jamming his hands into his pockets. He raised his head toward you and rocked back and forth on his heels. “‘Cept this year, we’re matching.”

You looked at him, your face the picture of bored, because of course you knew that, and of course, you were alone with Steve Harrington for the second Halloween in a row, and he was making your stomach swim with butterflies. No matter how much you wanted to hate him, or how much you swore you were over him, he still had an effect on you.

But now, you were determined to keep him out of your heart entirely. You knew how to keep your emotions away from your face, how to act more confident, and how to keep your feelings buried deep inside.

“Not like I had a choice. You’re the one who wouldn’t change.”

“What if I told you that I also did it to piss you off?”

“I’d tell you that I should have strangled you with that stupid orange necktie when I had the chance.”

He laughed, a bright sound you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. You still didn’t let a smile crack, though. You watched his face slowly drop as he realized you weren’t laughing with him.

“You have your keys, right?” You cocked your head at him, watching diligently as he patted around his pockets for the keys in question. He pulled them out and shook them in front of you, deeply confused. “Do you need help getting inside or are you sober enough to do that yourself?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind the help—“

“Steve.”

“Alright, yeah. I’m okay to get in on my own,” He rocked on his heels again. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“Steve.”

“Right. Okay. Cool,” He pushed out quickly, starting the trek toward his front door, walking slowly. You began your trek away from his house, back toward where your apartment building was at the end of the block. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Nope.”

“Well, get home safe!” He shouted as you walked further and further away, but you didn’t respond, continuing toward your building.

You did, however, throw yourself into your bed once you arrived home, and screamed into your pillow for a good five minutes before turning onto your back.

You had to stop letting him get to you.

You had to give him a taste of his own medicine. Not the way Jade did, but in a way that would protect your own feelings, all of the ones you’d sworn were under control and even non-existent.

You had to.

reply to be added to my stranger things taglist <3

#🧸 — el!#steve harrington recs

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reidswrld · 8 days ago

Note

this was beautiful and tragic and lovely all at the same time

could I request cold!reader waking up from a nightmare whilst she’s with Spencer?? maybe when she wakes up she’s unusually clingy to him and he just holds her?? ☹️☹️💗

WHAT A NIGHT. /spencer reid/

bringing up your past issues doesn’t just affect your waking hours. your dreams are just as bad.

CW | nightmares caused by sexual trauma, brief description of at-home abortion, reader has a panic attack, reader briefly views spencer as a physical threat

s11!cold!reader hurt/comfort 2.0k series masterlist. main masterlist.

AN | hi, i’m allergic to happiness

You’re dreaming, and you know it.

That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Not the dream itself—though it’s wretched in every way—but the knowing. The awareness. You’re aware of the room that doesn’t look like any room you've lived in, but it’s his. You're aware that the weight in your chest isn't real, and yet it crushes you just the same. And you know you’re older now, not nineteen anymore, but your limbs are small, powerless again. Your voice doesn’t come out when you try to scream. The carpet’s the same colour it always is in these dreams—off-white, like bone turned to dust. The smell of sweat and whisky seeps into your skin.

He’s not speaking in this one. Just watching. Sitting across the room with that same sick patience. But he’s already dead, isn’t he? Hasn’t he already bled out in front of you, with your name on his lips? So why the hell is he watching you like this?

You scream, finally. Not with your voice, but in your mind—wake up, wake up, wake up—

But you don’t. You don’t.

The dream shifts.

And you’re pregnant again. Barely twenty, alone in a bathtub with shaking hands and something sharp in them. You’re sobbing. You tell yourself it’s the right thing. It’s the only thing. And you know it’s a dream, you remember the aftermath, the silence, the blood, the ache that never really left. And yet, you relive it. The helplessness. The guilt. The wrongness.

Wake up.

You gasp—no, yell—yourself awake.

You bolt upright in bed, chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon. The room’s dark, faint streetlight pouring in through half-closed blinds. Spencer’s apartment. You’ve spent more nights here than at your own place this month. But your body doesn’t catch up to the reality fast enough. You’re still back there, back then, in pain, in panic, in the unbearable after.

The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your mouth tastes like metal. There’s sweat dripping down your neck. And when Spencer stirs beside you, murmuring your name half-asleep—

“Hey-? What’s—”

You flinch away from him violently. He doesn’t even touch you—just reaches a hand out—and still you recoil as though he’s just tried to drag you under.

“Don’t.” Your voice comes out brittle and small. “Don’t touch me—”

He stops immediately, hand suspended in the air like he’s just frozen mid-breath.

“Alright,” he says gently. “I won’t. I won’t, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay.

You’re shaking. Everything inside you feels like it’s been turned inside out. Your lungs are caught in a pattern of shallow, ragged breaths. Your fingers are clenched so tightly around the blanket that they’re numb. You think you might be crying, but you don’t feel it.

He sits up beside you, hands where you can see them, voice low and even. “You had a nightmare, you’re okay,”

Of course you did. Of course you did. That’s what therapy is doing to you lately—tearing up things you’d sealed beneath ten years of practiced indifference. You never wanted to talk about him. About what he did. What he made you do. But you agreed, for Spencer. Because Spencer’s eyes look so worried every time you freak out. Because you don’t want to hurt him the way you’ve hurt yourself.

And now—this. This spiral of nightmares and broken sleep and memories you can’t scrub clean.

You want to run. You want to fight. You want to press your forehead into his chest and disappear, but your skin still itches with phantom fear and shame.

“I can’t—” You curl in on yourself, dragging your knees to your chest. “I can’t, Spence, please don’t—”

Spencer doesn’t move. He waits, watches you struggle to breathe, doesn’t rush in with comfort you’ve already refused. You hate him for that. You love him for it more.

Your head’s between your knees now, your breath too shallow to be useful. Everything’s closing in. You feel light-headed, faint.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” he says softly. “I’m going to talk to you through it. Just my voice. Nothing else, okay?”

You nod, even though you’re not sure he can see it.

“Count with me,” he says. “In for four… one, two, three, four. Hold. One, two… out for six. One, two, three, four, five, six.”

You try. You really try. The numbers warp, slide sideways in your brain. But his voice—low, calm, unrelenting—grounds you, bit by bit. Like the sea grinding away at stone. It hurts. But it helps.

He repeats the breathing exercise, over and over, until your hands stop shaking enough that you can uncurl your fingers from your thighs. You feel raw. Like someone’s taken sandpaper to your nerves.

Eventually, you lift your head. His silhouette’s clear now, outlined by the dim light from the hallway. He’s still sitting where he was, arms braced on his knees, watching you like you’re something fragile.

And you suppose, right now, you are.

“It’s over,” he says, soft as breath. “You’re safe. I swear,”

And maybe it’s those words that start to steady something inside you. You’re safe. Here, in his apartment, in his bed. Not there. Not then.

But the fear doesn’t drain out so much as it crawls back slowly, like a tide pulling away with reluctance.

You hate it.

You hate the fact it still messes you up like this. Because it makes you feel soft, and soft is weak, and weakness is how this all started.

You don’t cry. You never do. That part of you is locked away, welded shut. But your breath hitches like a sob, and you wonder if this is the closest you’ll ever get.

But he’s just sitting there, still not touching you, waiting. Present.

“I couldn’t wake up,” you manage. “I knew it was a dream. I kept telling myself it was. But I couldn’t get out. It felt like—I was going to be stuck there forever

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re back now. With me,”

You take him in for the first time since waking. His curls are sleep-mussed. His glasses are on the nightstand, and his eyes look glassy in the dark. There’s a softness to his expression, yes—but it’s not pity. It’s worry. And care. Real, bone-deep care.

“I want to…” You trail off, ashamed. “I don’t want to be alone,”

“You’re not,” he promises again. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,”

Your body starts moving before your mind can catch up. Slowly, hesitantly, you shift toward him, and this time when he raises an arm—carefully, like he’s holding a butterfly—he waits for you to come to him.

And you do.

You fold yourself against his chest, and his arm closes around you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, and finally—finally—you start to feel the real world anchor you.

He smells like lavender and warmth and something else—something you can’t name but recognise all the same. Safety. Not perfection. Not healing. But safety, in a way you never believed you'd feel again.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, though your lips barely move.

“Don’t apologise,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to apologise for being in pain,”

“I’m supposed to be getting better,”

“You are,” he says simply. “It’s a process, you know that,”

You wish you could believe it.

Some part of you does.

But the rest—the deeper, darker part—still feels like you’re standing on the edge of a very long, very steep fall.

His hand rubs gently up and down your back. Not lingering. Not possessive. Just a quiet reassurance.

“Did I wake you?” you ask.

“I was already halfway up. You were… thrashing. I thought you were having a seizure at first,”

You stiffen. “Oh,”

“Hey,” he says quickly. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about me. I’m glad you’re here,”

“I’m not going back to sleep,” you say, voice thick.

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “I won’t either,”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his T-shirt like you want to disappear into him. And in a way, you do. You want to crawl inside his chest and never come out. Not because you want to use him as a shield, but because being with him is the only time you ever feel like a whole person instead of a patchwork of bruises and stitched-up trauma.

“I hate how much it still affects me,” you whisper.

“You’re allowed to be affected,”

“I’m thirty now, Spence. It was ten years ago,”

“You could be sixty and it would still matter. Time doesn’t undo what he did to you,”

He doesn’t say what you did to yourself. But he doesn’t need to. He knows. And you know he knows.

Your grip tightens. His heartbeat under your ear is steady, grounding.

“I was so afraid,” you say quietly. “Back then. And tonight. But this time, when I woke up—I was terrified, I thought you—”

His breath catches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I know,” he says, voice rougher now. “I saw it in your eyes. And I swear to you, if I could take that fear away, I would. I never, ever want you to be scared of me,”

You press your face harder against his chest.

“I wasn’t. Not really. It wasn’t you. It was just… my brain,”

He nods, chin brushing your hair. “I know. Trauma lies. But I’ll remind you of the truth, as many times as it takes,”

Silence settles over you both. Not the suffocating kind—just quiet. Peaceful. Honest.

#🐰 — sawyer recs!#📖 — sawyer’s spencer reid recs!#spencer reid recs #i love the hurt comfort trope.

623 notes · View notes

reidswrld · 10 days ago

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UNCASUAL REMINDER!!!!!!!

if you’re MAGA, if you’re racist, if you’re homophobic, if you’re transphobic, if you’re not a feminist, if you’re not against deportation, if you’re against abortions, if you like the orange man, if you’re pro israel

BLOCK ME RIGHT NOW!!!!

didn’t think i’d have to say it again but ig i do!!

521 notes · View notes

reidswrld · 20 days ago

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“do you paint me?” i try not to, but you always end up there” my heart is ruined i love artist!hyunjin

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect.

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again?

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him.

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric.

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

contine this: His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

#🐰 — sawyer recs!#💌 — sawyer’s hyunjin recs!#hyunjin recs #dear god i love hwang hyunjin

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reidswrld · 1 month ago

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or these !!!! someone get me to write.

not so subtle "i love you" romance dialogue + prompts

@celestialwrites for more!!

♡ "your favourite colour is blue. not a bright blue, but a light one, a blue like the ocean waves just off the shore of your favourite beach."

♡ character waking up early every single morning so they can get coffee from their “friend's” favourite coffee shop for them.

♡ "how did you know that?" "you mentioned it once." "and you remembered?"

♡ when character A's ex dumps them, their favourite flowers show up the next day, freshly picked and without a note. character B hides the cuts the flower's thorns gave them.

♡ "i'll drive you home, you're on my way." "i thought you lived across the city...you know, in the opposite direction?"

♡ writing down all the little details their s/o mentions so they will never forget what makes them smile.

♡ "you speak (character A’s native language)?" "a little, i just learned."

♡ "i waited." "for what?" "you."

♡ character A, who cannot stand anyone, made a special ring tone for character B so they'd never miss a call.

♡ "if you were mine, i would never make you feel unwanted, not even for a second."

♡ character A gave character B a nickname years ago, and just recently character B realizes that character A has a tattoo that is symbolic of that nickname.

♡ “some people are not meant to be just friends.”

♡ “he hates me!” “he has spent the last two years going out of his way to get under your skin, to get your attention.”

REBLOG TO SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL WRITERS!!<3

apologies for the accidental hiatus<3

#writing prompts #sawyer asks #spencer reid asks #give me something to write pls

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reidswrld · 1 month ago

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weeps sobs i love sam winchester so bad

✶ quiet comfort — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, chronically-ill!reader, hurt/comfort, descriptions of symptoms such as dizziness, body weakness, joint pain, nausea, pain in general, physical and mental exhaustion, frustration with symptoms, unedited, 1K words. requested !

summary : sam supports and comforts you as you struggle with your symptoms.

sam's attention is almost always locked onto you; how you're moving, when you're moving, the minute changes in your expressions, everything. even if it's just out of the corner of his eye, somehow he always notices. and especially on difficult days like today, he's faultlessly attentive, all without being overbearing when he knows you want him to back off.

so the moment you begin to shift in your spot on the couch next to him, he's no longer paying any attention to the book in his lap. and when you start to stand, the book gets placed on the arm of the couch without a second thought.

you've been resting your eyes, battling a migraine along with aching joints, nagging nausea, and limbs that shake from strain and exhaustion. but you're utterly bored and frustrated with doing nothing, and of course the remote to the tv has been placed across the room. in hindsight, you could have just asked sam to get it for you; he would've been happy to do so. and it's not as if you don't expect the dizziness—you know yourself and your current state more than well enough—but you can't help but choose to ignore it when you're frustrated like this.

you're slow about it, pausing when you stand up for a moment to make sure you won't get too dizzy to make it to the remote and back. sam stands too, without question.

"do you need something? i'll get—"

the pounding in your head stays consistent and fools you by pretending it won't get worse. but when you take a step with aching legs, the rush of dizziness decides to hate just a moment late. it wraps around your head like a damn plastic bag trying to choke the air from your lungs and pull your vision into darkness.

it's not as if you don't know what to do, though. you know that you're close enough to the couch to let your weakened knees just buckle and your body fold back into the support of the couch.

but sam's quick and firm hands catch your shoulders to ease you into the cushions with much more care and softness than you would've had otherwise.

"—woah, alright. that's alright. just take a second," he says softly, holding you up as his hand slips from your shoulder to the side of head, guiding it to his steady shoulders. "there you go," he murmurs, letting you catch your breathe and your heartbeat slow.

"i'll grab the remote in just a minute, okay? and some of your ice packs? this heating pad doesn't seem to be doing much anymore, why don't we turn it off so we can ice instead for a bit?" he suggests, talking slow and soft and sweet, immediately sorting through the ways he might be able to help. he's even easily guessed exactly why you wanted to stand in the first place.

"yeah," you mumble back, eyes closed and dizziness luckily beginning to abate before it can get any worse. of course, you still feel like absolute shit, that dull ache of everything accompanied by sharper, jabbing pains and shaky hands. the dizziness is paired with a new wave of stronger nausea too and despite sam's sweet nearness, you wish that everything could fade away, and you could be left to silence and maybe even nothingness.

sam knows he can't fix it, but that doesn't stop him from doing everything that he can. he pulls the heating pad off of you all while managing to keep you steady in his embrace, and simple tosses it aside so no one has to get up and unplug it. he'll let your body cool down before grabbing the ice packs to avoid shocking temperature changes, and just holds you through the pain in the meantime.

he doesn't get up for the remote either to avoid jostling you because you've begun to relax just a bit in his arms. and you don't ask him to grab it, because you need this comfort right now.

"i've got you," he whispers, gentle hands soothing over your stiff neck and shoulders, then drifting down to expertly massage the places he can guess hurt the most. your still pounding head remains tucked into his neck as the worst of the dizziness fades and is replaced by another layer of exhaustion. anyone else might not think you could get more tired than you already were, but you know better. it seems you could always feel more and more tired, physically and mentally, and sometimes it only feels possible to cope with when sam is right by your side, holding you up and easing your pain, even if only by a little.

he has a certain understanding that many others don't; his chronic pain keeps him up a night, just the same as the nightmares. not to mention that he loves you more than anything, and will always do everything he can to help you.

when he thinks it's been long enough, he ever so softly slips away from you, helping you settle into the back cushions of the couch before rushing off to grab all of your ice packs. first, of course, he turns on the tv and brings you the remote, leaving you to pick anything you want as he gathers up water, a salty snack, and anything else he thinks might bring you comfort.

he arranges all of the ice packs where you ask him to, assures that you drink enough water and are satisfied by your snack. when you're settled as best as he can get you, he returns to your side, slowly sinking into the couch and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"i see you, babe," he tells you when the tv grows quite for a moment. "and i'm right here, and i hope you know that i want to do everything for you that i can. so just tell me if you need anything else, and it's yours."

#🐰 — sawyer recs!#🎞️ — sawyer’s sam winchester recs!#sam winchester recs #i literally love u bad sam winchester

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reidswrld · 1 month ago

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if anyone wants to see any of these leave a chat in my inbox <3

characters realizing they are in love dialogue + prompts

@celestialwrites for more!!

♡ seeing their s/o interact with children they met in a small town in the absolute middle of nowhere.

♡ “it shouldn’t take losing me to love me, if you really did, you would have loved me right the first time.”

♡ the character realizes how head over heels in love they are when their s/o took over their whole kitchen in a panic bake.

♡ “i’m so undeniably screwed for this woman.”

♡ the character takes a bullet for their friend, only for that friend to realize that losing the character would destroy them.

♡ "why are you acting like this?" "why do you think?!"

♡ watching their (enemy or best friend) walk down the aisle to marry someone else.

♡ "are you going to leave?" "you? never."

♡ character A staring at character B's face, appreciating every detail of B's face, their eyes, their smile, and A just knows.

♡ "i am so unbelievably afraid that i will lose you, and i don't understand why."

♡ "three words. just say the three words."

♡ character A shows up at character B's house covered in blood, "i needed to go somewhere, and all i could think of was you."

♡ "i used to think i was immune to such temptations." "used to?"

♡ character A running through a rainstorm just to find character B's lost necklace that means the world to them.

REBLOG TO SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL WRITERS!!<3

#spencer reid asks #spencer reid fic #give me something to write pls #sawyer talks

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reidswrld · 1 month ago

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this is possibly the funniest thing you’ve ever written on here

u guys would love me so much more if i could actually write smut huh

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reidswrld · 1 month ago

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this has cured my miserable day oh god i love spencer reid

BIRTHDAY BLUES!

summary: it's spencer's birthday and you promise to make it perfect. unfortunately, fate has other plans. pairing: spencer reid x reader. tags: afab reader, established relationship [kinda, reader n reid r not dating officially], very soft angst, a lot of comfort, reader is having a no-good-very-bad-day, spencer doesn't rly like his birthday :( word count: 1.6k notes: based off of a request from the excuse prompts <3 not as angsty as probably intended but i thought it'd be silly.

You were supposed to be there. You had promised.

Spencer didn’t even like his birthday. The most he celebrated was blowing out the birthday cake that the team got him every year, leaving the celebration behind as soon as his shift ended and he was able to go home. Every year of his life had been filled with some type of challenge, like the bullies when he went to high school at the age of twelve or the fight it had been to try and fit in at the FBI when he was still young.

But you had promised that you’d be there, at his home, to make something good of his birthday. To start his year off correctly, you had said. There had been wonder in your voice as you had spoken about bringing him some silly balloons to breathe in the helium, or how you’d bake his birthday cake yourself from scratch, leaving his mouth water in a “way he’d never be able to replicate.”

It had actually made him excited. You were his closest friend, his confidante. Of course, your relationship had gotten a bit further than that, unofficially, but he’d always describe you as his friend first, even if every night spent as his apartment was in his bed, wrapped in his arms. It was nice to have someone that even tried to understand his mind, or let him ramble rather than cutting him off as soon as he got into the flow of it. He had taken the day off at your request, spending the day meandering around his apartment and organizing his bookshelves, as if you’d notice. As the hours ticked by, he had let himself get more amped up and excited, busying himself around the house so that everything’d be perfect for the perfect two-person party you had planned for him.

Then seven o’clock had crawled by. Followed by eight o’clock, then nine o’clock. You were now two hours and thirty-six minutes late to the time that you had set. Disappointment and irritation went back-and-forth in his head, an ever-present frown on his face as he paced in front of his couch. He had been stood up before, by girls pretending that they wanted to go on a date with him for a laugh or by so-called friends that found better things to do, however he never would have expected it from you. You seemed so excited. So genuine. He was a profiler, for God’s sake.

At ten o’clock, Spencer runs out of excuses for you and changes out of his nice sweater and pants, sliding on comfortable pajamas instead. At five at minutes past ten o’clock, he’s tucked underneath his duvet, hand curled beneath his cheek as he stares at the wall. Inside his head, he churns through what exactly someone could do in this situation. Proving his age, he decides that the silent treatment is probably best.

It’s twelve minutes past ten o’clock when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, he knows it’s you. He’s always had some sort of sixth sense that told him when you were near. No hair raising on the back of his neck, no heart thumping harder against his rib cage, just a sense, a feeling.

Against his better judgement, he pulls himself out of bed. Admittedly, he fakes a sleepy rub of his knuckles against his eyelid, feigning that he had been asleep. He’s always been a bit childish, never able to shake it. It’s the one thing he clings onto as someone who grew up too fast. There’s never been an innocence to him, a hope for a better day a few days later. All he had left was the stubborn need to put his foot down.

Opening the door, the first thing he sees is the singular balloon in your hand. It floats just a few inches or so above your head, dents in it from the loss of helium over time, the HAPPY BIRTHDAY stamped across the front just slightly withered. For a moment, he allows himself to mentally say some snarky remark about how it clearly encapsulated how he felt.

That is, until he looks at your face. The mascara that you had (no doubt) put on that morning had started to smear beneath your waterline, your lips stained with cherry-red lipstick that had long dissipated throughout the day. Your eyes were half-lidded as you stared up at him, lips pursed as if you were holding back tears.

You don’t even give him a chance to speak before you’re rambling, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Spencer.” Not waiting for him to invite you in, you push past him into his apartment, leaving him to watch you in slight surprise and shut the door slowly.

Fingers shaking, you curl the ribbon of the balloon around the bottom bar of one of his barstools, tying a knot as you continue babbling. “I spent all day trying to bake your cake, but everything just kept going wrong. I found so many recipes online that had good reviews and said they were perfect for knocking people’s socks off, and I just couldn’t do it. I used the entire bag of flour I bought and all I had was multiple cakes that tasted like concrete powder.”

You’re crying now, letting out pitiful sniffles as he watches you with concerned eyes, his arms crossed over his chest as he studies – profiles – you. “And then I was going to go get you a cake, because it was already five o’clock, and you deserved a cake, even if it wasn’t handmade like I said. So I went and found the best bakery in the area, but they couldn’t make one today, and you didn’t deserve a pre-bought cake. So I called so many other bakeries until I found one.”

“I went and got the cake and it was perfect. Gorgeous piping along the edges, calligraphy in icing on the top, amazingly decorated. But then I dropped it when I was going into the balloon shop. I couldn’t even make a good cake and then I dropped the perfect one. Straight onto the icing.”

Raising your hands, your fingers push away the tears on your cheeks before squeezing at the roots of your hair. Finally, Spencer concedes in the mental argument he was having with you, stepping forward and gently clasping his hands around your elbow, thumb brushing consoling circles against your bare skin.

It’s like you don’t even notice, sad eyes staring up at him as you continue your story through your hiccups. “So I thought, okay, I’ll go get Spence some balloons. I promised him balloons and he shall get balloons. But then they were out of helium. What party store runs out of helium?” It’s childish, whining about all of the misery that you had gone through that day, sobbing about balloons through your hiccups.

“I got you one balloon. That's all I could get. I thought, whatever. Birthdays don’t just become enjoyable because of the physical things, it’s about the people. I got in my car at six, which means I’d get here early. And then I got a flat tire. I called road assistance, but they couldn’t give me an estimated time that they’d be there. I tried to find a cab, but they all just ignored me and drove away.”

You look pitiful, hiccups interrupting your soft sniffles, tears painting your cheeks. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, I swear. I wanted to be here, with you, and give you the best birthday you could ever ask for. You deserved that. I ruined it.” The last words come out as a whimper, which perfectly matches the kicked-puppy look you’ve been sporting since he had opened his door.

Spencer lets out a soft sigh, using the grip on your elbow to pull you into his chest. Immediately, your arms are wrapping around his waist, cheek leaning against him as you sniffle and whine. One of his large hands rubs up and down your spine as he hushes you softly, leaning his own cheek atop your head after pressing a comforting kiss to your hairline.

After you’ve finally calmed, he places his hands on your biceps, pulling away to look at you and raising his eyebrows. “Are you feeling better?”

You respond with a wrinkle of your nose, brow still furrowed. “Are you mad at me?”

“I was,” he answers honestly. “We both have phones, you know.”

A long groan leaves your lips, hands raising to cover your face. “It died, Spence! And my charger did, too! Please don’t make me talk about it anymore, I’ll cry again.” Your fingers splay so you can look up at him, a stray bang falling into your eyes.

He grins as he reaches up to brush the hair away, fingertips brushing against your forehead before he’s grabbing your hands, pulling them away. “You don’t need to worry. I forgave you the moment I saw you at my door.” A slight lie, but it’s okay. Anything to take away even a bit of your current stress.

“I wanted you to have a good birthday.” You murmur, face still contorted into a full-blown pout.

The fingers holding your wrists pull your hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles. “We still have about an hour and a half left.” He reminds you gently, an amused smile still playing on his mouth. “You can even spend the night and we can act like midnight never happened.”

Sighing, you lean into him, exhaustion taking over, the product of your absolutely dreadful day. “Can I borrow some sweatpants and show you some really bad reality TV? I’ll even let you talk about whatever book you’re reading now until I fall asleep. Not like those are correlated.”

Finally, a smile sprouts on your face. Any objection that Spencer might’ve had evaporates on his tongue as he nods, placing another kiss to your hairline before giving a soft tug to your hand. “C’mon. Let's get you to bed.”

#🐰 — sawyer recs!#🐞 — elliott <3 #📖 — sawyer’s spencer reid recs!#spencer reid recs #my soulmate i love elliott

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reidswrld · 1 month ago

Text

this is just what the doctor ordered!!! raaaaaaa!!!!!!

TASTE OF VICTORY

summary: after winning a hard-hitting case against aaron hotchner, he takes you out for a celebratory drink. turns out prosecutors and defense lawyers can get along. pairing: prosecutor!aaron hotchner x defense lawyer!reader. tags/warnings: afab reader, reader is described as girlish [wearing pink and a skirt, etc], reader was written with elle woods in mind[!], mentions of abusive relationships & killing people / vague descriptions of abuse [not for reader], drinking alcohol, making out, law jargon that is most likely incorrect, hotch & reader have a silly lil rivalry word count: 3.5k

It was a great day to be in court.

Hard droplets of rain pelted down onto the roof of the courthouse, racing each other down each pane of the windows that lined the walls. It’d be downpouring all throughout the night, stretching into this morning, leaving you with a horrible transit to work and a thankfulness that you’d most likely be seated in front of a judge and jury all day today.

Being a defense lawyer wasn’t always an easy job. You had to watch as people laid the worst of your client out in front of you, sullying their name and proving their guilt, just to turn around and defend them. Usually, you take only certain cases, nothing that has an actual victim. Embezzlement, fraud, illegal carrying of an unregistered weapon, drug charges, the works. If there was a win on cases like these, it didn’t affect many, letting you celebrate your wins without worrying about any repercussions later on down the line.

Despite this, that didn’t stop heavier cases from becoming ripe for the picking on your desk. Attempted murder, manslaughter of all degrees, actual murder. Many of those accused tended to reach out to you with hopes that your good record and their sob story would turn into a beautiful fruition of winning what some would deem an impossible case, even when you tended to reject most of them.

Most of them being the key phrase. Because today, you were defending a murderer. At least, that’s what she had been accused of being.

When Lillian’s case had been brought up to you originally, you had wanted to immediately refuse. Your picks had to reach a precise criteria that you had set – at least an 80% chance of winning, a substantial amount of evidence on both sides, low to medium media coverage and a good payout at the end. There was no use in putting hours of hours into paperwork, investigation, pre-trial proceedings, the actual trial and sometimes appeals if it’d end in a failure and a bad paycheck. Each person you defended reflected on you and you worked very hard to protect your rosy image.

But after a deep dive led by your gut, you realized that this was a case that you could win. An easy self-defense plea, especially with the allegations of domestic abuse from the “victim’s” previous girlfriends, 911 calls from Lillian about her ex-boyfriend’s abusive behavior and her multiple visits to the hospital for broken bones and deep lacerations.

This had led to actually meeting up with Lillian’s family, discussing what they’d be willing to pay and what they’d be willing to do to win this case. Then, you had met up with her, in which you had told her that you were hired. With the empathy you felt for her and everything falling into place, you knew that you had to defend her.

All of this fell into actualization today. After months of paperwork, process of discovery, jury picks and numerous late nights, you would finally stand in trial today, speaking in front of a judge and jury and putting your multiple years of college to work. To say you were nervous would be an understatement, but the best thing you could do for Lillian was push all of that away and focus on her.

Your flashy heels clack loudly against the ground of the courthouse as you strut your way towards the entrance of the courtroom, pulling your bubblegum pink bag higher up on your shoulder. As usual, you weren’t dressed in exactly the most appropriate outfit to keep someone from going to jail, but you’d never cared in your last years of being an attorney. You showed up with your bright-colored blazer and bag, paired with a pair of designer shoes and an expensive belt, ready to defend until your tongue fell off.

As you get closer, a cocky smile pulls at your glossed lips as you take note of the tall, suited figure standing outside of the courtroom. Aaron Hotchner, the prosecutor on this case, had a file open in his hand, slowly pacing a few steps in each direction as he read over it, brow furrowed and lips moving silently as he mentally practiced his opening argument. He looks good enough to eat in his nice-fitting light grey suit, face solidified in determination.

“Ready to get your ass kicked, Hotchner?” You call as you get close enough to his side to smell his cologne, faking a look at the file in his hand before grinning up at him. Even in your heels, your forehead only reaches to his chin, meaning you had ample opportunity to give him the most mischievous eyes you could – and therefore did.

The corner of the prosecutor’s lips tilt up into a smile that matches yours, not even flinching as you sidle up close to him. With how many times he’s prosecuted the cases you’ve chosen to defend, he’s gotten used to your antics, returning your playful banter good-heartedly and not even blinking at your flashy outfits. Was it really appropriate to flirt before you both played God to decide what would happen to someone’s life? Probably not. But it was fun, and he was hot.

“Careful, trouble. Wouldn’t wanna eat your words, now,” he retorts.

Pushing out your bottom lip, you glance up at him through your eyelashes, enamored by the way his focus drifts to your mouth for just a second. “Oh, but victory tastes so sweet.”

Aaron’s eyebrow twitches in amusement, grin widening. “You haven’t won yet.”

Your bickering is interrupted by the sound of the bailiff calling you into the courtroom, both of your heads turning to look at the man in uniform before nodding. With one last glance over your shoulder as you’re looking away, you seal the deal. “Buy me a drink when I do?”

──── ୨ৎ ────

Two weeks.

Two weeks of witnesses, two weeks of cross-examining, two weeks of your bright-colored clothing standing out in the dark tones of the courtroom. Two weeks of insisting to Lillian’s family that you had this in the bag.

Fourteen days of Aaron Hotchner handing you a coffee every morning and tauntingly asking you if you were sure you didn’t want to go for a plea deal – which no amount of caffeine would ever make you agree to. Fourteen days of catching his gaze as you stepped past the prosecution bench on the way back from cross-examining and seeing the hungry glint of ambition in his eyes, reminding you that you wanted to wipe the handsome grin off of his face just as much as you loved the look of it.

It had been two weeks since you had stepped into the courtroom to defend Lillian and you were finally down to jury deliberation. The most anxious hours of your life were the ones spent inside of one of the courthouse’s conference rooms, acrylic nails trailing the top of your paper coffee cup as you waited for a bailiff to grab you for the final decision.

It was during this time that you often went over everything in your head. Had you asked the right questions? Had you pushed the prosecution’s witnesses hard enough during cross-examination? You had celebrated after asking the leading detective if he had even attempted to look through Lillian’s hospital records, especially since she had willingly waived her rights for him to do so, and he had only gotten flustered rather than answering. (You just loved to question the integrity of people with badges.)

It didn’t help that Aaron didn’t even seem to worry. Every time you had laid down the law or the judge denied his objection, you glanced at him for some sort of sign that you were winning, just to be met with the sight of his head as he ducked down to scribble something on his notepad. Was your confidence all in your head? Did you make checks your ass couldn’t cash?

The jury deliberated for hours, leaving you to pluck at the nail glue that had solidified beneath your new set of nails and get more hopeful the longer they discussed. Many hours of discussion was often a good sign. It meant the jury wasn’t fully convinced that Lillian was guilty, so either they’d be an argument until they settled on a final verdict or it’d end in a mistrial, both of which you could handle.

Hotchner wouldn’t attempt to retry Lillian if there was a mistrial. Unless he just wanted an excuse to see you, of course. But you hoped he’d be more professional than that. Even if a small part of you giggled like a schoolgirl at the idea of it. After six hours, you went home. The next morning, you were finally called back because the jury had a verdict. A couple of hours after that, you were settled behind your bench, with Lillian sat to your left and Aaron across the aisle from you.

As always, the prosecutor looks calm and steady, his hands laying on the table with his fingers intertwined without even a single twitch. His lips are pursed in focus, the arch in his brow that always appeared when he was locked in steady on his forehead. He looks as if you were both still in the throes of trial rather than about to receive the answer to one of your prayers. Once the judge was sat, your ears seem to start ringing, sound blurring into a buzz behind you. Your gaze finds the jury as the foreperson stands, lips rolling into your mouth in a brief moment of shown uncomfortability.

Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?

We have.

On the count of second-degree murder, do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?

We, the jury, unanimously find the defendant not guilty.

The last two words ring your head for a few moments before they actually settle. You can’t help the victorious smile that pulls at your mouth as you turn to Lillian, accepting the arms that she throws around your shoulders with a soft squeeze around her middle.

It’s a blur of formalities before you are able to face Aaron, your grin stretched so wide that your cheeks start to ache. Despite his loss, he is still looking at you with a soft smile, his eye contact making you flush.

“Congratulations,” he rumbles, tone twinged with amusement despite his sincerity.

Beaming, you laugh softly. “Oh, don’t look so hurt, Hotchner.”

He shakes his head with a quiet laugh, brushing off your comment, as he usually did. There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “Guess I owe you a drink. If you’re still wanting the win, of course.”

“An extra hour or so to rub it in your face? Consider me already there.” You’re speaking a lot calmer than you feel, butterflies fluttering beneath your ribcage as you look up at him.

Aaron stares down at you for a moment before clearing his throat, glancing at the watch on his left wrist. “I have a few things to take care of, but I should be free tonight, if you are?” A raise of his brow punctuates his question, a smile still ghosting the curves of his mouth.

Your head tilts one way than another as you pretend to ponder it, eyes traveling to look at the ceiling before you finally give him a break and nod. “Yeah, I can make do with that. Gives me enough time to celebrate on my lonesome. Two celebrations!” The two words come out as a squeak as you hold up your index and middle finger.

As intended, it pulls another laugh from deep in his chest, your smile only growing wider. There was nothing more glorious than watching the man who often looked so serious and intimidating behind a prosecution bench show the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. It was childish, the way it made you feel. Like a girl passing notes in class.

Do you like me? Check yes or no.

You leave the courtroom with Aaron’s number heavy in your pocket, a muscle-aching smirk on your face and a vision of your entire closet in your mind, formulating the perfect just drinks outfit in your mind.

──── ୨ৎ ────

The bar you and Aaron had settled on was the one closest to the district attorney’s office, making it easy for him to get there as soon as possible and not accidentally be late. It was a long and expensive Uber ride for you, however you didn’t mind. It gave you time to settle the butterflies in your stomach and worry that Aaron wouldn’t like you when you weren’t in some type of competition.

For your outfit, you had kept up with the color scheme he was used to seeing. A baby pink t-shirt that ended just at your belly button, paired with a flowy matching skirt that reached your calves and a pair of short heels. An outfit that said we’re just having drinks, I don’t expect anything else from you. Even though you wouldn��t mind if anything more ended up happening.

You strut in the bar with a bubble of fake confidence exactly on time, flashing smiles at everyone who glanced at you and making your way straight towards the barstools. A booth had too much secrecy and asked for a hand beneath the table. A barstool was where you had actual conversations that sometimes led to sitting in a booth. Only time could tell.

Surprisingly, Aaron’s already sitting on one of the stools, one of his feet perched up onto the bottom bar of his stool and the other resting on the floor. He’s still in his suit from earlier, however he’s removed his black blazer, leaving it draped over the back of his stool. His sleeves are pushed up over his elbows, perfectly rolled, revealing forearms that you’d sink your teeth into given the chance.

Just drinks.

“I thought you were worried about being late?” You taunt as you get closer, his head turning towards you and an amused look gracing his features. There’s a scotch already sitting on the bar in front of where he was sitting, although it looks to still be two fingers full, making you feel relieved that you hadn’t shown up too late.

Like the gentleman he is, he stands up, pulling out the barstool next to him and gesturing for you to sit. “Finished my paperwork a lot earlier than I thought I would. Thought I’d sit and watch you walk in like it’s a catwalk.” It’s a soft taunt, playful and amused, making your head spin in the best way possible.

Your skin seems to sizzle as his fingers brush against the small of your back, leading you to sit down before taking his spot beside you. His hand raises to wave down the bartender, glancing at you for your drink choice before ordering it for you. Admittedly, you bite back a teasing remark about how you could order for yourself, not wanting to break the perfect view you had of his friendly smile and handsome side profile. Once you both have a drink, he tilts his glass towards you, eyebrows raising. “To your win.”

“To your loss,” you retort. Your glasses make a clink as you knock them together, shining him a grin over the rim as you take a sip.

Although you had been nervous walking in, you quickly find that there was no reason to be. Conversation runs easily between the two of you, laughing about the crazy cases that had fallen on your desk and the worst (personality-wise) clients you had defended. You talk about your separate experiences in law school and your life before it, stretching beyond the walls of the professionalism you had (mostly) kept the last year or so you had been on different sides of the courtrooms.

The night ends only because it grows late into the night, both of you having an early start. Aaron pays for the single drinks that had turned into a few, your mouth salivating when he doesn’t even glance at the bill until he’s tipping and your clothes seeming too tight when you see the amount he leaves even then. There is nothing sexier than a man that spends money without blinking and tips like he has boatloads of it.

Once everything is handled, he pushes out your barstool with his foot, letting you get out first before standing and grabbing his blazer. His large hand stays on your lower back as he leads you outside, pinky finger brushing the warm skin at the waistband of your skirt, so close that you can smell the cologne somehow still clinging to his skin after the long day.

The cool air of Virginia envelops you like a freezing hug once you’re out of the sweaty warmth of the bar, crossing your arms over your chest to rub at the bare skin of your biceps to try and warm them up. It isn’t long after that a warm, man-smelling blazer is draped over your shoulders, slender fingers tucking it over your chest. “Aaron.” You laugh, shaking your head and attempting to push it off. “My Uber’s on the way, it’s okay. I won’t freeze to death.”

In response, he steps in front of you, pulling on the front of the blazer stubbornly and holding onto it with one hand. “It’s fine. I’m staying until it gets here, anyways.” He smiles as he glances down at you, all of your stubbornness fading away at the sight of him. “It’s nice to see you in a darker color.”

“You don’t like my color scheme?” You huff, knitting your brow and pushing out your lips in an attempt at a pout. “I think it makes the judge’s doubt me more. Makes the win so much sweeter.” He responds with a laugh, shaking his head. “You and your competitive streak.”

You retort mostly with a dramatic roll of your eyes, hands clutching just beneath where his hand was holding the front of the suit jacket together. “We’re lawyers. We both have competitive streaks.”

The prosecutor’s head tilts towards his shoulder in a gesture that says fair enough. He smiles down at you to prove he wasn’t actually annoyed by it, looming over you easily.

Surrounded by the warmth of his remnant body heat in his jacket and the ghost of the cologne he had sprayed on this morning, high on the close proximity of him to you and his hand to yours, you’re hit with the sudden urge to kiss him. Your eyelashes flutter as you glance down at his lips, tempted to taste the lingering scotch and savor it.

He’s the one to break the silence (and the tension), his voice soft in a way you hadn’t heard before. “Can I kiss you?” He asks.

Your lungs shrink, stealing all of your breath and leaving you to whisper. “Yes.”

The fingers clasped around his suit jacket pull you closer with a tug, his free hand finding your cheek to angle your face up to his. The first kiss is soft, tentative, like he was afraid you’d back out at the last moment. You respond by clutching the material of his button-up in both of your hands, pulling him even closer and entrapping his mouth with yours.

Both of his hands skirt down your sides until his fingers can wrap around your hips, fingertips digging into the skin and setting it alight. You take the chance to drag your hand along the expanse of his chest, feeling the muscle there and committing it to memory, something to remember every time you pass by him in the courthouse. Even if this was both the first and only time you kissed Aaron Hotchner, it was something to give you a spring in your step for the next few months, at least.

The both of you are only pulled apart by a loud honk from the street next to you, jumping apart like high schoolers caught making out beneath the bleachers. A giggle escapes your lips at the sight of the flush that takes over his cheeks, shoving at his chest and taking a step away so you didn’t jump at him again.

Sliding off his jacket, you hand it over to him, beaming up at him as he slowly takes it. Silently, he walks you over to the back door of the car, fingers closing around the door handle. Leaning down, he presses another quick kiss to your lips, his version of goodbye.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs. It sounds like a promise, one that you pray he intends to keep.

You repeat it with the same lilt, giving him a soft smile before slipping into the backseat, eyes trained on him as he shuts the door behind you. He watches as the car starts pulling away, jacket draped over his bicep and hands tucked into his pants pockets.

It’s only when you get home that you realize that you had tasted victory that night – in the form of expensive scotch and whatever else made up the taste of Aaron Hotchner.

#🐰 — sawyer recs!#🐞 — elliott <3 #aaron hotchner recs #aaron hotch recs #my soulmate i love elliott

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