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cinnamorollcrybaby · 4 months ago

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To love me better

Tags: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna x fem!Reader, american!Reader, forced/arranged marriage, dark romance trope, dead dove, age gap romance (reader is around 21-22, Sukuna is 37) heavy dacryphilia, finger sucking, use of “good girl”, use of pet names, Sukuna is his own warning.

Synopsis: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna owns all of entertainment district. You’re trying to work to put yourself through law school. He has a proposition for you, and you have one for him.

An: I fear that I was going to explode if I didn’t write this. I’ve been in a not good headspace. Blah blah blah school sucks blah blah work sucks blah everything sucks. I’m sorry if this sucks too. Edit - I forgot to mention that this will be a multi-part fic.

Part one. | Part two. | Part three. | Part four. |

*art creds for sukuna image goes to @.maru6 here on tumblr

Nothing in this life comes for free.

Your father taught you from a very early age to never take handouts from anyone because they’ll always benefit the other person more. He was an immigrant to Japan, and he worked hard for every yen he made.

He instilled that same work ethic in you.

After being hurt on the job from working in a poor environment, your father became very ill. He couldn’t move around as much. Sitting up out of bed made him feel winded. He slowly withered away into a shell of the man who once raised you.

Your mom was long gone. She couldn’t help out, nor did she even want to.

All you were left with was a pile of debt and utter rage. Had your father not been taken advantage of by greedy corporate conglomerates, he would still be here today.

It inspired you to want to go to law school. Your dad should’ve received a hefty settlement check for what he endured from his workplace conditions. The money wouldn’t have solved everything, but it would’ve alleviated some of the stress your dad dealt with in his final days.

You’ll never forget how hoarse his voice sounded while he was on the phone with different agencies, trying to sue that place who forced him into an early grave.

You’ll never forgive them for stealing your dad away.

If you were more ambitious, you’d work to try to change the system entirely, but you knew that wasn’t your fight to face. You wanted to help the already disadvantaged families who were facing injustices beyond their control.

So, you started law school. You were smart enough for it. You had the heart. You just didn’t have a special last name to fund your college tuition. You were a first generation Japanese American in the family. While both your parents were born in America, you were born in Japan, but you were still an outsider.

You were never properly indoctrinated in the culture. Sure, you knew the basics. You knew proper etiquette and appropriate behaviors to live in Japan, but you didn’t understand the layers of how society operated. It was as if you were never assimilated into society as a Japanese citizen.

Your dad wasn’t born here, so he never could explain to you how your last name means everything in this town.

Despite it all, you’d become a lawyer even if you had to bury yourself into debt to do it. You’d work to put yourself through college. You’d do it and bear a smile on your face because you don’t take fucking handouts.

That lead you to becoming a bottle girl at one of the most exclusive clubs in the entertainment district: Malevolent Mass.

The manager said you had the right look, whatever that means. It didn’t matter. He hired you on the spot despite your lack of a substantial last name.

This would be fine. You’d work at night on the weekends and put yourself through school during the day, and you’d keep it a secret from your school, knowing you could lose your position in the prestigious school.

It was a perfect plan, right?

Yes, it was perfect.

Customers seemed to love your polite attitude and warm hospitality. You had quickly made a name for yourself in the few short nights you had worked there.

It was only your second weekend, and your section was full. It was almost comprised entirely of men and their gold digger wives, but you got use to the sexual comments and predatory smiles.

The environment was heavily secured. When you were hired, the managers made sure to show you where security was posted up at every dark corner. They also showed you where cameras were located and assured you that not anyone could just walk into Malevolent Mass.

However, you were well aware that the most dangerous people often worse suits and golden Rolex’s.

It was a busy Friday night. You had already shotgunned two 5 Hour Energy drinks, and you had been steadily sipping on a Monster throughout your shift. You had been in classes all day, and you were scheduled to work until close at 4am.

“Cherry, can we get another round of champagnes?” a sleazy voice pipes up, calling you by your codename. The club was so security driven that they gave all the bottle girls codenames to protect their identities.

“Yes sir,” you respond with an entirely fake bright smile. Your buzzed customers couldn’t tell the difference especially with the low lighting and bass boosted music.

As you walked over towards the bar, your eyes fall onto another table. A man was leaned back with his hands behind his head. He looked entirely relaxed as a girl was bent over your lap.

A crease formed between your eyebrows. They couldn’t be serious, right? Malevolent Mass had a whole downstairs portion dedicated to public sexual acts and other deviant kinks. Why the fuck were they doing that in the normal club area?

As you took a step further, ready to confront them, you realized that the girl was positioned oddly. She wasn’t angled towards his crotch, instead she was hovering over his thigh.

That’s when you noticed she had a rolled up 10,000 yen note, and she was snorting a white powdery substance off the man’s thigh.

Holy fuck, you were in over your head.

Stumbling back towards the bar, you felt your head start to spin a little. It was probably due to fact you’d only consumed energy drinks in the past 12 hours.

“Girl. You don’t look too good,” the bartender, Yorozu, said as she guided you to take a seat. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously. Compared to the other bottle girls and dancers, Yorozu was the closest thing you had to a friend in this establishment.

“I’m fine,” you quietly replied, shaking your head. It was just drugs. You needed to take a chill pill. It’s not like people go to clubs like this just for some liquid courage.

Yorozu put a glass of water in front of you anyways, not quite believing your words. “Here. I promise you get used to it all,” she offered with a kind smile.

You gave her an appreciative smile as you took a sip of the water. Your hand was trembling, and you realized you had been sweating.

The water felt nice, and you inwardly warded off energy drinks for the rest of the night. It wasn’t worth feeling like a panicky mess.

“I need another bottle of Dom Prignon for booth 12,” you said as you looked back up towards Yorozu. She nodded and walked towards the back to retrieve the bottle of too expensive champagne.

While she was gone, you took a deep breath and looked around towards the security posts. It felt like a small safety blanket in a place like this. Finishing your glass of water, you felt infinitely better as she returned with the bottle.

“Here you are! Let me know if you need anything else, and seriously, don’t feel bad for reacting that way. It’s a bit of a culture shock for everyone during their first few nights,” she assured you as she handed you the bottle.

“Thanks, I appreciate you,” you replied with a genuine smile. Yorozu had a nice energy to her like you felt like you could get close to her one day. A girl friend would be nice to have in a place like this.

As you walked back over to your section, your lips curled into a frown as empty seats filled your eyes. Had they gotten tired of waiting and abandoned your section?

You felt disappointed as you looked around for your customers. They were nowhere to be found, but one silhouette remained in the very back corner.

“Did you bring that bottle for me? How sweet. Too bad I don’t drink,” a deep gravely voice spoke up with a hint of condescension and pure predatory prowess.

You hesitate as it feels like the air in the club shifts simply from this man’s presence alone.

“You don’t drink..?” your voice is uneasy. You feel off balance while interacting with the man tucked away in a dark corner.

“No,” the stranger replied, and he leaned forward a bit, propping his elbows on his knees as his eyes were staring straight at you. “Don’t be shy, girl. Come closer. I won’t bite…” the condescension in his voice tells you otherwise.

You swallow thickly before slowly taking a few steps closer. As you approached him, you were able to see him in all of his glory. The breath is completely sucked from your lungs as you’re able to finally get a good look at him.

He wore a white button-up top with black slacks that really didn’t leave much for the imagination. His sleeves weee rolled up to his elbows, showing off tattoos on his arms.

His face was hauntingly alluring. His tattoos also went up to his face. He had intricate lines under his cheeks that stretched down to his chin. His hair was a natural light rosy color that was pushed up from his forehead. It looked effortless and messy, unlike most business men who rely way too heavily on hair gel.

His eyes were a soft crimson color that looked like blood that had been spilled. A jarring scar slashed over his left eye, but it wasn’t ugly by any means. No, this man held a god-like status when it came to looks. However, his energy felt nothing short of daunting and corrupt.

“Who comes to a club to not drink?” you ask nervously, having to fill the eerie silence with something. It felt like you were suffocating in this man’s presence.

A rugged chuckle leaves his lips, and he tilts his head back slightly. It feels like his laugh sticks to you, making you relax and tense back up all at the same time. You can feel every yen he’s worth with each chuckle.

“If you must know, I come here for a… different sort of entertainment,�� he says as his lips curled into a smirk. His eyes unabashedly roam your body — twice before he meets your gaze again.

“Oh, that’s downstairs,” you reply as you feel relieved. This man was just in the wrong section. Surely, you’d guide him to where he needed to go, and you’d be free from whatever kind of verbal hostage situation this was.

“I’m content with where I’m at,” he says with a sort of finality that leaves little room for argument. “Come closer, doll.”

His arm props up on the back of the curved booth, and his legs part into that sort of manspread position where he takes up a good portion of the booth with his massive size.

“I-“

The man pulls a clip of money from his suit, and he makes a show out of flipping through the money before he lays six 10,000 yen notes on the table.

What the hell.

“60,000 yen for you to shut up and come closer,” he says in a voice that lacks the faux kindness he was putting on earlier.

Every survival instinct in your body was telling you to run, but your brain was telling you that 60,000 yen was enough to cover your student housing and for a train pass for a month.

You slowly inch closer, your heels not even lifting from the ground.

The man gives you an amused look as he raises an eyebrow at you. “How much for you to sit on my lap?”

“I-I’m not a dancer..” you reply sheepishly, wondering if he thought you were one of the performers for the club.

“Good thing I’m not asking you to dance, doll. I’m asking you to sit in my lap,” His lips curl into a feline grin. He’s enjoying toying with you like this. “So, I’ll ask only one more time. How much?”

Your heart is pounding against the confines of your ribcage. It felt like you had a little angel on your shoulder telling you that selling this man your time will only further escalate, but the little devil on your other shoulder was telling you to milk him for whatever he was willing to give.

You stayed silent for a few minutes, calculating what a whole month’s expenses would cost you along with the 60,000 yen you already made.

“90,000 yen,” you sheepishly murmur, bracing yourself for him to yell at you for even suggesting such a high number.

There was a beat of silence before the sound of more money being unfolded was heard. He chuckled as he placed down nine more 10,000 yen notes.

“Look at you being all cute while asking for money from me,” he teased, resting his back against the back of the booth. His hand patted his thigh, signaling for you to take a seat.

“I’m not asking— You offered!” you protested, feeling a bit defensive that he would suggest that you just asked him for money.

“Don’t take such a whiny tone with me, doll. I’m only teasing you,” he says as he gestures to his lap yet again. “Sit.”

You bite your bottom lip as you look down towards his lap. You were really about to sit on this stranger’s lap for money… If your dad could see you now, he’d probably disown you.

Good thing he isn’t here.

You slowly walked over towards him, and you carefully take a seat on one of his thighs, planting your feet firmly on the ground so you’re slightly hovering. You need to be able to get away from him at a moment’s notice.

A strong hand slowly snaked up your back, towards your hair, and you tensed up quickly. The stranger wrapped his hand around the back of your neck.

“If I have to tell you again, I’m taking back my money. Sit,” he viciously growled in your ear.

You were already this far in. You should see this through. This club is safe. You were sure of it.

As you slowly allowed yourself to prop your full weight across his lap, your eyes scan around the club, looking at the security points. None of the men would even glance in your direction as if they were purposefully ignoring your section.

What did you just get yourself into?

“See? Was that so hard?” he taunted as his hand slowly dropped down to clasp around your hip. “Why is an angel like you in a club like this?”

Everything in you told you not to answer that question. As soon as he knew your weakness, he’d definitely use it to his advantage, but he probably already knew money was a good motivator for you.

“I didn’t know there was a no angel policy,” you say, trying to remain casual as you flash him a small smile.

A deep chuckle erupts from his chest. He appreciates you trying to use humor to deflect. Clever girl.

“I suppose you’re right,” he rolls his head to the side, cracking his neck from both sides. The sound of bones popping causes a shudder to go through your body. This man was good at giving a false sense of security. “But angels don’t last long in a place like this. It would be a pity to see you be ruined.”

His other hand firmly rested against your thigh, right above your knee. He gives your leg a light squeeze. “Tell me your name, doll.”

“Cherry,” You respond without missing a beat, giving your code name instead of your real name.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he asks, allowing his fingertips to glide against the exposed skin of your thigh. Your breath picks up in speed, noticing he’s getting more bold with touching you.

“Am I suppose to?” you ask, genuinely curious if this man was some big shot that you were suppose to know.

You very rarely kept up with politics, only knowing major crime names from your law classes, and you definitely didn’t keep up with conglomerates. This man wouldn’t be the first millionaire to walk through the doors of Malevolent Mass, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Another deep raspy chuckle escapes him. “No, I actually find it quite cute you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

His hand slithered up your back once again, and this time he grabbed a fistful of your head, tugging your head back to look up at him. A gasp slips past your lips as your eyes meet his crimson ones.

“Tell me a secret, cherry,” he hisses your codename like it’s disgraceful on his tongue. “Do you belong here?”

You think to try to get up from his lap, but his other arm has worked to secure you to him tightly. The security men aren’t even glancing in your direction. No one would hear you over the music blasting if you tried to scream, and if this man was as important as his inflated ego suggested, no one would likely even help you.

You’ve done everything thus far to get out from underneath the rich man’s thumb, but it feels like every time you take one step forward, something pushed two steps back.

Do you belong anywhere? No where feels like home after your dad passed. Tears stung into your eyes. Why were you thinking of him at a time like this? He can’t save you now.

The man’s lips twitched into a smirk as he saw the tears building in your eyes. That alone was confirmation enough. You didn’t belong here at all.

His other hand reaches up to your face, and he gently strokes your cheek — a contrast to how tightly he was holding your hair. “Such a pretty crier,” he deep gravely voice coos to you.

You can’t even help it at this point. You try to blink the water away from your eyes, but the tears slip down your cheeks anyway. You just silently cursed yourself for ruining your own makeup.

“You’re a crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked as his fingers brush against your pouty lips, and he grabs your chin carefully. “Open.”

Accepting defeat, your lips part ever so slightly for him, and you can feel the way his heart races in his chest from the sight. He narrowly eyes you as two of his fingers slip past your lips.

You’re momentarily stunned from his thick fingers filling your mouth. You feel a thrum between your thighs, but you try to ignore it. Surely, your body was just betraying you, and his body was betraying him. You were able to feel every inch of his hard on through his slacks. The sight of your tears only served to spur him on further.

When you give his fingers a light suckle, he purrs a praise for you. Leisurely, he thrusts his digits in and out from your mouth. He admires the way you accept them in without a single complaint.

“Such a good girl for me. Try a little harder,” his voice darkly instructs you as he slides his fingers deeper past your tongue, hitting your inexperienced throat.

Your throat involuntarily constricts, causing you to gag and cry more. You hum around his fingers as you whimper. He merely laughs at your pitiful display.

“We’ll have to train your cute little throat to take more, won’t we?” he asked, making a dull ache settle in your lower stomach. You had never done anything like this, and the way he was treating all this so casually filled you with some sort of… excitement.

His words also struck you with fear as you realized this meant he was likely far from being done with his antics.

His fingers continue until you’ve coated them in a thin sheen of saliva. When he pulled from you, you were panting even though he hadn’t taken away your ability to breathe.

He smirked as he gazed at you as if he can tell that your cunt is clenching around nothing right now. It’s like he knows every perverse desire you’ve fantasized about in your alone time.

“You’re a vision, doll. I’m going to have so much fun breaking you,”

Before you could even think to inquire what he meant by that, an unfamiliar male voice spoke up to your side, causing you to flinch slightly. The other man was dressed in basic business attire, but he had a scrappier look to him.

“Sir?”

The stranger tensed, and you could practically see all the playful taunting energy in his face melt away. He stared daggers into the newcomer’s soul. “Speak.”

“Members of the Gojo clan were spotted near Dante’s 7th circle,”

“Dammit, what a pest,” the pink-haired male growled. He clearly didn’t fancy being interrupted.

You perked up a little from the mention of the infamous Gojo clan. You had heard plenty of whispers about the clan fluttering about on campus, and the clan had been brought up momentarily in your organized gangs class before the professor quickly shut down the conversation.

Yakuza clans were talked about in school, but the professors were very careful about what they chose to say, knowing that members were everywhere amongst them.

The stranger carefully moved you from his lap, and he stood up, gathering himself before turning to you. “You behave. I have to go tend to something, but I’ll be back for you,” he said as he reached into his coat, and he casually tossed a whole clip of yen onto the table.

Your eyes widened at the stack of money sitting on the table, and your heart began to race. It felt like the last two hours had been a complete blur, but now, you were face with a thick stack of money — probably enough to cover you for at least three months… and you weren’t even done with your shift yet.

Your excitement was quickly overshadowed by fear. He was coming back for you. How intertwined had you gotten yourself into this mess?

taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby

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push-the-heartbrake · 2 months ago

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𝘼𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

Third instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Look at the poor boy, he’s got the unscratchable itch.” — or the one where you're overwhelmed and Spencer discovers he's an absolute munch.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI♡ Virgin!Spencer is back and hornier than ever. Cums in his pants, again. Oral and fingering (fem! receiving). Slight discussion about reader having mommy issues and her past (read the prior parts and it'll make sense).

A/N: It took me forever but here's the third part to the 'Home For You' Universe! English is not my first language and this is not yet fully proof read! Please tell me what you think and if you have ideas or thoughts about the future of these two lovebirds. ♡

It had been raining when you woke up.

The soft, whispery kind. The kind that worked as a lullaby. The kind that made the whole city feel like it had collectively decided to sleep in.

The only reason you’d even stirred was because Spencer had moved—just enough to pull the blanket up over your bare shoulders sometime around 8 a.m. He hadn’t been fully awake either, just instinctively attuned to your comfort. You’d watched him through slitted eyes as he settled again, his profile soft in the dull morning light.

Neither of you had said a word.

Instead, you’d nestled closer, one leg tangled between his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’d made a little noise—one he always seemed to make when you burrowed in—a little half-asleep sigh out of pure contentment.

And that’s how most of the day had gone.

The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had you. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just a tangle of sheets, long-winded conversations about nothing, and the kind of kisses that made no sound from how gentle they were.

By the time afternoon rolled around, you’d only gotten out of bed three times—once to use the bathroom and get dressed, once for a late breakfast, and once more for another bathroom trip. Spencer had gotten up four times, the extra one to grab the Sunday newspaper from his mailbox.

You were draped across him like a sleepy cat, the sheets twisted around your legs, your chin resting on his chest. His fingers traced mindless patterns on your back, barely there, a touch just shy of tickling.

“Molecules move randomly, right?” you murmured suddenly, voice low from not having spoken in a while.

The glow of a lamp flickered against the spines of his current bedside reads, casting their titles in blurry shadows. One book was yours, obnoxiously pink, wedged between dense academic texts like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. Spencer thought so, anyway. You watched his eyes linger on it for a second before he looked back at you, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. You infiltrated more of his life and home each day that passed. Even if it was as simple as an extra toothbrush on the sink or your Converse placed next to his in the entryway.

“Yes, they do,” he answered softly. “Is there something on your mind?”

You shrugged, shifting so that your cheek lay flat against him now, ear to his heartbeat. “Just something stupid a school class discussed when they visited the library.”

He didn’t press you. Just waited for you to say something. Like he always did.

You absentmindedly rubbed your leg against his, your toes brushing against his calf as you talked. “There was a kid—one of those annoying twelve-year-old dweebs with a Justin Bieber haircut and permanent marinara sauce in the corners of his mouth—you know the type?”

Spencer laughed, nodding in agreement.

“And he tried to scare one of the girls by saying that since they move randomly, oxygen molecules could spontaneously assimilate in a singular spot in a room, suffocating anyone outside of it.”

His brow lifted, bemused. “Were you the girl he tried to scare?”

“No, no,” you defended, grinning,“I just thought you could maybe rationalize it for me.”

Spencer wanted to reach out and grab you. Bite you, even.

Because he’d never seen anything as beautiful as you, lying there on his chest, curiosity burning in your eyes, waiting for him to ramble on about something that you knew got the gears in his brain turning.

He’d thought you were pretty since the first time he saw you at the checkout counter at the library. But it had been fleeting, simply registering another beautiful human in passing.

It was different now. So very different. Because he knew you, and he could read your behavior, your quirks and traits. The way your mind worked. The strange little questions and facts you collected—like air molecules grouping together to suffocate you.

He knew that you had different laughs for different situations. He cherished them all and cataloged them like rare editions.

1. The little snorts that would come out of your nose when he said something silly, usually a pun that bordered on criminally bad.

2. The high-pitched giggles that wriggled out when his fingers skimmed over your sides, late at night when you were half-straddling him in bed and desperately trying not to wake the neighbors, making the giggles even more squeaky-sounding.

3. The loud, from-the-stomach kind of laughter—the kind you couldn’t hold back even if you tried—just because something was so genuinely funny. Like when he accidentally turned all his white shirts a soft pink thanks to a rogue red sock, or when he tried to surprise you with breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the bedroom floor.

You let out one of the first snorts now as he explained, nose scrunching up adorably. Spencer was fairly certain you didn’t even notice you did it.

“It is possible, though,” he said, tone casual, trying not to sound too eager. “In theory at least. In a system of random motion, any arrangement of particles is technically possible, including extremely unlikely ones.”

You squinted up at him, suspicious. “So… I could suffocate?”

“You can calculate the number of oxygen molecules and then find out the statistical probability, but I’m assuming you don’t really want to learn that?” Spencer suggested, his hand moving to his hair, shoving curls off his forehead.

You found his hand as it landed back down on the bed, lifting it to lay next to you on his chest, your fingers intertwining with his own.

You shook your head, and he felt your hair rustle, telling him that his assumption was right. “No… I just want to sleep at night without having nightmares about suffocating.”

He gently squeezed your hand, looking down at you reassuringly. “We’re talking about hundreds of septillions of molecules that would have to randomly gather together.”

Spencer knew you had a tough time sleeping already. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue; instead it was staying asleep. You would fall asleep at a reasonable hour (for someone who mostly worked late or even night shifts), but then after a while, you’d wake up and just lay there. You didn’t need the added stress of silly nightmares, but he sometimes got the feeling they already haunted you.

“So the chance is, like, microscopically small?”

“A septillion is a quadrillion billions.”

You stared at him for a beat, eyes slightly wide as you tried to comprehend the number. You weren’t even sure what a quadrillion was. Occasionally you got the zeros confused even at a billion. The number was huge, at least. And that was comforting.

Spencer watched as you thought about it, wanting to take a picture of your puzzled expression. “You’re more likely to shuffle a deck of cards and get them in a perfect order millions of times in a row than for all oxygen to group in one spot.”

You huffed out a little laugh before you mumbled, “I can’t even shuffle a deck of cards.”

“That I can teach you. Much easier than Avogadro’s number.”

“Avocado who?”

“Amedeo Avogadro,” he corrected, laughing out loud. “Italian physicist. He’s the namesake for the constant used to calculate the number of particles in one mole.”

With a slight head shake and a scrunch of your nose, you declared that math and physics weren’t something for you. “I’d rather learn how to shuffle cards and play strip poker with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his neck before he even had a chance to react, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

Spencer was blushing—because of course he was. You always knew when you got to him. When your dirty words made his IQ split in half. You’d said it was one of your favorite things—the stupid and surprised look on his face whenever it happened. Spencer was on board with agreeing, even if the blush made his cheeks hurt.

Your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, and he let out a small, stunned huff. His hand instinctively rubbed your shoulder, your knitted cardigan slipping down from the motion, exposing the strap of your tank top—and the soft, maddening curve of your cleavage beneath it.

One (equally horrifying and fascinating) thing that Spencer had discovered about himself since being with you was that he was a boob guy. He hated to admit it—that something so primitively sexual appealed to him. But he was just a man at the end of the day.

Since seeing and touching them for the first time, he’d become obsessed.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d sometimes let him sleep on your chest, and he could unabashedly feel them as he nuzzled closer. Maybe it was the fact that your skin was impossibly soft and that your breast were somehow the softest part, squeezable and malleable, cupped in the palms of his hands. Maybe it was the way they bounced when you were sat in his lap, your hips grinding down onto his clothed cock.

Maybe that was it.

He was a boob guy. And not afraid to let his eyes linger as your cardigan fell down and your top got exposed as you pressed into the side of him.

Your tank tops were his undoing. It was simply sadistic—the way that whatever clothing brand had designed most of the tops you wore. Thin and soft to the material, a lace trim along the square neckline, and, worst of all, a little silk bow placed right in the middle. It was an evil trick, Spencer was sure of it, to make him stare down the valley of your tits.

Which he did. A lot.

He wasn’t sure if you’d noticed his little fixation, but you sure didn’t do anything to stop him from looking, almost on purpose making the tank top slide down a little as you lay on top of him, the cups of your bra now peeking out.

The ample skin moved as you pushed yourself against him, your breasts bubbling out of their confinement. Perfectly biteable bubbles. Spencer imagined putting his fingertip to the swell, just to watch the skin jiggle.

Oh Lord. This was the kind of greed they warned about in the Bible.

Despite all of this—despite Spencer staring you down like he wanted to eat you alive—you hadn’t had sex. Not yet. Spencer told himself it was a “yet.” Clung to that word like a little life raft. But he wasn’t sure how true it was.

Because you had a tendency to push him away.

It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, which Spencer had noticed. You made out a lot, kissed him whenever you got the chance, usually for hours on end. Like horny teenagers, he assumed. It was routine at this point—to watch a movie, or read together, maybe have a lazy conversation in bed after a long day—and then by the end of it, you’d end up in his lap, hands in his hair and tongue down his throat.

Spencer had gotten braver with how he dared to touch you, not always keeping his hand stiffly glued to his side. He loved to feel your skin between his fingers, whether it was your plush thighs or your soft waist. Boobs too, of course.

If he was capable of keeping it together, he’d wait for some time alone to sort himself out in the bathroom afterwards. But on more occasions than one (five times and counting), you’d made him bust in his pants. And no matter how many times you said it was the hottest thing ever, Spencer still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed to the point of no return.

And you… He’d only made you finish once. That first time on your couch on Valentine’s Day—when he’d rubbed your soaking clit with his fingers until you collapsed in his embrace. Only touched, not tasted, not penetrated.

Spencer couldn’t help but want more. And it wasn’t because of his lack of experience or lack of willingness that it hadn’t happened again.

You simply just didn’t let him close enough to even try. You didn’t show any signs of wanting him to help you out, and he was too scared to ask.

Can I go down on you? or Do you want me to finger you? were not questions that Spencer had in his vocabulary. Although he thought about saying them more than what was probably healthy. He didn’t know if it was fear from your side, or guilt, or something darker, and he wasn’t going to push.

You would only smile like you’d accomplished what you wanted when he was a panting and blushing mess with a spreading stain on his trousers, and then you’d continue on with your evening like nothing was different.

And you smiled in the same way now when you followed his eyesight straight to your cleavage.

“Any plans for next week?” you asked, almost nonchalantly.

“We’re consulting in California.” Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Cold case that’s been reopened, something from when Rossi started out.”

You hummed and nuzzled just a little closer, your nose brushing the edge of his shirt. If he hadn’t been wearing one, your lips would’ve been right over his heart. The little sound made his stomach flip, which was ridiculous because you did things like this all the time. Making sounds, that is. The very human thing that was noisemaking.

“How long?”

“Flying out tomorrow morning, then we’ll see. Maybe a week?”

A week. Seven days. Possibly more. He really should be used to this by now, but the idea of not seeing you for that long made something inside him wilt.

You exhaled through your nose—soft, but unmistakably disappointed—and your fingers loosened from his hand. They disappeared beneath the blanket instead, toying with the hem of his worn-out t-shirt. It had the Caltech logo on it and was slightly too tight on him. You’d jokingly called it a crop top once, and Spencer thought about tossing it out until you said it was sexy. A personal milestone since it was the first time he’d ever been called that.

“What about you?” he asked, voice low. “Do you have anything planned while I’m gone?”

Now, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his stomach. Just a featherlight touch. He tensed—he always tensed—but not out of discomfort. No, it was the opposite. It was the unbearable pleasure of being seen and wanted by you, and the helplessness of not knowing what to do with that feeling.

“Work. Sleep. Work some more,” you said, stretching your legs with a lazy yawn. “Help Edith set up her new TV. Maybe catch up with friends. Oh—and uh… lunch with my mother on Thursday.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “She’s in town?”

“She technically lives here,” you said, pushing yourself up onto one elbow. “Unless she sold the place and moved full-time to Baltimore with her new man without telling me.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a strange ache creeping in at the edges of his laugh. You hadn’t let him meet her yet. You hadn’t let him meet anyone yet.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

He sometimes worried he had yet to meet the real you even.

You fit in perfectly when he introduced you to the team. Socially adaptable was what Emily had called you, like she could somewhat see through that you were nervous and uncomfortable, but still doing your best to be likable. And they did like you, a lot, it seemed. Soon you’d be off on girls’ nights with them, leaving Spencer behind. He knew it.

You sat up suddenly, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. Spencer looked at you like you’d gone mad. Until you pointed at the alarm clock on his bedside table and he read the time.

“3 o’clock,” you simply said. “I have to get to my place and get ready for work.”

“Why?”

The question left Spencer like an exhale. He could already feel a coldness spread in his body from where your contact was now missing. You’d made him hate the laws of time. Every time he was alone with you, he dreaded the moment you’d be apart. And every time you were apart, he counted the hours until he would next see you.

You laughed, turning to look at him with a raised brow. “You’re asking why I have to work?”

“No, I mean—” he floundered, “Why this late?”

“Because the library is open at night?” you teased. “Where else would geeks like you spend their time?”

“But there have to be other people available for the late shifts as well.”

“I got hired because I like working nights,” you said, standing and stretching, tugging your cardigan back over your shoulders. “The qualified librarians signed up for nine-to-fives. They’ve got spouses and kids waiting for them.”

“You’ve got me,” he said, almost too quickly.

You paused mid-movement, glancing back over your shoulder at him. “Sometimes,” you said quietly. “Other times, you’re on the opposite side of the country.”

He winced. He didn’t mean to guilt you. That wasn’t fair. But you weren’t wrong.

Spencer stayed in his spot as you started to move around his bedroom, padding across the floor to his dresser where your bag and clothes were. He only shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to be able to keep his eyes on you.

The pajama pants you were wearing slipped off in one easy movement, exchanged for a pair of dark-wash jeans. You didn’t seem to care that he was watching, which somehow made it worse. That he could spot the see-through material of your underwear as you tugged the denim over your hips—doing that awkward (yet attractive) little jumping motion to get them on—made him wonder all over again about why you didn’t let him close.

Since this didn’t seem to bother you, that is.

Were you waiting for him to make a move?

He hated that his mind did that. He hated that he still didn’t know and that he was too scared to ask.

“And I have picked up earlier shifts when I know you’re going to be in town. I’ve done it so much that Elizabeth complained,” you continued, arguing your case even though you had already won.

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, as you headed back to the bed to sit down to put on socks. Little white socks with lace trims. No one would see them, but he knew the mere fact of wearing them made you happy—how the lace peeked out from the top of your shoes.

“Is Elizabeth the scary one with the owl necklace?” Spencer questioned, turning to you now that you were next to him.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

You smiled faintly and turned to pick something up from your bag. A tangle of headphones. An essential for you together with your iPod. You couldn’t go on a walk without them, needing the distraction of music blasting.

Spencer watched as you struggled to untangle them, wordlessly reaching out to do it for you. Not because he thought you were incapable of doing it yourself, but because you’d asked him for help multiple times before and seemed to like the gesture of him helping you.

He was more efficient with his fingers, anyway.

“Hey,” you said, glancing down at him, “why don’t you enjoy being alone for the evening? Watch some foreign movie without having to translate it to me.”

“I was going to suggest Bergman’s Autumn Sonata,” he murmured, handing you the untangled headphones.

Spencer watched your mouth press into a thin line, eyes flickering just slightly away from him. He didn’t understand why he mentioned the damn movie—like it would miraculously stop you from having work to do? No, it was just stupid.

He knew you loved Bergman. You talked about his work with the same kind of reverence he had for Russian literature. But you hadn’t seen Autumn Sonata. He hadn’t asked why. Not yet. But he made a mental note of it, filing it away in the ever-growing, completely normal, and definitely not obsessive folder of things about you that fascinated him.

Your fingers tightened around the headphone cord, twirling it between them as you quietly said, “I haven’t seen that one. And it’s got subtitles.”

“I know, that’s why I wanted us to see it together.”

You shook your head a little. “No, you can watch it and tell me what you think.”

“You say that like you don’t already know that you’ll love it.”

“…There’s a reason I haven’t seen that one, Spence.”

His lips parted, a question already forming—but you kissed him before he could speak. It was soft but lingering, and he felt your fingers curl slightly against the back of his neck. His brain short-circuited because kissing was still something he was getting used to. He was very aware of every single movement, every shift of pressure, every tilt of your head. Was he doing it right? Was he too stiff? Should he be—oh, your tongue—

And then you pulled away, smiling at his dazed expression.

“Will you call me before the flight tomorrow?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of any teasing edge.

You simply wanted to hear from him. Like that wasn’t a totally insane thing to say. He couldn’t believe you expected him to behave normally in front of you. Or maybe you didn’t expect it, but it would get old quite quickly if he verbally, as well as mentally, freaked out every time you showed him affection—a certain need for him that you actually had and he still couldn’t grasp.

But still—

“Of course,” he said, embarrassingly quick.

You smiled, lingering just long enough to memorize the way he felt beneath you, before you straightened up again.

“Be safe. Have fun,” Spencer said, sitting up after you, closing the space you’d created.

“Fun? At work?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I have fun at the library all the time,” he teased, so close that you felt his lips against yours.

“Shut up.” You laughed into the kiss he pulled you back into, fingers curling into his hair, warmth spreading through his chest.

Seconds later you were gone. The door clicked softly shut behind you. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment like a pin dropped.

Spencer stared at the space where you’d been, his hands still half-curled, like he was holding onto the shape of you in the air. His shirt smelled like your skin—soft and floral, and a little like the soap he had in his shower. The sheets were still warm where you’d laid, rumpled and twisted, half falling off the bed.

He let himself collapse back against the mattress with a sigh, one arm thrown over his eyes. Your absence was growing inside of him, starting from his chest and spidering out like a nervous system drawn in light. A slow, luminous burn.

And he was terrified—utterly terrified—that this feeling consumed him far more than it ever would you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The case in California was… a weird one, and not the usual type of weird. Because that was a measurable thing for the team. A normal amount of weird, an abnormal amount of weird, and then thirdly—the weird kind they’d never encountered before.

This was the third kind. Not because of blood, death, and gore. It was stranger than that. Stranger because it was stale.

A forgotten cold case dumped on their laps like an aging puzzle missing half the pieces. Files yellowed with time, reports handwritten in blue ink fading under the fluorescent lights. Evidence stuffed in mismatched cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in a converted conference room at the local PD—each one covered in decades worth of dust.

If this was one of those TV series about agents solving crimes and catching killers in the act, this would be the episode where everyone unanimously decided to stop watching because the show wasn’t worth it anymore.

No progress was being made. At all.

It was partly because the old detective was territorial and proud—only really letting in the help from Rossi—and partly because the leads went nowhere anyway.

They were most likely dealing with a copycat. It was one singular murder that had a slight connection to a series of murders committed in the eighties. The connection was: same small town in California that didn’t see many murders and the same M.O. used. Asphyxiation with a barbed wire.

They hadn’t had any reasonable suspects in the eighties, and the pool of people to look into now was even smaller. Or way too big, depending on how you looked at it. People handling barbed wire in a small farming town was a large amount.

When Thursday rolled around, they’d spent four days with this going-nowhere thing. Stuck in the conference room with their boxes, pestering old witnesses and relatives by bringing up bad memories, and at the M.E., looking at the new corpse for too long.

Maybe they would have to give up.

It was far more usual than what Spencer wanted to admit, but they couldn’t spend forever on one case when they had other ones waiting.

Rossi had gone with the detective to look at the crime scene once more. Hotch was outside of the conference room, possibly speaking with Strauss by the strained look on his face. Derek and JJ had gone on a coffee run, and Spencer and Emily were left in the conference room.

He wasn’t sure if Emily was even awake—sat quiet and still in a corner with her file covering her face for over half an hour.

Spencer had gone from standing to sitting to standing again.

He flipped open yet another file, scanning the interview transcript, but his eyes weren’t really absorbing it. Not fully. Not when his phone was sitting face-up on the table beside him, untouched since breakfast. The screen annoyingly black and the sound eerily silent.

You were supposed to have called by now.

Lunch with your mother couldn’t be a simple thing—he knew that much. He’d heard the tone in your voice whenever you mentioned her. A tightness that suggested years of subtle warfare and passive aggressiveness layered under polite smiles. Still, even the most drawn-out emotional lunches didn’t usually last past two o’clock. Unless things had gone wrong, and you were currently trapped in some kind of emotional gladiator battle over a Caesar salad.

Spencer checked his watch. 2:14 p.m.

You were never late without saying something. Not unless something had gone wrong. Which meant something had to have gone wrong.

The door creaked open, and he looked up automatically. Derek stepped in, carrying coffee and a half-eaten bagel. JJ trailed behind him, flipping through a folder.

Derek clocked Spencer’s expression immediately. “Look at the poor boy,” he muttered to JJ. “He’s got the unscratchable itch.”

Spencer froze mid-step. He’d been pacing, subconsciously. He whirled around. “I’m not in love with her.”

Derek smirked, taking a seat in his chair, leaning back. The exact kind of smirk that let Spencer know he had walked into a trap. “I wasn’t talking about love, pretty boy. But it’s very telling that you think I was.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. His face burned. Heat crawled up his neck and pooled somewhere just under his collarbone.

JJ gave him a soft, knowing look. “Then what’s wrong, Spencer?”

He inhaled sharply. “She’s not answering her phone.”

There. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. But now he was committed. He pressed on, pacing again.

“She said she would call me after she had lunch with her mother, and it’s now 2:16 p.m. That’s a reasonable time for lunch to be over, right? I mean, unless they got a twelve-course tasting menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant, in which case I would understand the delay, but they didn’t! Because they go to the same café every time, and it’s not a place that serves twelve-course meals, unless you count uncomfortable conversations as a course, which, in that case, I’d argue that—”

JJ cut in gently, “Maybe they just lost track of time? Had a lot to talk about?”

“But she doesn’t like her mother. Or maybe she does. It’s complicated—”

Emily, who’d been eavesdropping at the far end of the room, didn’t even glance up from her file as she interrupted, “No girl likes their mother.”

Spencer stopped mid-ramble. “That’s not true. I mean, statistically—”

Emily held up a finger, ticking off points as she spoke. “They might love their mothers. Unconditionally, even. But like? Like requires compatibility. And most mothers either carry a sadness that their daughters became something they never did, or they carry disappointment that their daughters became less than they expected.”

Spencer was momentarily thrown. He had a degree in psychology. He had read hundreds of case studies on maternal relationships. And yet, somehow, Emily Prentiss casually dropping this into the conversation like it was an immutable law of the universe had his brain short-circuiting.

The conference room went silent. A metaphorical tumbleweed rolled by.

Spencer stared.

JJ blinked. “Jesus, Emily.”

Emily took a sip of her coffee, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s not rocket science. It’s like if the Electra complex was actually useful and not just about male-centered attention. There’s a rivalry between mothers and daughters over everything.”

Spencer opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“But,” he managed after a moment, “that still doesn’t explain why she won’t answer her phone.”

JJ muttered under her breath, “Who would’ve guessed boy genius’s kryptonite would be love?”

“I already said I’m not—”

“Reid, take a breather,” Hotch’s voice cut in from the doorway, sharp as ever. “The rest of you, back to work. We need someone to go to the crime scene again. ”

Spencer huffed, reluctantly collapsing into his seat. He stared down at his phone, holding it between both hands like it might sprout legs and run off. His knee bounced under the table. He tried to focus—on witness statements, on timeline inconsistencies, anything—but his mind kept looping back to one thing:

You hadn’t called.

Logically, he knew there were perfectly rational explanations for why you hadn’t called. But his gut—which had been trained by years of profiling and reinforced by knowing you—was telling him something wasn’t right.

He hadn’t ever thought of it like that, the simplicity in the words. How like could be stronger than love—because you choose what you like, and you are somewhat predestined to love. At least when it came to family.

Gathering their things, Spencer and Derek got ready to leave the conference room and join Rossi at the crime scene.

He heard Derek mutter something under his breath about how they possibly couldn’t gather any more information from looking at the same bloody barn again. Spencer wasn’t unusually cynical, but with this case, it was growing on him like moss.

At 2:21 p.m. his phone rang. A quick beeping tone, signaling a text message. It wasn’t often he received those. Everyone stopped in their tracks when they heard it.

Spencer’s eyes hesitantly scanned the screen.

He was right; it was a text. A short one too.

That was it? No Sorry, I forgot; no Lunch was a nightmare, please send a SWAT team, just a quick, impersonal abbreviation. Spencer squinted at the letters, blurring together. He still wasn’t entirely confident about texting as a method of communication. He had once typed out ’See you later’in a message, and somehow autocorrect had changed it to ’Seal utters’. He did not trust this medium, nor his ability to decipher abbreviations.

Across the table, Derek raised an eyebrow. His voice was lower now, as if he suspected Hotch to still be in the hallway listening. “So… did she answer?”

“No, but she sent a text,” Spencer muttered, “Got called in to work, ttyl.”

“Talk to you later,” JJ translated. “See? It wasn’t something worth getting upset over.”

Spencer slumped, staring at the message like it personally offended him. You weren’t supposed to work until 9 tonight. You had a night shift. You couldn’t possibly work from 2 p.m. all through the night. You were… lying.

“I still feel like something’s wrong,” he said under his breath as he put his phone in his pocket. Biting his lip, forcing him to not think of why you were lying. He had to focus on other things now. Such as… a bloody barn.

Emily, yet again, didn’t look up from her notes as she spoke, “Well, the faster that big brain of yours helps us solve this case, the faster you’ll find out if you’re right.”

Spencer sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t mean he could stop worrying.

. . . . . .

The bloody barn didn’t tell them anything new. As evening fell over the little town, it had been decided that they were going home. The old murders would remain cold and the new case would be handled by the local police. It could probably lead to something. It just wasn’t enough to grant them being there for longer.

Spencer was torn inside if it was the right or wrong thing to do. But there would always be another case, always be another murder. They couldn’t get them all.

The team boarded the jet in silence. None of them had anything left to say.

On the plane ride home, Spencer did something he maybe shouldn’t have done. Or maybe this was exactly what you had wanted. He borrowed Emily’s laptop and downloaded Autumn Sonata, watching it all in one sweep, not taking his eyes off the screen for even a second. Emily had looked at him with worry—calling it ’Mommy issues, the movie’.

And that was what it was. Autumn Sonata unfolded like a violin string pulled taut over the little laptop screen. A mother and daughter dissecting decades of buried wounds in soft lighting and whispered monologues. It was 93 minutes of waiting for a rubber band to snap—either breaking clean or lashing back hard enough to scar.

“The mother’s injuries are to be handed down to the daughter. The mother’s failures are to be paid for by the daughter. The mother’s unhappiness is to be the daughter’s unhappiness—it’s as if the umbilical cord had never been cut.”

When it ended, Spencer sat very still, the cabin quiet except for the low hum of the engines. He understood why you hadn’t called.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It hadn’t stopped raining for almost a week.

From the Sunday morning Spencer left for California to this very moment—early Friday at six in the morning, with your shoes squelching every other step and the sky still weeping as if the clouds had lost the will to hold anything back.

You had lost that will too.

You usually liked rain. Found it calming. Romantic, even. But right now? Your socks were soaked through your Converse, the sleeves of your coat clung cold and damp against your arms, and your jeans had turned several shades darker than when you'd left the apartment last night. Rain was not romantic. Rain was not poetic. Rain was miserable.

You looked like something dragged from a pond. Not a lot of people were awake to see you in this state, which was a saving grace of working the graveyard shift. That, and the fact that most of your mascara had been rubbed off by staying awake at the checkout desk all night, so you didn’t have to worry about looking like a melting member of the band KISS. Everything else was still miserable, though.

You climbed the stairs, keys jangling, counting each tired breath. All you wanted was to crawl into bed, cocoon yourself in something dry, and sleep until the world stopped being soggy.

It was all you had wanted to do since 2 p.m. yesterday—when you had gotten home from lunch with your mother, lied to Spencer about why you hadn’t called, and then fallen asleep until your night shift.

You had wanted to call in sick. But you weren’t sick. Just tired.

So you suffered through it. Helping a few stressed students, organizing the current popular books, and drinking so much tea your taste buds still felt burned.

But now, you were seconds from falling asleep on your welcome mat, even just seeing it outside your front door. A little bristly thing saying ’come back with a warrant’ in Pinterest-esque cursive writing. You had told yourself it was funny when you bought it.

However, the moment you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you stopped dead in your tracks, your cocoon of blankets having to wait just a little longer.

Because there was a light on.

The vintage Tiffany lamp on your hallway table, seeping light through its stained glass. You definitely hadn’t left it on before leaving yesterday.

With a quick turn of your head, you saw the shape of a man sitting on your couch. Alone there in the darkness.

“Spencer?”

He stood up quickly, startled.

“What are you—”

Your words got stuck in your throat at the sight of him. The man in front of you looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Spencer’s shoulders slumped forward, the crisp lines of his usual attire replaced with something wrinkled and weary—his sweater and tie gone, shirt half-untucked. Disheveled curls clung to his forehead. And his eyes… His eyes flicked from the floor to your face like they couldn’t decide what was safer.

“Edith let me in,” he said hurriedly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I—she had the spare key you gave her, and I just… I needed to see you.”

You placed your soaked bag by the door, the water from your coat already beginning to drop onto the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tonight.”

“I understand if you don’t want me here—” he said quietly, eyes lowered, “Actually, I do not understand, not fully, because you won’t tell me anything.”

You blinked at him, shivering now that you were standing still. “How long have you been here?”

“We landed around midnight. I took a cab straight here.” His voice cracked at the edges. “I thought maybe if I saw you in person, you'd actually talk to me instead of… abbreviating everything.”

A pause.

“T-T-Y-L,” he repeated bitterly, “Is that really how we communicate now?”

You winced. “Spencer…”

He didn’t flinch exactly, but his shoulders rose—defensive, folded in. “You can throw me out headfirst if that’s what you want, but you should know that’s the opposite of what I want.”

For a moment, just a flicker, he laughed—something small and tired and helpless. But it disappeared fast. His face crumpled into something far too raw for someone trying to act composed. A dull, terrified shine behind his eyes. Like he was seconds from breaking again. Like he'd been bracing for you to become the next person to walk out on him.

You should’ve known he would catch you in your lie. He wasn’t easy to fool. It wasn’t that you had wanted to lie to him. You just hadn’t wanted to talk about…it. About anything, really. You couldn’t face yourself, let alone him. And you knew that Spencer could force it out of you by just looking at you in the right way, the walls of your façade coming crumbling down.

That was a terrifying thing.

“I’m just…” you exhaled, bringing the sleeve of your coat up to your cheek to wipe lingering raindrops away. “I’m so tired, Spencer.”

A similar little helpless laugh escaped your lips. Spencer dared to step closer to you.

“I can see that,” he said with a slight smile, just inches away.

But when his hand came forward to touch your arm, you tensed up, unthinking. It wasn’t that you had wanted to shy away. It just…happened.

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hand suspended in the space between you, looking at you with a perplexed expression. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He asked it like someone who was hurting—like someone who’d been waiting far too long to understand why they were being kept at arm’s length.

“Because I—” you faltered. The words had come so easily to the front of your mind, but saying them out loud was a different thing.

“Because I’m terrified, Spencer,” you finally whispered. “I’m terrified of being too much for you and making you uncomfortable. Because if we start, I’m scared of taking it too far. I always do.”

Spencer’s brows pulled together.

You’d had this discussion before. You thought you were too much; he didn’t realize that he was enough. An evil spiral of sorts. Maybe he’d thought you’d gotten out of it, hence the confusion. But you hadn’t. Or it had at least returned, in full force, like a hurricane sweeping by and taking everything with it.

“When are you going to realize that I will tell you if I am uncomfortable?”

The look in Spencer’s eyes was now the closest thing you’d seen to anger. It frustrated him. The walls you put up around yourself, thinking you were protecting him, hindering him from being close to you—they frustrated him. Because now he knew the reason.

And quite frankly, the reason was stupid. You both knew it.

You couldn’t hide from affection in a relationship. Because you were terrified of it leading somewhere further? That defied the entire purpose of your relationship. It was a support system, a center of gravity. It couldn’t develop if you were scared of that exact thing.

Spencer exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “You always just… assume that I’m uncomfortable. For once, let me make up my own mind. ”

“You sort of… look uncomfortable.” You twisted, arms coming up to fold over your chest.

“I think that’s just my face,” he deadpanned.

You huffed a quiet laugh—half relief, half disbelief.

“But you never make the first move,” you said softly. “You’re never the one to kiss me first. Never the one to—”

He moved.

Quick, certain, finally—he closed the last of the space between you, and before you could get another word out, you felt your back hit the door. Not hard, just enough to steal your breath. And then his mouth was on yours.

His hands braced beside your head, then slipped down, anchoring you at your waist. It wasn’t rushed or messy. Just certain. Very certain that this was what you both wanted. Needed.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer and not caring if you got him wet. You could taste the coffee he must’ve had hours ago. The slight salt of your own skin where the rain had dried between your lips. His breath shook when he finally pulled away just enough to speak.

“Is that better?” Spencer whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what you want,” he explained.

You should’ve caught on to what he was doing. For him to suddenly become all confident in matters of… love (?) was something you simply dreamt of. Maybe you needed to help him along the way, even though your stupid brain kept telling you that it would make him view you as a burden. As someone too much, too eager, too loud with feelings he hadn’t asked for.

Yet here he was… actually asking for it.

“What I want…” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm, ticking impossibly fast. That gave you courage. “…is for you to want me.”

“I do want you,” he said. “Painfully so.”

“I need to hear you say it,” you whispered. Then, a small smile. “Or show it. Pushing me against the wall is… a good start.”

“I believe we’ve established precedent,” he said, returning the smile.

You laughed, light but wrecked, and for a second everything felt okay again. And then you shivered. A cold, involuntary tremble you couldn’t hide. The wetness of your coat and jeans clinging to your skin returned to the forefront of your mind.

Spencer noticed it too. You couldn’t help the way your teeth chattered. He smoothed a hand gently down your arm, concern flitting through his features. “Why don’t you go get out of these wet clothes and lie on the bed for me?”

In seconds you saw the fear in his eyes, noticing what he’d actually said out loud. Intended innuendo or not. Spencer stumbled over his next words, hurried and ashamed. “If that’s okay, I mean—”

You continued to smile. An awfully content smile, like you were just waiting for him to notice that he’d done exactly what you wished for.

With a loud thud, you had shaken your coat off your shoulders, sneaking past him further down the hallway, saying a little sing-song, “Already on my way, Spence.”

You didn’t look back as you walked toward your bedroom. But you could hear him exhale—something long and full of relief.

Your bedroom was a sanctuary, always had been. Peeling off your soaked socks with your toes, you moved through the dim space, switching on the bedside lamp and the soft glow of fairy lights tracing the ceiling’s edge.

You sat down on your bed as you got there, struggling with the button of your jeans. It got even worse as you dragged the denim down your legs, the wet material sticking to your skin as your hands tried their best to get a good grip.

It wasn’t the rain slicking your hands anymore. It was a nervous sweat.

“You got here too quick,” you said as you heard his footsteps near the door. “I’m not done yet.”

Spencer lingered in the doorway, simply observing you on the bed, jeans pooling around your ankles.

“Jeans are difficult to get off when they’re wet.” You huffed out a little laughter as you pulled them off completely, tossing them to your hamper, landing on the floor. You should’ve hung them to dry immediately. But Spencer was more important.

Pantless, you realized your state of undress, reminding yourself that it was what he’d asked for. He wouldn’t be standing in the doorway if he didn’t want to see it.

You tried to decipher his expression. Soft smile, even softer eyes.

“Is that my shirt?” he quietly asked, walking into the room. His feet stopped when he was standing plainly in front of you.

You looked down at what you were wearing. Peeking out from your sweater were the edges of a pink dress shirt. One that he’d accidentally dyed pink in the wash. Spencer had wanted to throw them all out until you said that you liked the color pink. In general, but especially on him.

You could only nod at his question. There was no denying it. Looking back up, you caught a glimpse of an uncontrollable smile, where he had to fight the corners of his mouth from perking upwards too much, too noticeable.

“You wore my shirt all day? To work? To lunch with your mom?” Spencer asked.

You shrugged, lifting your rain-soaked sweater over your head, messing up your wet hair even further in the process. Spencer took it in his hands, throwing it over to where the jeans had landed.

“It smells like you,” you said, lifting the pink poplin to your nose. “Or it used to. I’m afraid it smells like me now.”

It was a comfort thing, you realized as you did it. Why you had worn it. Wanting a part of him near you, even subconsciously.

Spencer’s gaze moved slowly across your body, not greedy. Your thighs flattened out against the mattress, the skin in contrast to the rose-colored shirt. You felt his eyes on you as he took you in. He was good at watching, bad at talking—you concluded.

“Stand up?” he asked softly.

A little surprised, you obeyed, rising slowly from the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath you. Spencer stepped a little closer and let his hands rest gently on your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of the shirt—his shirt. His warm palms wandered down to your hips, brushing the hem of the fabric and the tops of your thighs in an easy movement.

He didn’t rush. Not even a little.

Not even as his fingers started to unbutton the shirt. He could’ve ripped it open in seconds, but he began gently with the lowest button.

You could feel his breath on your skin as he leaned in, eyes still focused on the buttons up the center of your stomach. His fingers moved with quiet precision, undoing one, then another, then another—his knuckles grazing your skin, warm and steady.

When he reached the last few buttons, right over your breasts, he looked up at you. Waiting for something. Your nod. Something saying yes, yes, yes.

With the last button undone, you let the shirt fall to the floor.

Stood there on bare feet in nothing but your underwear—your worn-out, simple white bra and a pair of cotton panties where the elastic had started to fray—you couldn’t help but feel the nerves settling in again. Steady and heavy, like a weight on your chest.

The air was still cold on your damp skin, but his hands were warm when they skimmed your sides. Spencer snuck his arms behind you, fingers ghosting over the clasp of your bra, waiting again, always waiting for the yes without asking it aloud.

And then, with two quick movements…

“Do I ask how you did that so well?” you asked, blinking as the straps slipped off your shoulders.

“I’m efficient with my fingers,” he said absentmindedly, still focused, eyes gentle but studious.

You blinked once, bit your lip. He didn’t even realize the double meaning—of course he didn’t. In his mind, “efficient with his fingers” meant things like… moving chess pieces or untangling cords.

But the way Spencer’s knuckles dragged along your arms as he slid your bra down made you sure that he wasn’t completely innocent or unaware of his actions. He caught the garment in his hands before tossing it on the floor too, his hands quickly back holding your hips.

You reached up and touched the side of his face. “Come closer.”

Spencer looked at you briefly. You knew the spots where his eyes wanted to linger. Then, he pulled his own shirt over his head, putting it aside. You weren’t entirely used to him shirtless yet, his pale, lean yet strong build hypnotizing to you. His arms wrapped around you, skin to skin, almost pulling your feet off the floor as he embraced you. His chest was warm against yours, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“You still smell like you, at least,” you whispered.

Spencer smiled against your hair. “That’s good.”

He was gentle as he led you towards the bed, the back of your knees bucking as you hit the mattress. In a brief moment of disconnect, you shuffled to lie on the bed, sighing as your head hit your mountain of pillows.

With one leg propped onto the bed, Spencer waited a moment before he joined you. He loved seeing your skin. As simple as it was. He could get lost as his eyes trailed the texture of it. Scars, bumps, bruises, and birthmarks. Almost completely naked too. He wasn’t just a boob guy—he was a you guy. That was easier to get on board with than the simple stereotype that boobs were just great.

Spencer got in beside you, a slight touch of his fingers all the way from your ankle up to your shoulder as he settled on top of the covers. On his side, his body cradling yours.

His palm rested flatly on your stomach, moving with your heavy breathing up and down. You didn’t say anything but turned your head to meet his, lazily adjusting forward to kiss him. Kissing him was all you needed to feel safe. To feel that it was true.

With a soft, open-mouthed trail, Spencer left kisses all over your face, down your neck, and chest. His hands started to roam as well, carefully gripping at your skin.

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he whispered as his mouth landed in the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you with golden warm eyes.

“Angel? That’s new,” you whispered back. Once his fingers dared to wander so low that he could run them over the fabric of your panties, feeling your arousal that had soaked through, you audibly hitched your breath. “I— I like it.”

Spencer moved his body to hover over you, lowering down between your legs as you purposefully spread them apart. He was a scrawny mess of limbs most of the time, but somehow felt natural crouching together at the edge of your bed to face your most desperate parts.

“Tell me what you want,” Spencer said, his hands touching over the soft swell of your stomach, down to your hips, but hesitant when they came back up, nudging the underside of your breasts. His nerves were finally showing. “And I’ll do my best.”

You intertwined your fingers with him, making sure to have eye contact as you teased, “All bark, no bite, huh?”

Spencer was flustered. You’d seen through his confident act since it began, but you enjoyed watching him try. He opened his mouth to say something, shutting it just as fast as he overthought. It was like you could see his decision-making happening, the signals connecting in his brain.

“Do you want me to explore instead? Trial and error?” he finally asked, tilting his head slightly with a boyish grin. He took small breaths that you could feel against your stomach, waiting for an answer. “Because I have a few ideas I’d like to try.”

You couldn’t wait to pick his brain, wondering exactly where he had gotten his ideas from. He was an anomaly as is. It wouldn’t be from an adult film or magazine. Knowing Spencer, it was something scientifically proven or from literature written centuries ago.

“You—you can try,” you breathed out, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth from your own cheeks. He could fluster you too. “Y’know that you don’t have to, like—you can stop immediately if you don’t like it—”

He cut you off. “Let me try before you decide for me.”

Assertive. That was new.

With the same warm eyes from before, he sought you out as his fingers found the hem of your underwear. You nodded eagerly, lower lip lodged between your teeth.

You wanted to help him—rip the fabric off in seconds. But he took his time. Agonizingly slow as he bunched the sides up between his hands and started to pull them down your legs, shifting your hips slightly upwards to ease the process.

You kicked them onto the floor with the help of your foot as soon as you were able. There was something desperate growing inside of you as Spencer found his place between your legs again.

He was big with his movements first, heating your skin up—your stomach and thighs—using the warmth from his palms. Softly cupping your boobs, he pushed them together as his thumbs toyed with the nipples. Then he was gentle, with smaller movements. As Spencer’s fingers slid all the way to your pussy, slowly spreading your lips apart with pressure on each side.

His thumb was first to touch your clit. Barely any pressure, just to watch your reaction to it. He pulled away, to see your wetness cling to his skin, before he gently swiped over it again.

Spencer looked at you in a way you weren’t sure you’d experienced before—with a certain awe or fascination. Really took in the view of you naked, like he had all the time in the world. It felt intimate in a weird way. But not necessarily uncomfortable. You cursed yourself for being used to guys who fucked you with the lights turned off or under blankets, not someone who would drink in the sight of you aroused.

On Valentine’s Day, when the first piece of your sexual puzzle together had been laid, you almost hadn’t had the time to feel nervous. You’d been too focused on Spencer and on his pleasure. When he had wanted to get you off with his fingers after your little dry humping session, you’d let him do it in a (desperate) heartbeat. That you hadn’t shaved or that no one had seen you naked in close to three years wasn’t at the forefront of your mind then.

It was painfully obvious to you now, though. An outgrown little thatch of hair, your leaking entrance clenching around nothing, and your skin… flawed.

Resting his cheek on your thigh, Spencer tilted his head to look up at you, his finger inches away from tapping your clit again.

“I don’t tell you enough how pretty you are.”

He said it simply. Easy. No qualms.

Your brain shut off for a moment when you saw him lick his lips as he touched your pussy again, your eyes squeezing shut at the tingling pleasure.

You truly did look pretty through Spencer’s eyes. Angelic even, the accidental pet name he had used suited you perfectly. With your damp hair clinging to you, your skin still slightly cold to the touch, your nipples pebbled like peaks.

“Can I—”

Spencer couldn’t finish the question, the words stuck in his throat. Slightly mesmerized by the view in front of him, he teased the pad of his index finger around your clit, down towards the entrance, gathering your wetness along his digit.

“You can finger me—yes, Spencer.”

With a low groan, you hummed in agreement as he began to push the finger inside of you.

It slipped in easily, even though it was noticeably bigger than what you were used to. Your own fingers would do nothing after this. He was tentative at first, like he took in the feeling of your cunt, warm and tight, around his finger.

“Is this—Am I doing it right?”

He sounded slightly worried but just as he asked it, he curled his finger upward, touching a spot deep inside of you.

“Oh, uhmf—” you gasped. “Right-fucking-there. You’re good at this.”

“I’m a virgin, not a monk.”

“Could’ve fooled me—”

With the building wetness, Spencer slipped his ring finger inside of you too, catching you off guard. He never took his eyes off of you, though, in case you would change your mind. But you didn’t. You couldn’t when it felt this good. A surprised curse left your already open mouth together with a ringing laughter, “Oh f-fuck you.”

Just the thought of you made his painfully hard cock leak in his boxers. Your taste, however, would send Spencer over the moon. You reached down to push the curls off his forehead as he finally delved in, leaving a series of kisses and nibbles on your inner thighs before you felt his tongue between your folds, his hands helping your legs up to spread apart even further.

“You’re sweet,” he mumbled. Just as quickly as he had said it, his mouth was back on you.

Tentative, again. But observing. Tuned into your body. Your reactions, your sounds. To every little touch he made. He tried out different methods, switching from gentle kissing and sucking of your clit to using all of his tongue to lap you up.

Your thighs closed around his head when he did it, your cunt tightening around his fingers as he continued to work them in and out of you, sucking even harder and longer on your clit. Spencer could easily piece together that it was your favorite part—the long, repetitive suckling. Together with his fingers touching that special spot deep inside of you. That was what brought the most mind-blowing little moans from your mouth, staggered and breathy. His observing nature made him a natural… and a mess, face glistening from your slick.

Spencer’s hair felt silky in your grip, tugging slightly as you settled into the pleasure he was giving you. You couldn’t help it as you started to rock your hips against his mouth, his nose pressing at your most sensitive part. Spencer choked out a groan as he realized what you were doing, the vibrations from it going straight into you.

Disguised behind your own cries, you heard him time and time again. Spencer’s sounds vibrated against your skin, sending jolts of added stimulation. He was moaning into you, clearly lost in the moment, just as much as you were. When you looked down, his hips were rutting hard into the mattress, desperate to rub his aching cock against anything, desperate for relief as he ate you like he was losing control.

“I’m close, Spence,” you gasped, shuddering, the grip his hands had on your hips only getting tighter. “That’s—right there, please, I’m gonna cum.”

He wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulling you closer than you thought was possible, continuing to whisper sweet nothings into your cunt, telling you to let it all go.

With one last curl inside of you and a couple of lazy kisses to your clit, stars began to form behind your eyelids as Spencer held you down by your hips. Your hands flew from his hair to your face, covering your cheeks as you came.

Spencer had noticed, even in non-sexual situations, that you were innocently shy about your own pleasure. Shy of taking, shy of enjoying. You probably always had been. But as he slid his fingers slowly out of you as you climaxed all up in his face, you were everything but shy. Your stomach tensing, your breathing stopping—and the sound, god what a sound. Deep from your throat, louder than he’d ever heard you.

With a curious gaze, he watched your pussy clench around nothing, twitching as you rode the very last second of your orgasm out. Slowly licking, he cleaned the slick from between your folds, around your cunt, before returning his focus to your face.

“Y’know, the female orgasm can last for up to 60 seconds, sometimes even longer.”

With your hands still glued to your cheeks, feeling nothing but burning heat, you malfunctioned a little as he spoke. “Why are you—oh my god, Spence. ”

He came up to lie beside you as you were still nothing but a panting mess. Of course that would be the first thing he’d say to you.

“Explains the aftershocks.”

You guessed it did. You’d be reeling from this feeling for days.

Spencer’s non-sticky hand gently took one of yours, removing it so you couldn’t hide your face. Intertwined, they rested on your stomach, still heaving irrationally from your breathing. You looked down at yourself, and at Spencer. Lovingly, almost. There were crescent-shaped indents on your thighs from his fingernails, your soft skin having spilled out between his fingers as he had pressed close to you.

He breathed heavily beside you too, still catching his breath. You had almost expected it to happen, but you still smiled like a fool when you realized it. The dark stain on his soft gray trousers. His bulge not so prominent, but still a sign of what had happened.

“Don’t mention it,” Spencer said, like through closed lips.

Catching his sight, you shook your head with a little laughter, “I’ll take it as compliment.”

And it was. Truly. To not always be the giver, but the receiver. And to have someone enjoy you receiving pleasure so much that it ends up bringing them their own pleasure. Again, you were ruined by men (boys, really) who were so focused on their own cocks reaching the final destination that you were only really there as a vessel for their own orgasms. You didn’t know the last time someone offered to go down on you, and for it not to be the result of you asking, making you feel like a burden for wanting it.

Turning to your side, you laid your head on Spencer’s chest, letting out a breath that felt like it’d been lodged in your ribs for hours. Your legs tangled with his instinctively, and you sank into the heat of him, body finally relaxing in the aftermath. It took about five seconds for the awareness to hit: you, naked, skin to his still clothed legs, with nothing but the slight stick of sweat and something more lingering between you.

One of Spencer’s arms curled around you automatically. The other hovered awkwardly in the air, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it—just a few inches above the sheets.

“Sticky fingers?” you asked, amused.

“Y’know, it’s not as sticky as I first thought it would be. It’s more… wet—”

As Spencer explained, you grabbed his hand without thinking, looking up into his eyes for any sort of intel but being met with a mostly blank stare as you guided the two fingers he’d used into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them slowly. Lazily, curious if it would short-circuit his brain as easily as you suspected.

You were not disappointed.

“Jesus C-Christ—” Spencer’s whole body tensed beneath you, mouth parting in a sharp gasp.

A slight giggle was your only response. Lifting your head, your cheek had left a faint pink imprint across his chest. Truth be told, the entirety of Spencer was flushed. Face, neck, stomach. He was a study in pale skin turned soft rose.

“It’s like I can hear you overthinking,” you murmured, your voice rough around the edges, the way it always was when you were soft and…coming down.“And you really don’t have to.”

He hesitated, then shyly whispered, “Was I… Was that any good?”

The corners of your mouth lifted, lazy and genuine. “It was really good, Spence. Did you enjoy it?”

You felt him tense beneath your fingertips. He didn’t answer right away, too busy internally dissecting the phrasing—really good? As opposed to just good? Or better than expected? But before his thoughts could spiral, you kept talking. Doing what you always did: catching him before he fell too far into his own head, usually with something crude.

“You’re better than most men by principle,” you said, casual and completely sincere. “You know where the clit is.”

Spencer groaned, dragging his arm over his face. “You really have no filter, do you?”

You laughed—low, warm, the kind that curled around his mind and stayed there. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice came muffled through the crook of his elbow. “No. I love you for it.”

You stilled—just for a second. You didn’t say anything, but he felt the shift. The way your breath caught. The way your eyes lifted to look at him again, just to make sure you’d heard him right.

“You love me… for it?”

It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about what this was, what it meant. Part of you had worried once that maybe Spencer only loved you because he could. Because you were the first person to touch him like this, see him like this. That he was falling in love with the intimacy itself—not with you.

But that fear didn’t live here. Not in the quiet way he touched you. Not in the way he listened. Not in the way he waited—for you, for your pace, for your yes.

You knew, somewhere deeper than your mind, that this wasn’t a performance. Not a conquest. Not the story of the virgin who loved the first person who said “stay.” The stupid virgin who fell in love with the person they had given up everything to. (It wasn’t everything. Far from it, actually).

As you had grown to know him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ever think that. He’d never wanted this to be one-sided. He was doing it all for you. The two of you. The us. Because if it wasn’t mutual, it wouldn’t be worth it to him at all.

“Mhm,” Spencer answered seconds later, muffled but still easily understood. Then, after a breath, “Should we take a shower?”

Smoothly swerving the subject.

Your head tilted slightly. “Like…together?”

He nodded like it was obvious. “Yes, is that so weird?”

You grinned. “I’ve never seen you naked.”

Spencer blinked. “I—yes, that’s true. Technically. That feels… unbalanced.”

“Let’s even the playing field then.”

You pulled the sheet with you as you sat up, tossing him a wink over your shoulder. Spencer groaned under his breath—somewhere between overwhelmed and entirely thrilled, watching as your naked body slipped out of the room.

And in the quiet trail of your footsteps heading toward the bathroom, he found himself smiling so hard it almost hurt.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The water had already begun to fog the mirror by the time you stepped in, first wiping off the last of your makeup and letting Spencer quietly undress.

He stood beneath the showerhead, letting the stream beat down on his back and shoulders. His hair, flattened against his forehead, dripped steadily along his jaw. He’d slicked it back once, instinctively, and now little rivulets trailed down the line of his spine. The tips had already begun to curl again, wet and weightless, plastered to the nape of his neck.

Spencer wasn’t cold—he didn’t think he could be, not with the heat of the water and the anticipation of you coming in behind him.

Not nervous. Not exactly.

Just… aware. Aware of what this meant. Of how rare it felt to be so bare in front of someone and not feel the instinct to cover up.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the glass door open. Not right away. He just felt it—the slight change in the air, the extra warmth, the soft whisper of your breath as you stepped in behind him, saying a little hi.

Then your forehead pressed gently against his back.

That broke him a little.

Because it wasn’t a sexy thing, or even a performative one. It was grounding. A small gesture of trust. Your skin was slick against his, arms resting loosely at your sides, the crown of your head nestled between his shoulder blades like you belonged there.

Maybe you did.

He turned around slowly, and you looked at him like you’d been looking all along.

Maybe you had.

Your body was graceful in the low light, water gleaming as it slipped across your collarbones and traced down the dip of your stomach. Steam clung to your lashes, droplets staying on your cheeks. Spencer couldn’t decide what part of you to look at first. Your eyes always won.

He reached for the soap absently, trying not to fumble it. Jasmine.

The scent brought something up in him—unexpected and nostalgic. A low green bush outside his childhood home in Nevada. White, almost yellowing little flowers. His mother’s garden, where she’d hum Debussy and dig her hands into the dirt, fingers stained and nails wrecked but proud all the same. He remembered helping her water the jasmine in the summer, his small hands never quite strong enough to carry the big watering cans.

Now, years later, that same scent lingered in your hair. On your skin. Tied to you. Beneath his hands as he lathered the soap over your shoulders and along your upper back. He worked slowly, deliberately. Partly because he didn’t know what to do, partly because he wanted to feel all of you against his hands.

“That feels good,” you said, voice quiet with his hands running over your shoulder blades.

“Efficient fingers,” he said without a hint of irony.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest, water cascading down between you. “You still don’t realize how that sounds.”

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “How what sounds?”

You didn’t explain. You just kissed the spot over his heart.

The water pelted the top of your head gently as silence filled the gaps between words. It wasn’t awkward. Not at all. Domestic, even. He thought maybe this was what safety felt like. This quiet comfort.

Spencer washed your back with care like you were something delicate and revered, and when he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle, you leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Eventually, though, the quiet gave way.

His voice was soft against your temple. “Do you want to talk about why you shut me out yesterday?”

A pause. Seconds long.

“No,” you admitted. “Not really.”

“That’s okay.” He tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “I just… I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. For not answering me. Or for being short.”

You met his gaze. “How you made me feel isn’t the issue.”

“Okay,” he said, carefully. “Then what is?”

Your eyes flicked toward the fogged glass of the shower door. You watched a droplet race another down the pane. “The younger version of myself still stuck inside. Constantly screaming that I don’t deserve this.”

Spencer’s face softened, his breath catching in his chest. “Deserve what?”

“Being with you,” you shrugged. You tried to make it feel simple. “Being loved by you. Being in love with you.”

He wasn’t worried that you hadn’t said it back in the bedroom, because he deep down knew—past his own insecurities—that you loved him back. But he hadn’t thought about your insecurities in the same way, how they formed like thick brick walls in front of you and hindered your capability of showing affection.

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Did your mother bring out these thoughts? That you’re not deserving of love?”

You didn’t answer, not with words. But your silence thudded between you.

“She’s a…” you started, then bit the words off in frustration.

“You’re allowed to say it.”

“A bitch, Spencer,” you whispered, uncharacteristic of you to care about cursing. “She’s like comically bad.”

He didn’t laugh, even though he knew you meant to ease the weight. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. The water streamed around you, washing the ache away in some way.

“You are deserving of love,” he murmured. “It would be terrible if you weren’t. Because I love loving you. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do with all of this love if you didn’t let me in to show it to you.”

Your fingertips curled at his chest, right where his heart lived. Then, you reached up to kiss him. Softly, sweetly. Your inhale was shaky as you pulled away, but your voice was clear.

“I love being in love with you too.”

After a few more minutes under the spray, you turned the water off, steam wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket. The silence that followed was almost startling—thick and filled with your shared breathing, the kind of quiet that felt sacred.

Spencer moved first, reaching for one of the larger towels hanging on the hook. You didn’t even bother drying off fully before wrapping it around your chest like a makeshift dress.

He grabbed another towel and rubbed it through his hair—quick, automatic motions. But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You wiped at the foggy mirror with the flat of your hand, revealing just enough to see the two of you reflected back— naked, wet, soft around the edges with fluffy towels in the low light of your bathroom.

Spencer stood there for a moment, drying himself with his towel, just looking at you. Damp hair, glowing cheeks, a surprisingly big smile.

“I know we’re having a sweet and sappy moment right now,” you began, trying to keep your tone even, “but I have to say—”

He squinted, seeing mischief in your eyes. “Oh no.”

“You were lying when you said it was five inches soft, Spencer.”

“Oh my—” He made an absolutely strangled sound—halfway between a laugh and a groan—burying his face in the towel while simultaneously trying to shield what was more than five inches, apparently. Maybe he’d been humble. “Don’t ever change.”

You grinned into the mirror, entirely smug and still somehow the softest thing in the world.

In a moment of courage, and maybe as a slight comeback, he reached for your hand, laced his fingers with yours, and tugged you gently toward the bedroom.

The bedroom was dim, the morning sun barely sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, casting golden lines across the unmade bed. The covers were still tangled where you'd left them, half-slipped onto the floor.

You paused near the edge of the bed, still towel-wrapped, while Spencer rummaged through his travel bag. He emerged with a button-down and a pair of boxers in hand, the shirt rumpled from being folded too long. It was another pink one. You could tell without smelling it that it hadn’t been washed since he wore it last. California, probably.

“Here,” he said, holding it up. “Arms out.”

You blinked. “You’re dressing me now?”

He gave a small shrug, lips twitching. “If you want me to.”

You rolled your eyes, but they softened as you raised your arms. The towel dropped silently to the floor, pooling at your feet like a sigh. Spencer didn’t react—didn’t flinch or look away.

Spencer stepped in close, his own towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The shirt slid down over your arms slowly, the fabric catching slightly on damp skin. The hem fell mid-thigh. He only buttoned two buttons, in the middle of your stomach, leaving the rest undone and revealing most of what was underneath anyway.

But it smelled like him, and that was the sole purpose. You pressed your nose to the collar without even thinking.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, towel abandoned, bare thighs brushing the soft sheets. Spencer stood in front of you, pulling his boxers on beneath his towel before he too abandoned his in the pile of laundry gathered on the floor.

He didn’t say anything as he moved to your closet, opening a drawer you always kept a little messily organized. Underwear. You wondered if he panicked over the selection—if you would’ve judged him for grabbing a hot pink lace thong or the floral granny panties.

He settled on a safe pair in black cotton, just cheeky enough. Spencer handed them to you, and you giggled as you slipped them on. It seemed you still had to dress some parts of yourself.

Spencer then knelt slightly, just enough to be level with you, and placed one warm hand on your bare knee. “Now,” he said softly, “do we eat breakfast, or do we go back to bed?”

You looked toward the window, then back at him with a raised brow. “Spence, it’s 8 a.m.”

He just shrugged. “There are no rules. If you’re hungry, we eat. If you’re tired, we sleep.”

You considered it for half a breath, then leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Both,” you said into his shoulder. “I wanna do both.”

“Then we’ll do both, angel.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡ Title and lyrics are from Ankles by Lucy Dacus.

౨ৎ [ masterlist ]

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #dr reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fic

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rafeandonlyrafe · 1 year ago

Text

pink princess

words: 2.4k

warnings: 18+ only!!, smut, p in v sex, female receiving oral, girly!reader, violence, blood, rafe beats someone up, kelce is the bad guy in this D:

“i just don't get it rafe.” kelce shakes his head.

“what?” rafe mumbles, barely paying attention to his friend. even topper seems barely interested, both too focused on the football game playing on the television.

“how you could date a girl like y/n.”

your name has rafe snapping to attention, turning to glare at kelce. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” rafe has only been your boyfriend for a couple months now, but he wouldn't question beating the shit out of his friend if he insulted you.

“don't get me wrong, the girl is nice and all. i like her she's just so… girly.” kelce says like it's an insult. “she only ever wears pink, she's all sweet and innocent. she's just not your type, that's all. im surprised.”

you let out a little sound, all of the boys attention snapping to you, kelces eyes widening when he realizes you have entered the living room.

“baby.” rafe coos softly. “come here.”

you cross over to rafe, rounding the couch to plop on his lap, keeping your head down to avoid looking at kelce.

“don't listen to him, princess.” rafe says softly, his voice so sweet, in contrast to the scared look on kelces face. “you're exactly my type.”

“shit rafe, i-i-didn’t mean-i didn't know she was-”

“get the fuck out.” rafe says, voice still soft as he pets his hand over your back, hating the pout that graces your sparkly gloss painted lips.

“rafe-” kelce tries to argue.

“no. get the fuck out. you're lucky im not beating your ass into the ground for upsetting my girl. now get the fuck out.”

kelce scrambles, rushing out of tanneyhill as the game continues on the tv, topper rightly deciding to remain silent.

“baby, talk to me.” rafe says softly, seeing tears still brimming in your eyes.

“im fine.” your voice is hoarse when the words finally escape your mouth.

“darling.” rafe sighs, tugging your bodies closer together, letting your head bury in his shoulder, not caring if you leave makeup stains on his shirt.

rafe knows the best thing to do is just let you breath, not wanting to work you up more with his words as his hand strokes over your back, hoping it's bringing you some sort of comfort.

“i had no idea he felt that way.” you finally pick your head up. you weren't close to very many girls, so when you and rafe started dating, you tried to quickly assimilate into his friend group and consider his few friends yours as well.

“he's just being a dick. don't worry, alright bunny? you're absolutely my type, and i love how girly you are, mkay?” rafe waits for you to nod and agree with him before he pulls you into a kiss, topper keeping his eyes trained on the tv while you make out.

“you ready to go princess?” rafe calls up the stairs, tapping his foot against the wood floor, waiting for you to finish getting ready to attend the gala he promised his dad he would be at.

“coming now!” you say before rushing down the stairs, but still being careful not to trip in your heels.

“you look gorgeous, honey.” rafe admires your outfit. its a new dress, or at least one that he hasn’t seen before. rafe takes your hand in his as you finish your descent, frowning when he realizes the glittery polish that was on your fingers has been scrubbed off, replaced with a creamy white that matches your dress, the only pink thing on your body being your lipstick.

“is that what you are wearing?” rafe questions.

“why, is something wrong with it?” you frown as you look down at your body.

“no-no.” rafe shakes his head. “not at all baby its just… very formal.” he figures the wording is better than blatantly asking why you’re not covered in pink and sparkles.

“well, it’s a formal event.” you roll your eyes, heading towards the door, not wanting to give ward a bad impression, and you know you’re already running late.

“yeah, right.” rafe nods, but his mind whirls in secret, wondering if there could be more to your change in appearance than that.

“you're going golfing with top today right?” you ask, rubbing your fingers through rafes hair, massaging his head.

rafe knows you said something, but he's too relaxed to actually make out your words, struggling to blink his eyes open before humming, “what?”

you giggle at his blissed out expression, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “you're going golfing with topper later today right?”

“mhm.” rafe nods, letting out a soft moan when your long acrylics gently scratch over his scalp.

“maybe you can take me. ya know, i could learn how to golf. probably start with just putting.” you shrug.

“baby-” rafe has to take your hands and move them away, knowing he won't be able to focus on the conversation. “why do you want to learn how to golf? you hate sports.”

“that's not true!” you complain. “i like um… gymnastics and figure skating.”

rafe rolls his eyes “you like them for the sparkly outfits and music.”

you pout, moving yourself from straddling rafes lap to next to him on the couch. “aren't i allowed to be interested in the things you're interested in?”

“yes, of course.” rafe sighs, moving to kneel between your knees on the floor, taking your face in his hands, not letting you look away. “and if you really want to come, id love to have you. but if you are asking because you're trying to be less girly, then baby-” rafe leans in to press a kiss to your pouty lips- “i don't want you to change. i love you for who you are.”

“promise you don't mind?” your fingers play with the collar on his shirt, distracting yourself.

“promise.” rafe nods.

“okay, thank god.” you let out a giggle. “golf is so boring.”

you have your laptop and phone opened up, intensely scrolling as you switch between them, brow furrowed as you do your research.

“y/n-”

you slam shut the laptop and turn the screen off on your phone as rafe walks into the room.

“what are you doing?” rafe questions.

“nothing.” you smile at rafe. “just some online shopping.” you hope it's believable, but you can tell by rafes hesitation that he doesn't fully trust your explanation.

“okay…” rafe slowly approaches the bed, and you quickly move your laptop and phone to the bedside table as rafe crawls up next to you.

you distract him from asking more questions as you press your lips against his, pushing him to lay back on the bed as you grind down.

“ah, fuck.” rafe moans when you pull away, pulling your shirt off over your head to reveal that you aren't wearing anything underneath.

rafes hands cup your tits, massaging them in his large palms before suddenly flipping so you're the one laying down against the bed, completely forgetting about your suspicious behavior when he entered the room.

what rafe doesn't know, as he lowers down your body and flicks your nipple with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, is that you weren't online shopping, rather scowering through social media, trying to find all of rafes ex girlfriends or anyone he interacted with, all while you compared the girls to yourself.

you wish kelces words didn't still echo in your head, especially after rafes insistence they weren't true.

“gonna take a shower.” you tell rafe, setting your bags down in the foyer, knowing you'll get around to them later.

“you sure not a bath? i can run one for you.” rafe offers, following you up the stairs.

“nah, that's fine.” you shrug, frowning slightly when you see your display of lush bath bombs. you're trying to be less high maintenance, more easy going.

“come on, what if i wanna soak with you in the bath?” rafe pouts. “please baby.”

you can't help but giggle at his doe eyes blinking at you. “okay, sure.”

“good.” rafe hums before placing a hand on your waist, pulling you in for a quick kiss before he heads towards the bath, turning the hot tap on. you watch as he looks at your bath bombs before selecting a light blue bath bomb with star embeds.

rafe sets the bath bomb down on the edge of the large tub before turning to you. “what should we do while we wait for the bath to fill?” you question, tugging your ponytail out to let your hair fall.

“mmm, i know exactly what i want to do.” rafe says.

in only a few moments he has your shorts down, perched on the edge of the bathtub while his head is buried in between your legs, tongue licking greedy stripes over your cunt.

“missed you.” you whine, burying your face into rafes chest as he rocks gently, holding you tight to him.

“missed you too, princess.” rafe is relieved to finally have you back in his arms. hes been away for an entire week, and you came to the airport to get him despite rafe insisting that he was fine to get himself home. you just couldn't wait any longer.

you whine when rafe pulls away slightly, making him laugh and tug you back into him.

“clingy baby.” rafe coos, but the words make your cheeks hot as you pull away.

“hey, hey.” rafe grabs your hand, tugging you back against his chest. “i didn't mean it like that.”

“okay.” you whisper with a nod, tears brimming in your eyes. with rafe being gone, you spiraled even further, going as far as to befriend a couple of his exes to compare yourself even more to them. you also attended a party that kelce was at, and while he didn't speak at all to you, you could occasionally feel his eyes on you, disapproval in his gaze.

“love you so much bunny.” rafe says, rubbing his large hands over your shoulders. “let's get home so i can show you how much i missed you, yeah?”

you perk up as you nod, making sure your hand is clasp together with rafes as you head out of the airport and towards the parking lot, your keys hanging from your finger that isn't intertwined with rafes.

“here, baby.” rafe opens the passenger side door for you, but you frown and don't move towards it.

“you just got off a flight, rafe. i can drive.”

“nope.” rafe snatches the keys out of your grasp. “you're my girl, and as long as im here you have no need to drive yourself. now get in, my passenger princess.”

“ready for the party?” you ask rafe, adjusting your skirt as rafe walks down the stairs.

“of course.” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips before looking down at your outfit.

“baby… is this really what you want to wear?” rafe asks. he likes any clothes you put on, but the black skirt paired with a plain white cropped tee, not even accented by any jewelry just isn't you.

“i just…” you swallow. “i just know kelce is gonna be there. wanna show him that i don't need to be wearing sparkly pink every second.”

rafe can't speak, the anger quickly rising when he realizes that months later you still haven't let go of kelces words, still worrying that you arent the right person for rafe.

“go put on a sparkly dress.” rafe simply says, not able to keep his voice soft, despite addressing you. you hustle upstairs, changing into the outfit you really wanted to wear, adding some jewelry and colourpop super shock shadow to your lid.

you bounce down the stairs, feeling much more yourself now.

“theres my pretty girl.” rafe says, his words sweet but his face still angry as he places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you out towards his truck.

he speeds to the party as you sit there silently, playing with your rings, worried about what is going to happen when you get to the party, especially knowing kelce is gonna be there.

“rafey, don’t do anythi-” you tell him as he helps you down after parking, but you can’t even finish your sentence.

rafe eyes kelce standing on the front lawn, a red solo cup in his hand. he hasn’t spotted rafe yet, but you know as soon as he does the smile is going to drop from his face.

rafe begins to stalk towards him while you trail behind, grimacing when rafe throws a punch, landing right on kelces cheek.

“fuck you!” rafe shouts, shoving him back before kelce can even realize what is happening.

“yo, man, stop!” some guy you recognize but don’t know his name yells, but doesn’t try to get in the middle as rafe punches kelce again.

you can’t help the smile on your face, watching your man defend you throughout anything, even if it involves turning one of his close friends into a bloody pulp.

“y/n… it’s gone on long enough, stop him.” topper comes up behind you, making you jump.

you turn to look at him before back at kelce, eyes glazed over as rafe shouts at him again. you rush to rafes side, grabbing at his fist. “okay, okay.” you tell him softly. “he gets it.”

rafe steps away as kelce falls to the ground, his chest heaving as his lip and nose drip blood. “let this be a lesson.” rafe turns to the crowd that has grown. “no one shit talk me or my girlfriend or this is what happens to you.” rafe points at kelce, not giving another word before stalking away, literally grabbing you and picking you up to carry you back towards his truck. you stay quiet as rafe sets you in the passenger seat.

“are your knuckles hurt?” you ask, petting your hand gently over his wrist as rafe shifts the car into gear, rushing away from the party.

“i’ll be fine, baby.” rafe says, glancing at his reddened fingers. “just need to get you home.”

“oh.” you nod, knowing that while rafe got some of his anger out on kelce, he’s certainly going to get the rest of his pent up energy out on you.

it takes minutes from the time you get home for rafe to have your back flat on the bed, his large cock thrusting into you.

you moan out, hands gripping at his shoulders, your nails leaving scratches against his tanned skin.

“you’re. my. fucking. girl.” rafe says, accentuating each word by pounding his cock inside of you.

you let out a moan, kelces mean words thoroughly beat out of your head as you nod. “im yours.”

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iwashie · 5 months ago

Text

8 seconds to glory

cowgirl!sevika/ saddle bronc rider sevika; drinking; strangers; +18 (sorry guys don't know much about rodeo and stuff. I just know the saying "save a horse, ride a cowboy") (thinking about a pt.2 for this one...)

It was your first rodeo and everything fascinated you, from the various food and drink stalls, from target shooting, mechanical bullfighting, to the loud music, the fireworks shining in the sky, the heat of the night and the mud sinking your boots.

You knew nothing about this world, but accepted the invitation of your friend, Caitlyn, a veteran in this environment. She quickly bought two glasses of beer, pushing one towards you and rushed you to the main attraction. The stadium wasn't that big, it was a small-town rodeo after all, but all the seats were occupied, a crowd of color and noise stirring through you as you followed Caitlyn's hand pulling you down the stairs until you reached the railing; the privileges of being the daughter of a rodeo sponsor.

You leaned against the railing, keeping a safe distance when you saw the horse jumping very close to the railing, unlike Caitlyn, who climbed into a division of the railing and screamed loudly; one hand holding the cup and the free hand holding the hat so it doesn't fly away. Her voice competed with that of two other women on the railing, a muscular one with pink hair and a skinny one with braided blue hair; Apparently the guy on the horse in the arena was their father. Caitlyn remembered explaining what saddle riding consisted of evaluating the ability of the rider to stay on the wild horse for 8 seconds, one hand in the air avoiding touching the horse, the other well attached to the buck rein attached to the halter, the feet caught in the stirrup and touching the spurs on the horse's shoulders in the first jumps. The evaluation was of the performance of the rider and the horse, the wilder, jumps and kicks there are, the better.

You sipped the beer, trying to assimilate what was happening there, watching everyone celebrate when a whistle sounded and the man jumped off the horse, running to the railing and hugging his daughters, everyone celebrating when they heard the score being announced. The man named Vander jumped over the fence and left with his daughters, freeing up space closer to the place where the competitors rode the horse. Caitlyn pulled you closer to what you heard be the squeeze chute, watching a tall, muscular brunette woman nod her head as she heard a slender man with scarred faces as the horse in the arena was picked up and a new one was placed for her. You paid attention to her movements; the way she adjusted herself in the saddle, checking the equipment on the horse's body, her left hand sliding on the rein to stick to the palm of her hand - according to Caitlyn -, passing the rein through the halter and attaching it to her left wrist.

Her eyes locked on you for a second. You couldn't look away from the bright gray, and a little smile formed on her face, the black dental guard shining at you as soon as her gaze scanned you, her right hand tucking her hat aside on her head and nodded at you. The skinny man tapped her black vest and pulled her hat tightly, rolling his eyes as he saw her nodding and holding the gate.

"Good luck, Vika!" Caitlyn screamed over the man's shoulder, drawing her attention, her grey eyes averting from you for a few seconds before she answered. "Hmph. Wish her luck because I'm riding her." Even with the noise and the dental protection, her voice echoed directly in your ear, giving you goosebumps all over.

The woman petted the horse, looked back at you both, and winked at you. Caitlyn hissed, a hand squeezing her shoulder, and the woman waved for them to open the gate. Eight seconds seemed to pass in slow motion for you who did not look away from the figure of that woman riding, receiving the jumps and kicks of the horse, receiving the agitation of the audience with a concentrated countenance, but a smile on her face.

You didn't understand why people would risk their lives for eight seconds, but the eight seconds of that woman changed your thinking and you were enchanted, not by the sport, but by her shining and dancing on top of the horse as if she belonged there. You smiled widely, drinking the beer and cheering with Caitlyn as the whistle blew and she stayed a few more seconds on the horse before jumping up and running to the railing, being greeted by the man and others.

She turned to the audience, raising her left hand and the people went wild. You clapped your hands, a rogue grin cracking on your lips as she jumped to your side of the railing, getting a hug from the man and congratulations from Caitlyn, her gray eyes glued to you and passed you, putting her hat aside again and walked away. You looked at Caitlyn and she was shocked, her blue eyes wide and her mouth open.

The competition continued until the last round, leaving only that muscular man from the beginning, Vander, and the brunette woman, Sevika. Caitlyn told you a little about her, saying that you had hit the jackpot of the night, but you didn't understand. After a few glasses of beer you were already at ease on the railing, screaming and celebrating along with Caitlyn, competing with the other two women who screamed for their father, looking at you two when his score was high. The last round was Sevika and she decided who was the winner and took the prize; She or Vander. She jumped over the chute rail, riding a different horse, wilder than the first one that almost threw her up when she sat down and straightened up. "What's the prize?" You asked, turning your gaze to Caitlyn, who was helping to hold Savika's horse and gained the attention of both of them. "20 thousand dollars in check and the silver buckle." Cait answered, and you nodded, looking at Sevika tidying up the bridle in her hand.

"And a nice bunny at the end of the night for the lucky winner." She spoke, looking directly at you and beckoned for them to open the gate. And once again she seemed to dance on top of the horse, the jumps and kicks more aggressive than before, throwing her body in all directions. You heard the grunt of the women from before next to you when the whistle sounded and her score was the highest of the night, making her the winner. You climbed onto the railing with Cait and shouted Sevika's name, who was trying to tame the horse at all costs, the men in the arena surrounding the animal to help her. An echo reverberated in the arena as she tamed the animal and brought it to the railing close to you. She took off her hat and put it on your head; the place fell silent and erupted in noise, Caitlyn screaming and shaking you enthusiastically.

You tried to hide your smile as you watched Sevika lift her buckle in one hand and the check in the other, encouraging the enthusiasm of the audience as the announcer recited her victories and the sky glowed with fireworks. Her hat decorating your head since you didn't have one. After the awards, the people in the stands spread out around the place and you followed Caitlyn to enjoy the rest of the night eating, drinking more and having fun.

You were shaking your last beer can of the night, smiling as you saw the people falling from the mechanical bull. "Hmph. Bunny's bounced around with my hat, huh?" You heard that voice behind you, shivering all over you and you straightened your posture, feeling her very close. "Enjoying the night, I see."

She leaned back against the railing next to you, resting her beer and her right arm on the wood and turned to you, her eyes shining as brightly as the flame of the cigarette stuck to her lips. You took the opportunity to take a closer look at her, from her silky black hair half tied half loose, the long-sleeved shirt under the protective vest adorned with the sponsors' brand, the jeans and brown leather chaps fastened under the silver buckle at her waist and the worn brown boots dirty with mud. You looked up at her beautiful face, her thick eyebrows, her eyes deep gray, one cheek marked, her full lips painted a dark color, her long, slender fingers holding her cigarette halfway.

You bit your lower lip, still staring at her as you tossed your hair back from your shoulder and rested your head on your hand, a finger lifting her hat out of your line of sight. Her gaze followed your movement and you felt your body catch fire. "That's right. My first rodeo and I had to make the most of it." You replied, drinking her face from the beer, returning her gaze, feeling your body respond to her charms.

"Won't you?" She broke the tension by pointing at the mechanical bull with her head and before you answered, Caitlyn's voice attracted the attention of both of you. The bluish one had fun on the mechanical bull with Vander's pink-haired daughter while the braided one accelerated the toy. "Nah. A bit tipsy for that." You dismissed it, shaking the can and looking at it again. She was closer and you noticed how tall she was and smelled of tobacco, mud and countryside. Sevika snorted, releasing the smoke on the opposite side of hers and leaned over her right arm, staying at her level. "Don't tell me you don't know how to ride."

You laughed out loud, moving closer to her, seeing your own reflection in her eyes as she approached your face. "I know how to ride." You shrugged. The amount of beer you drank and the reactions that woman caused you, the euphoria of being in a place full of excitement made you looser. Sevika whistled, extinguishing the cigarette on the wood and drinking the rest of the beer in one gulp, slamming the glass on the wood and straightened up, her figure standing out from his. “It's your first rodeo, you probably don't know, but there's a rule that if you wear the cowboy hat, you have to ride it afterwards." She sank her hat into your head, smiling at your startled reaction, finally understanding Caitlyn's enthusiasm. You pulled yourself together and smirked, gluing your bodies together and looked up. "Actually, I can show you how I ride..."

"Fuck... Ah, Sevika..." You threw your head back, hitting the roof of her car, your hands grabbing the driver's and passenger's seat for support as you rolled on Savika's fingers beneath you.

You opened your eyes, seeing her smile, the dark lipstick blurred by your eager kisses, her eyes shining with desire as she sank her fingers inside you, having you riding them and moaning slyly. Your liquid dripped down her hand, your gummy walls tightening as you felt her long, nimble fingers in and out, the three digits widening you in a torturous way that had you jumping and rubbing against her hand for more contact. "Sucking me so hard... Are my fingers good inside you, bunny?" Her voice echoed through the interior of the closed car and muffled with your panting breaths. "Feeling me so deep..."

You rolled your eyes in pleasure as she dug her three fingers deep into your soaking wet pussy and her thumb caressed your clit in slow strokes. "Vikaaa... Ngh! Soo good..."

"Is it? So ride me as if you were on top of a horse there in the competition." She slapped your ass with her free hand, laughing hoarsely when she heard your moan and licked her lips as she felt you squeeze your fingers, sucking them willingly as you jumped into her hand.

"Ngh! Vika..." You grabbed her hair as she buried her face in your tits, grabbing one and sucking hungrily, licking and nibbling as you went up and down, rolling and rubbing against her fingers. Even though her RAM was huge, you hit your head on the roof, bringing your hands to the four corners of the car, trying to stay on top of her without hurting yourself.

She laughed at the sight of your suffering and lay down more in the back seat, spreading her thick legs to accommodate you in the middle, laying you on her, your head very close to her ear to hear your loud and panting moans as her fingers worked on your pussy, the wet and loud noise of them leaving and entering you, and you twerking in it.

You clung to her, closing your eyes and clenching her fingers as she bent them, making you squirt into her hand and car. She whistled when you finished cumming, taking her fingers out and bringing them to her mouth, licking them clean and moaning with your taste. "Sweet like Tennessee Whiskey, doll."

You laughed softly, rebounding and leaned on her shoulders to pull away, sliding a hand down her face and intertwining your fingers in the back of her neck as you approached, kissing her slowly and sensually, taking your own taste. Her hands tightened around your waist, rising to your breasts and throat, giving you a slight squeeze, and you pulled away smiling.

"That was a real ride." She said as soon as you got off her, seeing your liquid in her pants, seats and the floor of the car, smiling widely. "Bunny is a real pro rider."

"You haven't seen anything yet, vika." You said, lying down in the clean part of the back seat, watching your legs shake. The suggestive tone of your speech made Sevika stare at you, an eyebrow raised and a rogue smile on her lips. "What? I said I'd show you how to ride. This was just a demonstration. Give me more space and you'll see a real ride."

You wiggled your eyebrows suggestively, smiling as you saw her shake her head and throw you your pants and panties that were thrown together with your boots as soon as you got into her car. You put them on, not bothering to zip them up as they would come off your body as soon as you arrived at the place Sevika was taking you as you two passed through the entrance to the rodeo venue. You saw Caitlyn in the arms of the pink-haired woman as you two passed the exit, and apparently, you weren't the only one who enjoyed the rodeo and was going to ride.

@iwashie 2025, please do not translate, modify or republish my works

#iwashie work #iwashie writes #arcane x reader #sevika x y/n #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika #sevika smut #sevika headcanon #wlw

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woncheolisms · 1 year ago

Text

screenshot. (kita shinsuke x reader)

summary: your friend confesses on your behalf. for my valentine’s day event - theme: confessions.

word count: 1161

tags: @keiva1000 @kindnessspreads @msbyomimi @sleepyxxhead d @priv-rose @nishayuro @kitas-tapioca @kakashineedstotouchgrass @amisuh @avis-writeshq @samanthaa-leanne @akaashi-todorki @sp1ng @kur0obaby @bleach-your-panties @pinkiipeachiikeen @whippedbel

event masterlist

Many of Kita’s friends and volleyball teammates think he is a stickler for routine. And they are right. But Kita isn’t rigid. He isn’t unchangeable. He accepts a break in routine, takes it in stride, learns from the turning tides and comes back with a smile on his face. Why else would he be the captain of the volleyball team if he didn’t know how to assimilate with rapidly developing circumstances?

Today, he is confronted with another such change. He is staring it right in the face. For a few moments, Kita cannot fathom the sight. How can it be? A red envelope in his locker? Surely, it must not be meant for him.

His next thought is how it got there in the first place. No one besides the volleyball team is allowed in the club room. He is the one who always opens it and he is also the one who locks up every night. Did someone sneak in during practice time?

Nothing else in his locker seems out of place. Just the letter placed delicately on top of the rest of his belongings. Kita finally reaches out for it, tugging on the flap to detach it and pulling out the crisp white paper inside. Kita is halted in his tracks when he realizes that there is no writing on the paper. It’s a print-out. Of a screenshot.

He eyes the text message chain, recognising the small icons on both the sender and receiver’s text bubbles. It’s Suna, his underclassman, and he also recognises you, the manager and his long time best friend.

‘I can’t stand it anymore suna!’

‘then just tell him’

‘u know i cant’

‘thats a u problem’

The next message is long, bordering on a whole paragraph, and Kita’s eyes skim over it. For the first time in a long while, his heart skips.

‘ive known him forever rin. hes such an amazing person and my best friend but he doesn like me that way. if i tell him im just gonna lose him as a friend and id rather we be friends than nothing at all’

The punctuation is atrocious, and the grammar is slightly questionable, but Kita smiles regardless. He carefully folds the paper again, placing it inside the envelope. He closes his locker and continues his evening routine of cleaning up and locking the club room.

Over the next hour as Kita cleans, his thoughts mull over the letter he had just received. The menial nature of the tasks relaxes him, gives him time to mull over this new information. Kita realizes that maybe he isn’t as perceptive as previously thought by his friends.

How can he have not seen that look in your eyes before? Softer than anything and directed only at him, now that he thinks about it. He ponders over your words, the insecurity and negativity behind them. He has never known you to be a negative person. You are endlessly optimistic and full of energy. You are so bright that Kita loves basking in it. He has known you for a very long time, and he is almost affronted that your budding romantic feelings were hidden from him for so long. Especially when Kita has made his courting intentions for you fairly clear.

He has not directly said anything. But he doesn’t think he was ever being discreet. But maybe he has been wrong in his approach. Maybe you hooking your arm with his when you walked to school in the morning, sharing lunches every day, permanently stealing a few of his choice hoodies were all friendly gestures on your part. While Kita has interpreted the gestures as romantic, it seems you have not felt the same heat behind those actions.

Kita has always walked the same route home, sometimes with Aran, sometimes with you, and sometimes on his own. Today he takes the walk alone, but he is not bothered. He has purpose in his mind, the red envelope in his hand, and his feet carry him all the way through the winding streets until he stops at your doorstep.

He smiles at the surprise in your eyes when you receive him at the door. He nearly coos at the fuzzy slippers on your feet, huge and with bunny ears on them, making your feet look twice their usual size. You are so cute. Kita scolds himself lightly, regretting that he had wasted so much time as your friend when maybe he could have spent it with you as his romantic partner. His girlfriend.

It has a nice ring to it, Kita decides.

“Shinsuke?” Your voice breaks his train of thought. The ‘what are you doing here’ is clear in your voice. Your eyes are wide and your face is questioning. There is a tinge of worry on your face, and Kita realizes that showing up unannounced may not have been the best idea. He isn’t sure what is going on in your head, but he quickly tries to quash your worries.

“Everything is fine.” Clear, direct, to the point. It’s Kita being Kita. “I’m here about something I found in my locker while closing up.”

He holds up the red envelope, and when you stare at it in confusion, he proceeds to open it and pull out the white paper. You take it when he offers it to you, unfolding it and reading the letter. If you can call it that.

Kita watches the color drain from your face, notices how the panic overtakes your features as you recognise the conversation printed in front of you. He feels his shoulders slump a little, lamenting the fact that you are truly scared about him finding out. What do you think he will do? Has Kita truly not made his intentions for you clear enough? He cannot help but self loathe in that moment, seeing the state you were in now.

“Shin-”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“If you will allow it, I would like to take you out for dinner this weekend. Will you be free on Saturday?”

You blink once, twice. Your mouth opens and closes. Kita is acutely reminded of a fish. He tries to tamp down his smile.

“R-really?”

He merely nods.

Slowly, life reinjects into your face. You seem to age in reverse before his very eyes. Your grip on the letter crinkles the paper slightly, and Kita reaches out to gently pry it from your hands and smooth it out. He stays quiet as you process his words. He thinks of hugging you, maybe even kissing you. But stops himself. Those are moments he will reserve for after your first date, after he has properly given you the best date of your dreams. So he keeps his eyes on the letter.

“Remind me to thank Suna for this letter.” He comments. “I must say, it’s the strangest confession letter I have ever received.”

There is a pause.

“You’ve received other confession letters?!”

#kita shinsuke #kita shinsuke x reader #kita shinsuke x you #kita shinsuke x y/n #kita shinsuke fluff #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff

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foldingfittedsheets · 10 months ago

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The Daisy story has made me realize I have a piece of advice for my younger followers. When we are in school, those of us who are different, we are often bullied. People are mean to us because of who we are. We patch over those wounds as we go out into the world with our scars.

But when you enter college, the workforce, the military, a food service job, whatever, people are going to be mean to you for an entirely different reason. Not because of who you are but because of what you are. And what you will be is new. New to the team, new to the job.

When you are new to an assimilated group of people working towards a common goal you represent a liability. You are by default not pulling your weight and everyone knows it. You don’t know the rules and the rhythms.

So humans as a collective developed hazing. Across time and cultures people decided to be dicks to newcomers. It’s usually petty suffering inflicted because the core group wants to see what you’re made of. How you’ll handle mishaps and adversity. They need to know if you’re someone they can count on and the fastest way to do that is through aggression.

The biggest mistake you can make in that situation is to automatically assume they’re being mean because of who you are. They might be! People are shitty sometimes! But it’s worth reflection because it’s much more likely that it’s just generalized spite trying to reveal your character. I’m not saying bullying doesn’t happen in work places or that you should put up with people being a dick to you but this is just a phenomena I’ve seen over and over. I’ve been on the receiving end of this in a ton of jobs.

We didn’t dislike Daisy as a person when we pulled our prank. We disliked that we couldn’t count on her. We got yelled at for pizzas that she fucked up, we got yelled at when she was going too slow. We as a team bore the brunt of her ineptitude and so we as a team tried to vent it back to her. Daisy then showed us what she was made of.

What she was made of was just sunshine and buttercups and amazing good temper. We understood then that she needed tasks that weren’t as fast paced but rather customer facing because her positive attitude made up for her lack of hustle.

In my workplace experience food service will almost always haze, retail only sometimes, sales very seldom.

#ramblies

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hyperesthesias · 2 months ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Character

summary: Simon "Ghost" Riley makes the mistake of intervening on the behalf of a woman stuck in an abusive relationship. The only reason it's a mistake -- he has six months of leave, and he's falling for her. When he ships out, he promises that if she's ever in danger again, to call him and he'll come running. Ten years later, he receives that call -- only to find it's her daughter who's asking for his help.

author's note: this idea came to me while i was falling asleep, and it bothered me all night until i could write it today. i apologize for the chicken scratch. it's really just three ideas in a trench coat. i love this idea so much i might turn it into a book at some point. if that happens, i will probably delete this. but for now -- enjoy!

content: unformatted & not proof-read; references to past sexual assault; references to torture; abusive relationship (not perpetuated by Ghost); graphic sex; kidnapping; canon-typical violence; PTSD.

words: 10,692.

if you'd like music while you read, these songs are what i wrote this to: whiskey sunrise by chris stapleton // just pretend by bad omens // vore by sleep token.

He is on leave. He is attempting to assimilate into the usual crowd of a parking lot, but no matter how aware he is of his gait, or how many times he looks over his shoulder, he can't shake the feeling that he is inherently out of place. He's been home three weeks, back on English land, where the sea and river air feel damp on his skin, and he realizes home is an idea, not a place. He'll never feel the way he did all those years ago, when he was once a person he no longer recognizes.

He is content to stock up on the regular supplies: alcohol and caffeine -- caught in the perpetual sedative-stimulant cycle. He can make do with whatever else he has at his flat; it's sparse and barely furnished, but he's certainly had worse. He doesn't want to think of worse right now. He wants to think about getting a couple of six packs, and sitting in that in the living room chair that's too soft, and that's too difficult to get out of, he wants to think about putting his feet up, and pretending to watch football. He wants to pretend to be normal, if only for a few hours, until night falls and sleep waits in the corner for him.

But he's too observant for his own good -- it's always saved his ass, but sometimes, like today, it's a curse.

He sees a man in the far end of the parking lot, with the distinctive glint of a blade in his hand. He's growling behind grit teeth something Simon can't hear clearly. The man has gotten out of his car, and is slashing the tires of another man, who's trying to stay as far away from the sharp end of the knife as possible; there's a woman seated in the passenger's side of the aggressor's car, she's still as stone, terrified to move.

Simon swears under his breath, knowing he's not obligated to do a damn thing while on leave -- and knowing he's more than obligated, despite. His appearance is still obscured, he's wearing a black surgical mask, with a black aviators, and a cap; he looks like someone pretending to be tougher than they are. But no one needs to know otherwise.

He intervenes in the situation, trying to deescalate as quickly and as quietly as possible. Using a light pole and the position of the two cars as cover from the security cameras in the parking lot, he places himself between the aggressor and the victim -- who is now taking photos of the tires for insurance. Simon has one eye on the girl inside the man's car, and the other on the shaking hands of the coward in front of him. After his attempts to talk him off the ledge fail, Simon easily disarms the man and sprains his wrist as he twists the hilt of the knife out of his palm. He lands a punch into the man's gut, and tells him to stay down as he doubles over onto the pavement. When he doesn't obey, Simon kicks him in the head to make sure he doesn't wake up for a while. He briefly glances at the man whose tires were slashed, but he only turns a blind eye, still preoccupying himself with his insurance photos.

Simon makes his way to the passenger side, still avoiding the cameras, where the woman remains paralyzed from the violence that has occurred in front of her. He leans one arm on the roof of the car as he peers into the window, and ushers her out.

"You could do a lot better than him, you know," he says.

She looks her behind her to the man on the ground, then to the one who is standing above her. She doesn't say anything, but follows the instruction to exit the car.

"My advice --" Simon says, without prompting, "take this as a win. Leave him behind. A man like that will only bring you down."

It takes her a moment to register what he's said, but ultimately she agrees. She half expects him to be gone by the time she looks back at him -- like a vanishing stranger clad in all black -- but to her surprise, he's still there. He's standing beside her, looking at his smartphone. "Th--Thank you," she says.

He gives her half a look as he continues to fiddle with his phone. "Don't mention it."

She takes it as a command, rather than a pleasantry.

"I can call you a ride," he tells her, and hands her his phone -- a burner. "Put your address in, and I'll make sure the bastard doesn't start coming to."

She shakes her head. "I live just down the block. I'll just...walk home."

"He know where you live?"

"Yes," she answers, a cling of shame to her voice -- for a reason she can't quite discern.

Simon deviates from his plan, and instead puts in an anonymous tip to the police about a man causing a disturbance at the grocery’s address. The victim with the slashed tires isn't going anywhere any time soon, and would still be there to give a statement. "He won't be bothering you for a few days, at least. Long enough for you to get somewhere he doesn't know about." He walks her home.

She introduces herself as Cecelia, and all he replies is: "Simon".

He never got that beer. The next day, he goes to a different store, hoping he doesn't run into another moment of conscience.

The next week, he makes the misguided attempt to check on her. He debates for a while on whether or not it would come across as predatory that he remembered where she lived. He never vacillates in the field, but every time he remembers he's not in the field, he questions whether his decisions are appropriate for 'normal' life. He's made peace with never being 'normal', but for a moment, he'd like to not feel so unfit for human society.

Cecelia answers the door, and a part of him is disappointed -- disappointed that she wasn't far away from her ex-boyfriend, and disappointed that now he has to actually speak to someone.

"Simon," she welcomes him, to his surprise.

At her bidding, he steps inside her flat; he checks the corners around the door and the foyer, a habit of which he's painfully aware. "You always invite masked strangers in?"

She chuckles at the oddity, and closes and locks the front door. "You would be the first. But I don't consider us strangers -- not after your help last week. I am grateful."

"You able to find somewhere safe?" he asks.

"They're keeping him for now. He can't afford bail."

He nods and looks around at her apartment, that prickly feeling of being out of place starting to get worse, and more intense at the forefront of his skin. She has houseplants, a warm, well-used couch, paintings hanging from the wall. There's an electric tea kettle on a breakfast bar, with a lipstick stained mug sitting next to it. Her home looks like something out of a dream he had on occasion as a child -- after watching too many sitcoms on television. Everything always looked happy, everyone always laughed and got along. It was just as well it was on television, nothing like that could be real. Until it is, and until he's standing in the middle of it -- ill-fitted.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says, hoping for a quick and quiet exit. "Just wanted to make sure he hadn't come back to give you trouble."

"Please -- can't I offer you tea?"

She had the good kind in a glass jar on that breakfast bar, and his well-engrained comforts gave him a moment of pause. It was just enough of a pause to let her move from him to the kettle, where she was already making him a cup. She tells him it's the least she can do for him. He waits until she takes a drink of hers first. It is damn good tea.

She tells him her ex's hearing will be in a couple of weeks. Simon tells her he'll check on her then.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps in regular contact with Cecelia. Every time he comes over, she makes him a cup of tea, updates him about the case against her ex, and then they sit in silence. It's become a routine. After two months, he starts coming to her house even without cause from her ex's case. He starts to feel like those feral cats she feeds on her patio. But the silence is nice. Sitting in the warmth of her living room, instead of his own -- cold and rigid -- it was a pleasant change. There's a subtle, subconscious thought that he's afraid to let come to the surface -- that in a way, she has saved him as much as he helped her that day.

"When do you go back?" she asks one afternoon, breaking the silence between them.

Immediate suspicion grows within him, and he doesn't answer for a while, he only stares at her.

"It's not a difficult assumption that you're military," she explains. "I had a brother in the Navy." She pulls out a gold pendant necklace from beneath her sweater and shows it to him, hoping the display of vulnerability might help him feel more comfortable to answer. "This was the last thing he gave me. He sent it to me while he was overseas. He never stopped worrying about me, even while he was in active duty," she smiles, but it's a sad smile.

The stiffness in his shoulders softens only mildly, and he breaks his gaze from her. "I ship out in four months."

She only nods. A part of her was hoping that it'd be longer, that they'd have more time to get to know one another. The mystique was enticing, but the comfort she felt sitting in his company was something she hadn't felt in a long time. She would miss it when he was gone.

"What happened to your brother?"

"He was killed," she answers. "In a training exercise. That never sat right with me, though. I always felt they weren't tell me the whole truth."

"Probably weren't," he says.

"I don't know whether or not that's a comfort or if it just makes it worse."

"Whatever the truth is, probably worse. Better to take what they give you."

"You always take what they give you?"

He looks at her again. This time, not with suspicion, but with guilt. Guilt of following orders, guilt of not. The weight of betrayal. The heaviness of killing the people who were meant to have his back -- the people he was meant to trust. The anger and despair that he keeps caged somewhere just below the surface of being double crossed by those meant to guide him. It's a long time before he answers: "No."

They don't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. He leaves, as he always does, but this time he washes the mugs before he goes.

Another week passes, and in the middle of the night, he's startled by his phone ringing. It doesn’t wake him, but it disrupts the cycle of blended thoughts and memories that blanket him at night. He has half the mind to let it go to voicemail; it's just his burner phone, no one important has that number -- besides Cecelia. The static of worry crawls beneath his skin, and he looks at the caller ID. It's her.

"You alright?" he answers.

"Simon --" panic is set into her voice. "I think someone's trying to break in."

"Lock yourself in the closet. I'm on my way."

He's armed to the teeth when he gets to her flat. The glass patio door has been jimmied open, and her apartment has been tossed. The paintings are broken and hanging crooked on the wall, the soil from the plants is spilled and pressed into the carpet by footprints. Simon stalks from room to room, until he hears Cecelia scream from her bedroom. He raises his weapon and pushes open her bedroom door -- the ex is pulling her out of her closet by her hair, with a baseball bat in his other hand.

"Drop it!" Simon demands. It surprises her attacker, that his grip lightly loosens from her -- she's trying to wriggle free from his hand beneath him. "Drop it, or I drop you."

"You! -- You bastard!" he yells back. "This is your fault! Look what you've done, huh! Look at it!"

Simon doesn't take his eyes off her attacker, but he can see Cecelia clawing at the man with every might of strength she has -- she's pulling blood from his arm. "Let her go. I'm not telling you again."

The man releases Cecelia's hair, and grips the bat with both of his hands. He lunges at Simon with full force. Simon deflects the bat with one arm, feeling the impact of the wood absent of any armor. He follows his hand around the bat and grabs its handle, flipping it out of the attacker's grasp. He holsters the gun -- wanting to draw as little attention to himself as possible; and in that same sentiment, he refrains from hitting the man in the head with his own bludgeon -- regardless of how much he wants to. With a powerful swing, Simon cracks the bat against the man's tibia. The bone snaps audibly and the man collapses to the floor, wailing in agony. Whether out of the assurance of safety, or out of the flame of revenge, Simon takes one more pass with the bat and breaks both of the man's kneecaps.

He once more calls the police, and her attacker is taken to the hospital for his injuries under police escort. Simon encourages Cecelia to be seen by the paramedics, even though she insists she's fine. But no matter how many times she refuses, Simon tells her she needs to. They take her to the hospital for a concussion. He makes himself scarce.

He debates visiting her the next day. Much to his chagrin, and no matter how much he tries to deny it, he's grown attached to her. He knows it's not inherently a negative thing, but it is a liability. Regardless of how much of an asshole her ex was, Simon couldn't help but feel there was some truth to what he said: that if he hadn't intervened that day, nearly three months ago, that none of this would've happened. He tries not to think about the long term consequences of his actions.

He visits her in the hospital anyway.

He brings her flowers in an awkward gesture -- though it’s no less heartfelt.

"You have someone you need me to call?" he asks.

She's lying in her hospital bed, scraped and bruised, still mildly concussed, but grateful her injuries weren't worse. "No. It's just me."

"No friends?"

She sighs. "Not anymore. He made sure of that."

He nods, knowingly. His own father isolated his mother, Margot, as much as he could, until she'd had no one left. "I heard the doc say he’s gonna release you later today."

"I wish I was happier to go home."

"You don't have to be happy," he says.

As cynical as it sounded, it relieves the pressure from her shoulders of having to put on a front. "I could use some clothes, though."

"I'll get 'em for you," he tells her.

He returns to her flat and packs her an overnight bag. Her flat is a wreck, and the doors are still compromised. When she is discharged, he brings her to his place instead.

"You take the bed," he tells her when they step through his door. "I'll have the couch. I'd offer you tea, but it isn't any good." Even when he's joking he never sounds like it.

She's gotten accustomed to this timbre, and looks at him with a smirk. "I guess I'll have to settle for a beer, then."

She can't see it, but he's returning the smirk. At his place -- which he doesn't call a 'home' -- he takes off the black surgical mask, and the cap; he takes off his gloves, and puts them all by the front door. It's one of the rare times she's seen him so bare.

He helps her get settled, and gets her the beer. She's seated on his couch and he joins her. "It's as cold as it's gonna get."

She stays with him for a week; the patio door is being repaired by the insurance and the landlord. She doesn't mind, she feels safer at his place anyway -- even if it is lacking warmth. He's always awake before her, and every morning, she's woken by the scent of coffee. When she comes out of the bedroom and into the living area, there's always a cup waiting for her on the table.

Simon adds reinforcement to her front and patio doors. "Don't tell anyone where you got this," he tells her as he installs the locks and alarms for her. He helps rehang her paintings, and scrub the carpet. It takes his mind off of other things that try to come to the surface. His mind is emptier of its evils than it has been in a long time, and he's acutely aware that this is temporary.

When Cecelia is settled in her place again, she asks him to stay. He doesn't want to say no.

So he doesn't.

It's a whirlwind romance -- one they both know will end in only a few months' time. Despite the fact that he's only known her for a brief period, he can't recall feeling so comfortable. He won't say safe. He'll never say safe. Because he never is. He won't say at peace. And he won't say happy. But he is comfortable. It's a foreign feeling, one that he distrusts if he thinks about it too long. But when he's lying next to her at night, the brutal images in his head are less vivid, the screaming voices are quieter, sometimes he even sleeps.

They haven't had sex. It's not a subject he's even broached, and neither has she. When she lies beside him, the most contact they have is her hand on his chest, and her face nestled into his side.

She kisses him on the cheek once, and it takes him a moment to process it. He's still and quiet, his eyes are downcast as he's contemplating it. She asks if she's done something wrong. He tells her no -- not at all.

One evening, when he's staying at her place — as he often does — they're on her couch after a couple of drinks. They were at one point watching television, but they've since been ignoring it -- talking, and in between whispered words, soft kisses. One thing leads to another, and she's sitting on his lap, his arms are around her, and he's kissing her deeply. He forgot how to kiss like this -- he didn't think it was still possible within him. That there was still some form of passion and intimacy that was in his spirit. He's hungry -- and with every kiss he's getting hungrier. She's laughing and enjoying herself. The way she feels on top of him feels good, it's just enough movement and pressure to turn him on. It feels good -- until suddenly it doesn't.

Simon immediately pulls away and stops. The passion in him is walled up, shut up, and where there was once heat beneath his skin, it's now cold, concrete.

Cecelia stops and looks for his eyes. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He tries to get himself to talk. But nothing comes out. He's not supposed to talk. He's not supposed to say anything. He's trying to squirm away from her now, and she takes the signal quickly. She gets off his lap, and sits beside him, still trying to figure out what happened. She gets them ice water instead of asking any more questions. He looks like he's still dissociating by the time she comes back, and she has to prompt him to take the water.

Simon goes back to his place that night. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, until the nightmares come.

He's startled awake the next morning by a sound that doesn't exist. It takes several minutes for him to catch his breath -- his heart is in his throat, and he can't focus on anything in front of him. Eventually, he's able to discern his own sheets, he's able to tell he's in England, that he's nowhere near Mexico — his captors. He's still shaking by the time he finally reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

There's a text from Cecelia. He opens it, expecting the worst: that she never wants to talk to him again after what happened last night. That his rejection of her was insulting, and that he was less of a man for it. It was for the better, he thinks. It saves him a messy departure later.

But the text is very different than what he thought:

She apologizes. She thinks his reaction had something to do with her.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

Cecelia was indescribably incapable of the evil done to him. He just doesn't know how to explain that to her.

Well, how to explain it to her and still maintain some kind of dignity and confidence.

It would be easier if he doesn't reply, he thinks. Again, it would save him a messy ending with her. If he ghosts her -- no pun intended, he thinks to himself, but fitting regardless -- he never has to explain himself. He never has to tell the truth. Even to himself.

But that would be cowardly.

He's a lot of things. But a coward isn't one of them.

He doesn't reply.

Instead, he's on her doorstep later that evening. Just like one of those feral cats.

Cecelia answers the door, and he can't look her in the eye. "I come in?" he asks, his head still on a swivel, both out of instinct, and also to provide an excuse as to why he won't look at her.

She agrees, and closes and locks the door behind him. She doesn't say anything for a minute, waiting for him to make the first move, but instead he's standing in the middle of her living room, awkwardly -- like a video game character in the loading lobby.

"I didn't think I'd hear from you," she says. "I hope I didn't --"

"It's not you." He cuts her off. "You didn't do anything." He takes his hat off, and runs a gloved hand through his hair as he tries to figure out what to do with himself. He still won't remove the mask. He needs something -- some kind of barrier.

"I'll put the kettle on," she says. It's going to be a long night, she can feel it.

It's been years, it's been a lifetime ago. But some things don't stay dead. Like memories. All those weeks under Roba's influence of torment, retreating into ugly corners of his mind to escape the evil being done to him at the drug lord's hand, and all those under Roba's command -- viscerally having his body and mind being used and crushed in the attempt to break him. He hasn't talked about it, except in veiled mutters under his breath -- only once -- to Price. Even then, he wasn't entirely sure he understood, Simon made no effort to clarify.

He doesn't go into detail with Cecelia. She doesn't deserve to hear about the gore, the blood and violence. But he gives her clear implications, with bullet points of what transpired after he clawed his way out of Roba’s torture, out of Vernon's grave: the deaths of his mother, his brother and sister-in-law, his nephew.

Hours have passed since he showed up without warning, and yet their time together has been mostly silence. His words few and far between, he said most of what he meant without speaking. She didn't interrupt him.

At last she asks: "Did you get them?"

He looks at her, for the first time since he arrived. But he can't hold her eyes long, and he nods. "I got 'em."

"Good."

The next week, they're on her couch again -- two drinks in, with the television mindlessly on mute -- and this time, he lowers her onto the cushions, where he settles on top of her.

Foreplay last for several days. He gets to a point where he can be shirtless, or have his pants unzipped, until he backs down. He lies on her chest instead, and falls asleep as she runs her hands through his hair. She tells him more than once he doesn't have anything to prove. He knows, he tells her, it's something he wants to do; his mind and body need to do some catching up, is all. She waits.

It's the weekend, and she's invited him to stay over the next few days. She'll make them dinner. He comes by with a six pack and some fresh bread. There's a box of condoms in his back pocket, but he's not going to tell her that -- he doesn't want to promise anything and then not deliver.

But it happens. And it happens because they're not trying to make it happen.

They move to the bedroom; he has half his clothes off by the time she follows him. She's in her bra and panties as she gets on the bed -- she regrets it's not the matching pair, but it doesn't even look like he notices. At his request, she doesn't sit on top of him, she sits beside him as she rubs her palms into his chest, down his abdomen, trailing every outline of his body with a single finger.

She has a cute nose, he thinks -- it scrunches as she smiles, and she hasn't stopped smiling since they ran to the room like teenagers trying not to get caught. He cups a hand on her face, tracing her nose and the lines of her smile. He leans to put a kiss on her mouth, her hands taking his jaw gently. Every movement is gentle and deliberate. She moves her lips from his, down his neck, where they follow his sternum, his stomach, to the trail of soft hair that leads beneath his briefs. With his help, she removes them, and puts them with the pile of clothes on the floor.

He's already getting hard, and she wraps her hand around his cock, gently pumping him to help him along. She feels him twitch as he takes a deep breath, and when she looks at him to see if he's alright, he brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. She dots gentle kisses along his tip and frenulum, and his hand moves from her hair to twist into the sheets beneath him. She laughs as she takes him into her mouth, and the vibration of her laughter onto his cock makes him swear.

Simon takes another breath and watches as she bobs up and down his length, now fully erect. As she feels his body tense, she stops and returns to putting kisses along his shaft.

"You're teasing me," he says.

"I'm warming you up," she laughs again.

He reaches for the box of condoms on the floor, and rips open the package to use one. He sits up and pulls her close, onto his lap. He buries his face into her the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.

Cecelia takes him, inch by inch, as she sits on his lap, and the moan that escapes her sets his mind on fire. He pulls her closer to his chest, and grabs the pile of her hip as she starts to rock back and forth against him. She's whining as he tenderly bites into the soft skin of her neck -- leaving a pleasant mark behind in his wake.

He starts to feel unsure of himself, unsure of the position they're in, when Cecelia stops and nestles her nose into his hair. She puts another kiss on the top of his head, and they sit there for a moment -- barely moving, except for the rising and falling of their breathing.

Simon initiates the next movement, where he begins to thrust into her. One hand behind him among the pillows to balance him, the other holding her hip to keep her steady, he's looking into her face as she puts her hands on his shoulders. She begins to rock back and forth again, finding a rhythm with him, and as she does, she puts her hands behind her head, fanning out her hair as she seems to dance on top of him.

He has a brief moment of feeling foolish -- in believing she looks like some ethereal spirit, or a nymph. Like one of those paintings that he's seen on the walls of great leaders. But his doubts are drowned out by her leaning on him and putting her mouth on his.

They stay in this rhythm for some few moments, until he gently turns her on her back, and settles himself between her legs. He takes one of her feet and kisses it, before he wraps her legs around his waist.

He keeps a steady pace into her, the feeling of pleasure wafting through his body with unfamiliar electricity, his appetite suddenly whetted, and his thrusts become harder. Her moans and whimpers getting louder, more intense, as she touches herself. Simon reaches his hand to massage her sex, and her whole body tenses -- her core grips around him in soft waves. He comes -- intensely, and at the feeling of her, at the sight of her lost in the pleasure of him. A gasp sputters from him at the sensation of satisfaction that takes hold of his mind and body.

She reaches up to him and takes his face in her hands again as she puts her brow to his. His breathing is heavy, and it washes over her damp skin, sending a shiver of cold throughout her.

He lies beside her again that night, as she puts her hand on his chest, and her face into his side. Except this time, he turns to her, to see her -- face on. He usually tries to obscure himself as much as possible, but just for this moment -- just for the time he has left with her, he wants to be seen. Just for now.

Simon lives at her flat for the remaining weeks he has left of leave. He tries not to lean into the fantasy as hard as he wants to -- but when she invites him to the market to get ingredients for dinner, he can't refuse her. He's on edge the entire time -- searching the crowd for anyone who might become a threat, the sinking feeling of waiting for a detonation to occur when there isn't one keeps his eyes fixed on the periphery of the farmer's market. He briefly loses track of her, and he's ready to pry her from the arms of an enemy that isn't present -- he finds her picking fruit from a basket at a vendor's stall. It's the moment he knows he can't ever have a normal life. It's something he's always known, but the image of its reality is materialized as he watches her smell peaches from a distance.

His recall date is approaching faster than he wants it to. As strong as he is, he can't slow Time. Every night when he lies awake in bed, he watches her sleep. With the images of her bedroom, and of her living room, and the breakfast bar with the kettle and well-worn mugs upon it, with the image of her sleeping peacefully, cuddled beneath her blankets beside him, he builds a new place in the dark corners of his mind. Somewhere into which he can retreat when the night gets ugly. When the job gets uglier.

The night before he's recalled, they make love again. He adds the blissful memory to that place in his mind. He holds her tighter, fucks her with an intensity and a desperation he couldn't speak in words; he keeps her as close as he can until the moment he has to give her up.

Cecelia wakes up early the next morning, before dawn, to see him off. His bag is already packed, the coffee is already made, with her mug, full on the counter, just as it always is.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asks.

He stops. He heard her get up, heard her come out of the bedroom, but even still, he was hoping to leave unseen. He doesn't have an answer for her.

"No," he says. He still doesn't look at her.

She stays quiet, but sits at the breakfast bar, where her cup of coffee is waiting for her. He's still in the kitchen, washing the dishes he used to make her breakfast. She sees him put his head down, thoughts flooding themselves behind his brown eyes. But still, he says nothing.

After he finishes leaving no trace of himself in her home, as he readies himself to leave, his duffle bag in hand, his mask and gloves fitted against his skin, he stops before he opens her front door.

"Come here," he tells her.

A part of her hopes that he'll change his mind -- that he'll say he'll be back whenever he gets leave again. But she doubts they will let him go for a very, very long time.

"Look at me."

Her eyes are wet, but she tries to hide it. She does as he says nonetheless.

"If you are ever -- ever -- in trouble..." he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, "...you send this to this address." On it is written a word: 'MAYFLOWER', along with an encrypted email address. "I will come running." He hands her the paper and she takes it with a trembling hand. "Memorize this. Then burn it. Do you understand?"

She nods as she studies the paper. She tries to hold back her crying, but the harder she tries, the louder she sniffles.

Cecelia wraps her arms around his waist and holds him, just for a moment. Her tears stain his jacket, but she can't bring herself to care. When she lets go, she kisses his mask. She feels him return it, despite the barrier between them.

She watches him leave, before the sun is up. He vanishes from her life as quickly as he entered it.

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

TEN YEARS LATER

Ghost is preparing to ship out on an assignment to Eastern Europe with the rest of the 141 in two weeks. He and MacTavish are paired together to arrive first before the rest of the crew. They are currently both in England, going over the plans for the next assignment.

He sold his flat a long time ago, he no longer has permanent residence in England. He rents out places in cash when he needs a temporary place to stay. Simon and Soap are staying together while they prepare, then they will fly out to the drop zone.

As Simon prepares for the next assignment, he receives a transmission on an encrypted email. It is reserved only for emergent scenarios, usually used by his other teammates or superiors when an assignment goes sideways. As he opens the encrypted message, he anticipates that he and Soap will have to ship out sooner than expected.

The message reads:

'MAYFLOWER'

He gave this specific code only to Cecelia. No others have it. He remembers his promise.

In the ten years since their separation, he has not heard from Cecelia, nor has he sought her out in the time he is on homeland. But he thinks about her in moments when the dark begins to suffocate him. He thinks about her during the springtime, and when the world comes alive again. He shares this with no one. Not even Soap. Now, he might have to.

MacTavish sees Simon gearing up, as if he were ready to leave for the hanger at any moment. "You goin' somewhere without me, Lt.?"

Simon stops, and deliberates. A gnawing feeling tells him not to confide in a teammate again -- to not make the same mistake he did with Sparks and Washington. But when he turns and looks Soap in the eye, he knows that honesty -- even obfuscated honesty -- is what will help Cecelia in that moment. "You trust me?"

He tells Soap to pack as they talk, and he debriefs his partner with as little information he can get away with: he promised a woman a decade ago that if she ever needed help, he'd come running. She was calling in the favor.

"What's so special about this woman, then?" Soap asks.

They're driving to the location from which the message was sent -- a house in Manchester, that was bought under her name. She moved, then, he thinks -- from a flat to a house, he hopes she's doing well enough for herself. And whatever family she might have. It would be foolish to think she wasn't married with kids by now. It was just statistics.

"Lt.?"

Ghost takes a breath, as silently as he can, before he answers: "She helped me out. Just returning the favor." It's as close to honesty as MacTavish was going to get for now -- if ever.

The house is visibly disturbed by the time they get there -- the front door is broken, there are signs of a struggle in the living room. There are no police on the scene, neighbors seem to mind their own business. Simon takes the front of the house, while Soap takes the rear. Every room he enters is clear, the house is empty.

"You seeing anything, Lt.?"

"Negative," Ghost answers. "The house is clear."

"I'm doing a perimeter sweep," Soap says.

"Report back."

"Copy."

Ghost tries to piece together what happened as he steps through the chaos that transpired -- they entered through the front door, and tossed the entire place. Desks and dressers tossed; a file cabinet thrown on its side and emptied. The nightstand in the master bedroom rifled through, the closets emptied. There's a child's room adjacent to the master bedroom -- also tossed and empty. A child’s bedroom…It was just the statistical probability that she'd moved on, he reminds himself.

A noise comes from the secondary bathroom in the hallway, and Ghost raises his weapon. He pushes the door to the bathroom open and sees nothing. He prods at the shower curtain — nothing.

There's a linen closet. He raises the rifle, stands to the side of the door, and opens it -- waiting to hear a barrage of gunfire. But there was nothing. He sees the interior of the linen closet in the bathroom mirror:

A child is hiding inside of it, huddled with her hands over her head.

"Perimeter check," he radios Soap.

"Clear, Lt.. Converging on you now."

He checks her for weapons before he continues. "What happened here?" Ghost asks the child.

She's shaking and looks up at him with terror.

"Your mother called me to help."

"She -- She told me to c-call you."

"You sent the message?"

She nods.

"Do you know who did this?"

She shakes her head.

Ghost lets a silent breath, as he looks around the bathroom again -- even the medicine cabinet was tossed. "Whoever they were, they were looking for something." He lets his rifle fall to his side, and he helps the girl out of the closet. "Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"Was there anyone else in the house?"

"No. Just me and mum."

"Is anyone supposed to come home?"

"No. It's just us."

Soap arrives at Ghost's side, surprised to see the girl. "Casualty?"

"Just shellshocked. Get ‘er a blanket."

MacTavish does as he says, and pulls one from the girl's room. "We're the good guys," he tells her. "Give it a minute, an' when you've had a breath, tell us what you remember." He leads her from the bathroom, to somewhere warmer in the house, careful that she shouldn't step on anything broken on the floor. "D'ye have someone we can call, then? Gram? Da? A friend from school?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Alright, it’s alright. Let's start with somethin' easier, then." He adjusts her blanket and helps her put on a pair of shoes that was left by the doorway. "How 'bout we start with your name? How 'bout that? What's your name, love?"

"My name is Margot."

Simon stops. He looks at the girl, he studies her. She looks much like her mother, yet a part of him thinks he saw a resemblance of himself. But it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he insists. It makes no difference anyway.

"Margot. Pretty name, lass, very classy," Soap tells her.

"Call child welfare," Simon says.

"No!" Margot turns and stops him.

"It's only temporary -- 'til we find your mother," Soap tells her.

"No --"

“This isn’t a discussion," Simon snaps.

Soap looks at the Lieutenant, knowing him well enough to hear something other than the weight of the mission beneath the surface of his voice. He looks back at the girl, who keeps trying to take off her blanket, and ties it around her. "Like a cape," he tells her. "We're very good at what we do, lass. You'll be back with your mother in no time."

"You're not listening!" the girl finally says, she stands, facing Simon. "I don't know who they were," she tells him, still trembling, "but I know what they were looking for."

The girl doesn't seem to be intimidated by either him or Soap, and he finds it unusual. That sinking suspicion settles itself at the forefront of his mind, and he keeps it in check. "What were they looking for?"

"They said -- they said they were looking for something my uncle gave my mum." Tears are coming back to her, and she cowers at the feeling of guilt.

"The necklace?" Simon asks.

"But she doesn't have it. She gave it to me." She pulls out the gold pendant from beneath her shirt.

"Sir, can we have a word?" It's more of a demand from Soap, rather than a request and he turns to Margot. "Don't take off the cape." He pulls Ghost to the side, and speaks as quietly as he can, hoping not to scare the girl: "They're gonna find her eventually. I don't think child welfare is the best option for her."

Simon still hasn't taken his eyes off of Margot, he's still studying her -- her features, her nose, her eyes. She has brown eyes, but so does her mother. Even if his suspicion is true, it still doesn't mean anything, he convinces himself. He wouldn’t be able to be there for her in any way that matters, he tells himself.

"We can offer her better protection. We track the bastards, neutralize the threat, and get her mother back. We send her into foster care, she's a sitting target once they realize her mother doesn't have what they want."

He hates it when Soap is right.

Finally, he looks at his partner, and they mobilize. Soap helps Margot pack a bag out of what remnants of clothes and necessities are strewn all over the house. Simon is standing in the master bedroom, he tells himself he's looking for any sign of what the attackers were after, but he knows it's a lie. He wants to see what has become of Cecelia. But he knows he shouldn't linger.

They regroup at the house Soap and Ghost are renting. Simon asks Margot to hand over the necklace; she does, although she hesitates for a moment, a thought crossing her mind that it might be the only thing of her mother's she'll have left when this is all over.

"I'll give it back," he tells her.

She looks up at him, into his eyes -- he's still wearing that balaclava and all his gear. The greasepaint obscures the depth of his eyes, but she can see their glint in the low light of the living room. She's trusting him as much as he's trusting her. She gives him the necklace.

Simon holds it in the center of his gloved hand -- it looks no different than any other pendant one might find at a jewellry store. It was a plain circle, with no ornamentation, except for an asymmetrical raised texture in the center. He turns it over, there's no stamp indicating the carat or quality.

"All that trouble o'er a necklace?" Soap asks, looking over Simon's shoulder at the small thing.

"She said it was the last thing she ever got from her brother," Simon tells him. "She tell you anything else about him?" he asks Margot.

She shrugs somewhat, still clinging to the blanket around her shoulders. "He was in the Navy. But he died, though. I never met him."

Simon shakes his head once. "No, you wouldn't've. He died overseas, she said. Training mission gone wrong. MacTavish, check records," he tells Soap. "We find out what he was doing when he died, we might find out who's after this little bugger."

The adrenaline finally wears off, and Margot crashes. She's asleep in the master bedroom, curled underneath the blankets, still terrified, even in her sleep. Simon can see it -- her shoulders are tense, her head is tucked, her breathing is rapid. He wonders if every Riley is cursed with poor sleep.

Soap isn't having any more of his bullshit. They're talking in the other bedroom, while combing through personnel records and calling in favors to find out more about the 'training exercise' Cecelia's brother was involved in.

They haven't spoken in a while, which is unusual for Soap -- the air almost feels absent without his gabbing. But Simon knows he isn't being silent for courtesy's sake, Soap is irritated with him.

"Is she yours?" he finally asks, without looking up.

But Simon looks at him, unsure how to reply. Unsure of the answer -- but certain all the same. He doesn't reply for a long time, and Soap doesn't push him; even no answer is an answer.

Simon looks back at his laptop. "She's the right age."

They don't say anything for a while more. Simon is finding it difficult to concentrate, but he compartmentalizes, until Soap interrupts his thoughts again.

"You know I've got your back."

His other teammates, Sparks and Washington, said the same thing. Until they were taken, and turned. Until his family was all murdered in cold blood during Christmastime. He tries to tell himself it's not the same -- the present isn't the past. Yet, the past has a funny way of repeating itself.

He wasn't turned by the torture inflicted upon him, he tells himself. He'd like to think MacTavish wouldn't be, either, whether or not it's true.

"I know, Johnny," he says.

"You need your rest," Soap tells him. "I'll take watch and keep looking. You get some shut eye." He leaves the bedroom and sets up in the living room.

He tries to sleep -- he falls into a restless slumber. It feels like he's closed his eyes for only a moment, when Soap comes back into the room to tell him his watch is over.

It's still dark outside. Simon gets up. He checks on Margot.

She's still lying in bed, curled into a ball. But her breathing has changed -- he thinks she might've fallen into a deeper sleep, but he realizes she's awake, she's crying. He's tempted to turn and leave, to give her space, or to absolve himself of vulnerability. But he knows it's not the right thing to do.

"You should be sleeping," he says.

He hears her sniffle. She doesn't move for a while, until she sits up and looks at him. "I tried. I can't."

He sighs and enters the room, closing the door halfway behind him. "What's keeping you awake?" He sits on the edge of her bed.

"I keep...thinking." She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

"About what?"

She's trying not to look weak in front of him, but she can't help it -- she starts crying again. "All I did was hide. Mum told me to hide. But I didn't want to -- But I was scared..."

He doesn't think less of her. He sees a lot of himself in her, from when he was a boy. "Sometimes the best strategy is to hide. You're no good to anyone dead. Especially not to your mother."

Margot settles, taking hiccupped breaths until she can breathe again. "She said you'd come."

"I told her I would."

The crying has passed for now, she doesn't feel like she can anymore. But she likes sitting beside him. She wonders what he looks like -- he's still wearing that balaclava. "Do you sleep with that on?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"So people don't know what I look like. To protect myself."

"That must be annoying."

He scoffs. "Sometimes."

"Mum told me you wear a mask all the time. She told me a lot about you."

Immediate suspicion rises in Simon, and his mind interprets her words as a threat at first. But he proceeds with tempered rationality. "What'd she say?"

"You both loved each other, she said. You have a job that's really dangerous. She talks about you all the time."

It would've been better if Cecelia had forgotten all about him, it would've been easier for him. But to know that she kept him alive, in memory, somehow hurt worse than being forgotten. "She tell you anything else?" he's fishing, and he hopes Margot takes the bait.

She hesitates, she's thinking, debating -- unsure of herself, unsure of what he'll say. "She said...she tells me that you're my dad. Is that really true?"

He's never one to believe something without concrete proof, he's distrustful by nature. But he knows it's true. It's more than conscious, it's something visceral inside of him that knows something better than the doubt at the forefront of his mind. He only nods. "It's true."

Margot sits in silence, thinking.

"I'm going to find your mother," he promises her. "I’m going to make sure both of you are alright." He speaks to her, but also to the family he lost all those years ago: to his mother, to his brother. He has the chance to right the wrongs of the past. To change the future. "Get some sleep."

"What if I can't?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to find some kind of parental guidance to give her. "I don’t sleep good, either. A long time ago, I saw a shrink. He told me to relax your body -- from head to toe. And imagine you're floating in a canoe on a lake, with nothing else around. Don't think about anything else. Just you...in the lake, breathing deeply. Can you do that?"

She nods.

"I'll wake you when it's morning."

He leaves Margot to her rest and continues to search for reasons why Cecelia's brother may have been a target.

He wakes up Soap at dawn. "We've got a lead."

Simon explains that Cecelia's brother, Gabriel, was involved in a classified assignment to infiltrate a weapons dealer syndicate. He was supposed to eliminate the head of the syndicate, and destroy his compound. Gabriel completed his assignment, and eliminated the syndicate head, and burned the compound to the ground. However, the official report states that Gabriel was killed during the raid -- he was killed by his other teammates, for treason, and for turning on his superiors. Simon managed to find a buried statement from another teammate who had been on the mission, which said Gabriel was killed days after the raid, and his body was dumped at the compound after it was destroyed. Gabriel found that the officer in charge of his assignment was supplying a portion of the weapons being sold. The officer was using his team to clean up evidence of his involvement in the syndicate.

The officer buried anyone else who knew the truth.

Simon and Soap conclude the necklace must have something else to it, that Gabriel had to have sent it to for a reason. Simon examines the ridge in the center; he finds that the circular pendant is made with two pendants flat pieces soldered together. He halves it with a knife, jimmying the pendant open like an oyster. Inside, is a micro-SD card.

"That's what they were after."

"Obair mhór, Gabriel," Soap mutters.

"Mum's necklace..." Margot stares at its pieces in Simon's hand as she comes out of the bedroom.

"It was for a good cause," Simon says.

"But why --" Soap asks. "Why after all this time? Why go after it now?"

"The good Admiral is up for a political promotion. He's trying to clean house."

"So the Admiral finds out that Gabriel had a contingency, and he knows that the last contact Gabriel had was with his sister. So he puts the pieces together, figuring she knows more than she's saying."

"We need to find her. Now."

They're holding Cecelia at an abandoned farmhouse. It takes them thirty-six hours to track her down, by nightfall Ghost and Soap are converging on the target. Margot is left behind, locked inside their safehouse, with the doors and windows fortified.

They're outnumbered, but they have the element of surprise. Quietly, they close in on the farmhouse from opposite directions, using blades to wound and eliminate the men in their way, utilizing the ignorance of their presence to its maximum capability. Until an enemy fires his rifle, and the secrecy is over.

Ghost breaches the front of the house, firing two shots into the guard at the other side of the door -- chest and throat. He pushes the body to the side, and crouches, hearing more men on their way. He takes cover against the corner of a hallway, and fires two shots into the face of the next assailant who charges him. He uses the bleeding body as a shield, and moves into the line of fire, feeling the impact of the bullets pierce the corpse in his arms. He fires around the body propped against him, and lands three bullets into the torso of the man in front of him.

He throws the corpse to the floor, and moves into the center of the house. There's a locked bedroom door, and he pushes his blade into the jamb to free the lock. He can hear Soap's bullets from the opposite side of the house.

The lock breaks, and Ghost stands to the side of the door as he opens it -- he enters with his rifle raised. There are no men inside the room.

Cecelia is tied to a chair in the center.

"I've got eyes on the target," he radios Soap.

"Copy, Lt.. Three more guards inbound on the east of the complex."

"Copy." Simon cuts her bonds, and helps her stand. "We need to move. Can you walk?"

"Yes," she says, panting.

Ghost has one arm around her, practically pulling her out of the house as he rendezvous with Soap.

Soap covers them as the two limp off the complex -- into the cover of a copse in the distance. Their vehicle is waiting for them there, and Ghost puts Cecelia in the back, pushing her head down beneath the seats. Bullets collide with the metal sides of the doors, and Ghost returns fire as Soap jumps into the driver's seat and finds cover in the trees.

"They won't follow us," Ghost says.

"You'd better be right."

"Margot -- Where's Margot?"

"I got her -- She's alright."

"I'm sorry --" Cecelia says, out of breath.

Simon shakes his head. "Don't be."

They get back to their safehouse, and Margot is holed up in the bedroom until she hears the door. Simon gave her a pocket knife, and she's ready to use it -- when she hears her mother's voice.

"Mum!" she runs out of the bedroom, into her mother's arms.

Cecelia holds her tight. Simon only watches, and glances to Johnny when he puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels that out-of-place sensation once more, seeing mother and daughter embrace. Cecelia is checking Margot over, holding her small face in her hands, wiping away her tears. Simon doesn't know what to do with himself. He leaves them to their reunion. He hides -- in the other bedroom.

Later, he's triaging Cecelia's wounds. She's scraped up, she's got a black eye. The sight of it sends a rage through him that he can't put into words.

"I wanted to tell you," she says.

"I know."

He's bandaging her wrist, but he can't look at her. It's the same dance between them as it was a decade ago. Somehow, it feels like home.

"I don't know what they wanted from me," she tells him.

"I do. Your brother was a smart man. He knew he couldn't trust anyone above him. So he sent the intel he gathered to the one person he could trust. You." He looks up at her.

"What are you going to do with it?"

He gently puts her hand in her lap. "I'm going to do...what I wish I could've done many years ago." He grinds his teeth, and swallows. "I'm going to expose the bloody bastard for what he is: a traitor."

Simon arrives at the Admiral's office the next day. The Admiral is not expecting him, but he is aware of Ghost's reputation, and it precedes him. The Admiral has no reason to suspect Ghost is behind the attack on his off-books operation the previous night. As far as he's concerned, Ghost is scheduled to ship out in less than a fortnight, and he believes his visit has something to do with the upcoming mission.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

Simon chooses his words carefully. Everything he wants to say -- everything he's endured at the hands of men without honor -- floods to the surface of his stomach, to the surface of his face, and he holds the man's eyesight with a sharp edge of hatred.

He's kneading his fists open and closed as he stands there, still trying to get himself to speak. "I want to know if it was worth it."

"I'm sorry?" the Admiral scoffs, bemused and insulted.

"You're not sorry now. But you will be. Before that -- I want to know if it was worth it. The money. The job. The commendations. How many lives was it worth to you?"

The Admiral now realizes it was him who attacked the farmhouse the night before. His face grows hard, and he narrows his eyes. "I'd tread carefully if I were you, Lieutenant. Your reputation can only protect you so far, before enemies in high places turn on you."

"Was it! Worth it!" Simon yells. "You pricks -- who decide who lives and dies, who decide who turns on who -- you pricks, who let the job lead you to believe that you're God," he points. His face burns, his throat hurts. Memories claw their way to the front of his mind, just like he clawed his way out of Vernon's grave.

"If you kill me, you will be hunted for the rest of your life."

Simon shakes his head. "I'm not gonna kill you. You're not worth my bullets. I'm going to watch...as the world tears you apart. As you lose...everything."

The Admiral scoffs again, and moves towards his desk, where his service weapon lies locked in a drawer. "I doubt that. Surely, you didn't think you could come here and threaten me, and get away unscathed." He loads the chamber, and aims the barrel at Ghost's chest.

Simon doesn't flinch.

"Where is the SD card?" the Admiral asks.

"I've already given it to the press."

Military police storm the office, and take the Admiral into custody.

Ghost and Soap are taken off their upcoming assignment, they're needed for debriefing on the scandal that is unfolding regarding the Admiral. Cecelia and Margot are also asked to give account of what happened. The doors of their home are repaired, and they're left to pick up the pieces -- figuratively and literally.

Three weeks have passed; the trial is still in preparation stages; Margot is back at school, and Cecelia has set up therapy for her. Simon encourages her to be seen by a shrink, herself. She refuses, and he pushes her, telling her he'll take her himself if he has to.

"This feels familiar," Simon says, as he helps rehang a painting in her living room.

"Let's hope it never feels familiar again."

He wants to laugh, but he can't. He just shakes his head, and straightens the frame. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

"Wait -- can't I make you a cup of tea?"

It's the offer that got his heart into trouble in the first place. But he still can't say no -- the pause he gives, gives her enough time to head to the kitchen, where she boils some water, and hands him a well-worn mug of tea. The good kind.

He stays with them for several weeks. Weeks turn to months. He tries not to give into the fantasy. Cecelia knows as well as he does, that he can't stay. Even if he wants to.

He wants to.

He has too many enemies. If he retires, if he gives into the dream, it will only put targets on their backs. Cecelia knows. She doesn't fight him on it.

"Just...don't let another decade go by...before I see you again," she tells him.

"I won't." He has her hands in his, pressed to his mouth. He's getting ready to leave, a new assignment is waiting for him on the other side of the door, and for the first time -- ever -- he feels human enough to wish there was nothing waiting for him. No assignment. No dossier. He feels human enough to wish — for anything at all. Even a family.

He takes a deep breath, and lets go of her hands. He pulls from his pocket an envelope filled to the brim with money, an accumulation of many years' worth of combat pay. "Use this. For her. Anything she needs -- anything at all. You get it for her, with this. Get her into a good school, get her an education -- don't let her do what I do. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kisses her, and turns to Margot's bedroom to say goodbye. She's holed up there -- she doesn't understand why he has to leave. He doesn't think she ever will. He doesn't understand it fully, himself.

Simon sits on the edge of her bed. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Will we ever see you again?" she asks.

"You can't get rid of me that easy, love."

She crawls to him, and embraces him.

Something flips inside of him, feeling her arms around him. His own child -- the bone of his bone, the flesh of his flesh. A weight sinks into his heart, and he takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling like it's the first and only breath he's ever taken. He puts a kiss on the top of her head, and they linger there for a long while.

When he, at last, pulls away to leave, she follows him. "Goodbye, Dad."

It's a searing knife wound to the center of him. But he turns and touches her face. "Goodbye, love."

Simon leaves, seen off by the two at their doorstep.

It's a home he can return to. Over, and over again. A feeling, and a place -- people who welcome him. Where his bed is always warm, where arms wrap around him and the blood washes down the drain. And where December never hurts as much.

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