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Bro his arms. I want to bite them- WHO SAID THAT.
#just a little bite#a nibble perhaps#just one chance#please#resident evil#re4#re4 remake#resident evil 4#re4 leon kennedy#re4 leon#leon kennedy#leon s kennedy#leon#ramblings
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Arthur Morgan…and his arms…
so real, nonnie. so real. his thick fucking biceps, broad shoulders, large hands....... mmmmmmm
#they look so delicious........#i need to nibble on em#maybe bite a chunk out of them perhaps#lya's asks ! ༄#anonymous !#arthur morgan#rdr2#rdr2 thirsts
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so i just rewatched honey queen and in it, roman explains how linda is “the sweetest woman in hatchetfield” (the title that comes with winning the title of honey queen) because what she was willing to do in order to win (kill zoey, among other less than nice things) makes her taste the sweetest to nibbly.
now, in nerdy prudes must die, during the summoning, while blinky speaks to grace and tinky taunts pete, nibbly immediately looks to steph and says “stephanie, yum yum!” steph is nothing like linda of course, she’s not callous or selfish. but. she was, in the end, willing to kill pete to save the rest of the town. she would have done it with a heavy heart, but she would have done it nonetheless. so, is the reason nibbly expresses interest in steph above the others that she is capable of things the others aren’t? like linda, she’s willing to go to extreme lengths to achieve her goal (even though her goal is much more selfless than linda’s).
grace is certainly capable of doing crazy shit too but her deal is a whole separate issue of its own
#just something that popped into my head#and to be fair the whole show starts with steph being willing to use pete to pass a test#which is not a serious offense but it kind of goes with the whole ‘willing to take short cuts’ and ‘use other people to achieve goals’ thin#to be clear: i love steph and don’t think she’s selfish or anything like linda#but the lords in black tend to prey on people who they think they can manipulate into acting how they want them to#so perhaps nibbly thinks steph has the potential if things were desperate enough#nerdy prudes must die#stephanie lauter#nibbly#starkid#hatchetverse#nightmare time#honey queen#linda monroe#npmd#nibblenephim#team starkid#mariah rose faith casillas#lauren lopez#kim whalen#jon matteson#lautski#peter spankoffski
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what about a salmongirl what would you do to her
ฅ^ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°^ฅ
#piscine yearning#fish eating catgirl#catgirlthing#fish eating catgirlthing#catgirl#kittyposting#salmon seeking behavior#salmon!#salmon#salmon!!#salmongirl#dreams of salmon#the king of the fishes#piscine regicide#the fish among fishes#Haha. Perhaps.. a littol nibble can't hurt?#Ah. what's the harm in a littol more?#Oops! I skeletonized a salmongirl. Oh well! Plenty of fish in the sea!
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my stepdad's a real one fr...
#i mentioned that my mom called#and he left the room. came back. and put an edible in front of me#1) that was fucking Hilarious#2) thaaaaaaank GOD i need it#he was all like 'take that an hour before you go to bed#yes Sir 🫡 gladly sir 🫡#i would've liked one with a bit more of a Kick to it but i am nooooot complaining!!!#*insert looping gif of the cat jumping up & down w/ added yippee sound effects*#absolutely unprompted#tonight i will finish the next comm. indulge in some laughingstock perhaps. and then get Stress Free via Tasty Nibble#oh i can't wait for it to kick in...#ive been so stressed for so long... whats it like to live without chest pain & nausea from Intense Anxiety.... i will soon know!#i think i will take the inner peace opportunity to actually eat something#bc when im this stressed i Cant. i simply cannot!#which is so unfortunate because food & eating is one of my favorite things! i love it so much!#and im being Deprived of it!!!!
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WIP Wednes- uhh its fuckin saturday fam
beloved @cadybear420 tagged me in a WIP Wednesday thing! I have no concept of linear time! Have a sneak peek!
Death came upon them like the slow and peaceful drift of birds coming in to land. There was little pain, here in this place. Luca couldn’t feel their body anymore. Sensations bled through them in formless swells; cold, all-consuming cold, at the periphery of their consciousness. At the centre, love, all-encompassing, blotting out the rest. Cas and Gabriel were either side of him. Just where they were meant to be. Luca smiled as their head hit the earth. Everything around them was silence and stars.
its not permanent dw lol
#cw death mention#SICSIG#the Supreme One just had a little nibble#have some trials luca#perhaps a tribulation or two#(oh wait you've had lots of trials haven't you)#(yyeah lets give the trials a rest for a minute shall we buddy)#luca o'rinn#choices immortal desires
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At what point is my shopping list indicative of a serious problem
#it’s yassified nibbly time boys#am I forcing my friends to do a lords in black group costume for Halloween? perhaps#npmd#npmd spoilers#nerdy prudes must die#nibbly#nibblenephim
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Me: imma go to the bathroom rq
The 12 diseased rats up my ass: 😨
#oh no! charles! we are to be flushed!#worry not bartholomew. there is no fear to be found in the inevitable loss of sentience. freedom of the mortal coil is life's one true gift#but charles#I dont want to die#i cannot answer your questions#you are lucky you have not grown to understand me#you're right about that charles. i am lucky to not suffer the curse of endless nihilism and self destruction. but answer me this!#are you not the one who determines your own blessings?? is your love of parmesean and the family you built just a means to exist another day#bartholomew. perhaps you are correct. perhaps there is a light to be found in the burden of existence#but answer me this! what good is such a philosophy in this dark and desolate cave! i can nibble on parmesean no longer#and we are soon to be taken by the waves if not by our disease first! tell me. if i am not to find comfort in my demise#how should i face it.#charles#i cannot answer your questions nor bring solace to your suffering. but i want you to know that i am at least content.#i am content because it is you who will face the end with me. that it is you who's voice i will hear up to the very end.#bartholomew I-#AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH#NO! BARTHOLOMEW!#*plop*#AHHHHHHHHHHH#*flush*
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Justified Rewatch:
#he has a face#🤌🏼🤌🏼🤌🏼#justified rewatch#s1e07 blind spot#timothy olyphant#.rg#.k#.#he has a face & i sure am looking at it#and kissing it perhaps#and maybe nibbling his ears a little#*nom*
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RIPPING UP THE GRASS i want to hug vance so soososo bad i want 2 feel his natural warmth and the rumbling of his cyberware against my chest I WANT TO TELL HIM EVERYTHING'S GONNA BE OKAY
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i don’t even want a season 4 tbh i just need like a ten minute clip of them kissing and then just feral raw dogging while absolutely drenched in blood
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why does jake oettinger look like a little field mouse
someone needs to protect him from hawks and eagles and various other birds of prey
#hockeyposting#stars#jake oettinger#he is just a little guy? scampering through the fields? taking a nap in a flower? nibbling on a seed? perhaps.
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oops, i, did it again - i overcheesed the spaghetteh,
#just me hi#WWhhhyyyyY#my catastrophic cheese issues continue hfhshd#went 'oh noooooo' and looked up at my mom and she already Knew lmaoo#that's how often these things happen !#i'm also not allowed to make macaroni anymore btw ://#/oh also i discovered some time ago that the seasoned pecans they sell at costco are AWESOME with sharp cheddar cheese#it's GREAT i highly recommend !! :D#my siblings keep going 'ewh that's gross' and then trying it and being enlightened to the way of the cheese-nut lolll :3#it's also apparently a grave crime to take off like a fourth of the cheese block and just nibble on that for some hours#joke's on those jokers i forget i actually have to eat anything for at least four more hours after doing that Hfbshd#//but anyway in other news !!#what is up with colours? i have no idea. neither does anybody else! peace and love on the celestial meatball we all adore#/octopus are neat i like octopus :>#so are crabs but i think they're a bit scarier for some reason so !#octopus are just kinda more gross but i can appreciate their squiggyness#octopusses... octopie.... is this the 'plural platypus' thing again hfbsh#/i have Gottt to finish these refs before june or i'm going to do what i did last year which was NOT fun loll#i rushed like 5 refs in two weeks ! did i enjoy it? naauh hbhfs :')#/also thinking of opening comms next year ? maybeeeee#it's definitely under consideration though ~!~#/also made a new yt cuz i changed my email lol :>#RIP the old one. you'll be remembered o7 and iiiiiiiiiiiiiii will always remember yyyouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu#//think that's all though ~!~#<- doin that cuz i can't have my wiggly exclamation point lol :)#but it's summer again which means i'm going to ddddiiiiiieeeeeeeee#that one guy who wanted to set fire to the sun had a real idea goin there..#//anyway toodles :33 perhaps i shall return. oo bYe ~+
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the prince married you on a warm summer day under cherry blossoms. he called you his most precious thing, and kissed you as if you were the only two people alive. perhaps he wasn’t very gentle with you on your wedding night, but that was how things are, or so your handmaid said.
it was when he began to turn away from you in the night that you felt the frigid wind of change. you had come from another land, another kingdom, and given up everything you knew. should you ever die, it would all fall to him.
on a brisk winter walk, the prince turns to you under that very same cherry tree, now withered like an old crone’s hand. the knife shines in the light reflected off the snow as he drives it into your chest. while blood drips from your lips, he leaves you for the wolves to find.
you beg and plead for this not to be the end. you want revenge.
that is when He comes, stepping through a gash in the world.
his horns are tall and straight, his features both those of a man and a wolf. behind him flows a long, black cape, only partially disguising his naked body. fur rolls down from his hips to his cloven hooves.
“so intent on living.” he bends down over you, tracing the blood that dribbles down your face. “and what would you do, should I give you another chance?”
the words come out a gurgle. “I would kill him.”
this clearly pleases him. he licks the blood off of you, delighting in the taste. at last his mouth settles over yours, his tongue sliding between your lips. it is soft and yet demanding, delicious and sinful.
all at once, fresh breath fills your lungs. you sit up in the snow, and though your dress is soaked with your blood, no wound remains at all. he helps you to your feet, never once letting go of your hand.
“you made a promise,” he says in your ear, nibbling your lobe. “don’t forget.”
it is easy to find the prince where he sleeps in his bed. with the same dagger, you pry open his flesh and withdraw his beating heart. it is a gift to your new lover.
He is pleased with your work, and rewards you with his thick cock. he is gentle in a way the prince wasn’t, but never relenting in his claim on your pleasure. with the deed done, he takes you back to hell with him, where you can be a princess once more.
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whenever i get sad that i don’t have friends to worship and do rituals with, I remember that birds sing love songs into the sky everyday, and the grass dances in the wind when it blows. And the clouds blush at the sunset, and the wind whistles tunes, and the bees hum, and the deer trot. And then I remember that the river runs, and the flowers open themselves to the sun, and the bugs sleep on warm leaves. and as I walk and pray, perhaps the rabbits nibbling on shrubs are praying too, perhaps that’s why the spider spun her web so beautifully. and then I remember that I’m not worshipping alone. I never was.
#witchcraft#magick#paganism#pagan#occultism#witch community#witch aesthetic#witchblr#deity witchcraft#deitywork#devotee#devotion#polytheistic#eclectic
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just like heaven
in which flirty!reader finally confesses her feelings to a pining spencer reid after a night out. she's slightly buzzed. it's complicated.
fluff (some angst) warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader drinks alcohol, dirty jokes, so much flirting and banter, some arguing kinda, but spencer is such a gentleman, everyone gets flustered at least once, they really wanna kiss, happy ending a/n: gif :D I hope u like this! not bandages reader but like same vibes. like an AU for my AU
“Emily!”
You drawl the ee sound long, the same way you reach across the table and wiggle your fingers at her half-empty glass. Thin dark brows dart up beneath that glossy sweep of reddish-black hair.
“Oh, wow. That’s unsettling. What?”
It’s been at least an hour since you had a drink of your own, but enough alcohol is still flowing through your veins so as to render her offensive comment inoffensive. You love Emily. You love the Tequila Sunrise sweating onto the sticky table in front of her which she’s not going to finish.
“I think she wants your drink,” JJ assists, cheek balanced tipsily on a propped up fist.
“Uh…”
Emily’s doe-sweet eyes flash uncertainly behind you.
“I’m basically sober,” you insist, laying your head on your outstretched arm and letting your hair cascade as you bat your lashes, offering her your sweetest smile. “Please, Em?”
It does not go according to plan. She scoffs.
“Are you flirting with me right now?”
“... Would that work?”
“Oh my god, just… cool it with the fuck-me eyes,” she laughs. “You can have the drink.”
You sit up, turning just barely over your shoulder to address Spencer.
“See? Emily buys me drinks. Basically.”
She slides the drink toward you, with a subtle roll of her eyes that you choose to interpret as affectionate under the dim canned lighting. As you sit back, content and free drink in hand, her eyes slide to Reid in the seat next to you, brows arching.
“Are you sure you can handle her all on your own?”
“Handle me?” You frown deeply as Emily gathers her purse and slides out of the booth, followed shortly thereafter by JJ. “I don’t need handling.”
“Then why do you have a handler?” JJ teases.
You slump against the worn vinyl, stirring what is mostly orange juice.
“He most definitely is not my handler. He’s my science project.”
“I got it,” Spencer assures your friends, with his trademark flattened smile. You can’t help but watch him with a grin of your own, flipping the straw in the drink and nibbling on the end until it’s stained sparkly pink. Goodbyes are issued, and soon it’s just the two of you. Perhaps it’s a tipsy delusion, but you think he seems to relax slightly when you’re alone. His eyes are easy on you. “You know, you’re not actually decreasing the amount of germ transmission by using the other end of the straw.”
“Mm… pretty sure alcohol kills germs, Doctor.”
At that, you giggle.
Doctor.
Soon you’re covering your face and having a full-fledged laugh attack.
“What?” Spencer asks. From between your fingers you can see that he’s smiling guardedly, brows furrowed in a way that reminds you he’s often worried about being the butt of a joke and not knowing it. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” you assure him quickly, gathering yourself. “I just… can’t believe you’re a doctor.”
“Why not? What’s so unbelievable about that?”
“You’re so young.”
And handsome.
“I’m not that young. I’m older than you,” he defends. Only by a handful of years, but you know he’s defensive about his age after a lifetime of being told he looks young for—well, everything.
“You’re… 32?”
That’s not right—you know as soon as you say it.
“Thirty three.” He very politely captures a hand—your hand—that had at some point ended up a little too close to his eye. You’re not sure what you planned to do once it got there—you don’t recall moving it at all.
“Sorry.” You take your hand back, choosing to instead fiddle with a button on his coat ponderously. “33 is a good age.”
“Yeah?” Spencer laughs, angling his head as if to regard you from a new angle. It warms you all over. Burns in some places, like a shot of liquor down your throat. Makes you just as dizzy, too. “You have a lot of experience being thirty three?”
“No, I just…” your cheeks heat and you wrestle with a timid smile, averting your gaze and dropping your hand for fear his grin this close up might actually kill you. “I like 33 year old you.”
“So… you didn’t like me when I was thirty two?”
“Stop,” you beg, a self-effacing laugh into the cup of your palm. “I can’t banter. I’m not at peak performance.”
The truth of it hits you, and you sigh, folding your arms on the table and resting your cloudy head. Only then, from this new perspective, do you allow yourself to fully admire Spencer Reid. He is smiling at you, and your heart does skip a beat like you’ve got some school girl crush. These days he wears his hair falling over his face, messy on purpose, and always smells so nice. You wonder when he started caring about that stuff. You want to see what products are in his shower, and learn why he chose that cologne, or how he decides to pair his socks. He probably has some sort of algorithm.
“Spencer,” you begin, the serious quality of your voice diminished by the smush of your cheek against your arm. Still, he tries to respect your tone, zipping the smile and answering with a playfully twitching brow.
“Hm?”
You want to push the hair out of his face. Why is he looking down at you like that? Like he likes you?
“You’re a very good handler.”
His eyes narrow as he considers this, but the glimmer in them could still spark a forest fire. You’re probably grinning like an idiot.
“Oh, I couldn’t handle you. You know this.”
You hum thoughtfully.
“I bet you could. Wanna try?”
Spencer shakes his head, huffing a laugh through his nose. To his credit, your bold-face innuendos don’t always send him into a tailspin these days.
Just sometimes.
“You need a ride home, don’t you?”
You sit back up, stretching your arms out.
“You don’t have to. I could get a cab.”
“I know,” he assures you, still a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. Why. Is. He. Looking. At. You. Like. That?
“Will you let me drive?”
“I would. But, you know, my affairs aren’t in order.”
You roll your eyes as he gets out of the booth and offers you a hand.
“I’m not that drunk.”
Spencer just wiggles his fingers.
“If you can recite the alphabet in reverse you can drive my car.”
You roll your eyes again. Obviously he’s fucking with you, because 1. He’d never let you drive even the slightest bit inebriated, and 2. He knows you can’t say your ABC’s backward when you’re dead sober.
The truth is you’re more buzzed than anything. You could get up and walk fine without any assistance, but he’s offering you his hand, so you take it. After you’re standing, you wonder how many excuses could you possibly dream up to get it back in yours. Should you pretend to fall?
No. Not quite worth your self respect.
“You know…” you muse, reveling in the brief brush of him against your back as he holds open the door for you, “it’s a good thing you didn’t become, like… a medical doctor.”
Now walking side by side on the street, he glances over at you, a poorly veiled smile on his perfect face. Like a trap door brushed over with a few leaves. He wants you to see it.
“Why’s that?”
A breeze ruffles your hair. The brisk cold and the walk seem to be making things crisper already. You shrug, bunching your sleeves in your hands against the increasingly frigid night. The skirt and tights you’d chosen were perfect for a stuffy dive bar. Not so much for an early DC spring.
“Nobody wants a hot doctor.”
He looks down at the sidewalk, hands pocketed, but the curve of his lips doesn’t lessen.
“Hm. You’re drunker than I thought.”
“What? No! I’m—barely!” Again he laughs at you, and again you flush, looking down and counting the cracks in the pavement as you journey slowly under the bath of yellow street lights. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you called me hot.” He sounds almost delighted as he grins sheepishly around the final word.
You snort. You’ve said worse things, more graphic things within the past few hours alone—but you suppose they’ve all been more like dirty jokes than compliments.
“Yeah. You think you aren’t?”
Sandy locks fall side to side as he carefully measures a response. His cologne is warm—sort of smoky. It’s very nice. He doesn’t seem like he’d wear cologne. Have you already thought about his cologne tonight? Once was probably enough.
“I just think sober you wouldn’t have said that.”
“But don’t you prefer it when I’m aggressively flirting with you? I mean, I know I do it sober too, but it's not as good, right?”
A silent stretch begins and shortly ends, and you don’t mind it. Right now, everything is a winding path through the woods. You’re willing to follow any fork off the trail if it means spending more time with him.
“I guess I wasn’t aware that was what you were doing.”
“Oh, bullshit,” you laugh, and it echoes through the canyon of a nearby alley, “I’m not subtle, Reid.”
“I don’t know! You—for all I know that’s just how you are! I mean, what did Emily call them earlier, your—your fuck-me eyes?”
Like he does when he’s flustered, he gets shrill and stuttery. It’s nice to be reminded that he’s still a complete dork on the inside—and the outside, too, as pink stains his cheeks like watercolor. You smirk at him in your periphery, watching him against the darkened city backdrop.
“You noticed those, huh?”
“No,” he denies forcefully, but his brow is pinched like he doesn’t quite believe himself, “I mean, yes, I notice when you look at other people like that, but that’s not what I would call them—I wouldn’t call them anything, I’d just call them your eyes, you know? Not that you always look like you’re soliciting… the implication isn’t there, it’s just—I notice when you flirt with other people! With Emily, and Derek, like, not even half an hour ago. You’re lucky Hotch wasn’t there. You’d probably have given him a heart attack.”
“I’m more concerned with yours, to be honest.”
“My heart is fine,” he laughs. “Worry about my dignity.”
“Hm. I was going for both. Guess I’d better try harder.”
You don’t notice you’ve come to a stop until you’re face to face in front of his vintage Volvo. Spencer is standing closer than usual, hands perpetually stuck in that nice wool coat. He’s all windswept and pretty, smiling crookedly and eyes sparkly with humor. A strand of hair sticks to your lip gloss, and you brush it away, tucking it behind your ear and squinting up at him against the chilly breeze. The flush is either from the nip in the air or your brazen flirting.
“Or, you could go easy on me. I’m frail. Like a… sickly Victorian child.”
Again his brow knits and he smiles like he knows what he’s said is ridiculous. But his tone is gentler now. Softer. Invites you to fall in deeper and see what you might find.
“And ruin all my fun? Toughen up, Reid.”
For a long moment, you don’t get a response—only his eyes, soft and thoughtful on you, before you’re distracted by the sweet bow of his lips. If he notices you’re staring, it doesn’t seem to bother him.
But something evidently does, as when he next speaks, it’s troubled. Curiosity straining against a rope that says maybe it’s better if I don’t ask.
“Do… do you actually flirt with me? When you’re sober, I mean.”
He expects to be ridiculed. In his most vulnerable moments, he’s still bracing for rejection—turning his cheek slightly so he’s ready for the stinging blow. It opens a fissure in your chest. You frown, and speak gently.
“Yeah, Spence. More than anyone else. You really don’t notice?”
Sometimes his face is so expressive, in the pull of his brow and tightening of his eyes and the way he wets his lips. But he probably doesn’t know that. And he can’t seem to meet your eyes, instead choosing to study the leather of your heeled boots. Sounds of late-night traffic, of tires on wet asphalt buffer the pauses between sentences.
“I notice… when you talk to Derek and Emily and JJ and Penelope the exact same way you talk to me. I didn’t think…”
Another gap in conversation, filled with the chatter of some group pouring out of a bar somewhere. You realize he’ll need some gentle prompting to bridge it.
“You didn’t think what?”
When his eyes flash back up to meet yours, you have a feeling like he’s shutting the pipes off.
“It’s—uh—” he clears his throat— “it’s not important, we can—we’ll talk about it a different time. We should—”
“Wait.”
He’d been turning away but snaps right back to look at you as if on command, wearing a brand new face that tells you he’d like to wipe the past minute or so completely away.
“Yeah?”
“Spencer. I wanna know what you were going to say.”
“I told you. It’s nothing.”
“You didn’t tell me. You mumbled evasively and walked away. We were in the middle of something and I want to know what you were going to say. Please?”
“Well, you’re drunk,” he finally sighs, and it’s a bit sharp. Stinging.
“I am not drunk,” you defend, and it feels true, with a bitter cold lashing at your cheek and blood heightened from the walk. “You know I’m not too drunk to have a coherent conversation. Why are you being weird?”
“Because I asked you to drop it! We can’t have this conversation right now, all right? I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Your stomach flips, and your breath comes a little heavier. Spencer is clearly frustrated with you. Maybe being on the wrong end of this mild vexation, and so suddenly, should make you feel guilty, or some kind of bad—but all you feel is a sort of buzz in the tips of your fingers and the thrum of your heart, something deeper than excitement pooling in your veins at having inspired this sort of passion. It means he feels something. Something for you.
“I’m sorry,” he tries halfheartedly, unable or more likely unwilling to stay angry at you for very long, “you didn’t—”
“What conversation?”
It’s jarring how quickly this has spun on its head. The very air you’re breathing seems to have changed. The metropolitan soundscape is a rife undercurrent of tension and louder from all the words unsaid.
Finally he swallows.
“There’s no conversation. I’m—it was a poor choice of wording. I just meant we should get you home.”
Before he can make it to the driver’s side door, you’re calling out.
“You think I don’t like you. And I just flirt with you ‘cause I flirt with everyone.”
Spencer stops, and turns to face you once more, sighing and head dropped to one side like you’re doing something incredibly inconsiderate. He’s never looked at you like that before, but you don’t let it shake you.
“That’s what this is about, right?”
He says your name, but you don’t let him get further than that.
“No, I think there is a conversation here, and saying I’m not sober enough to have it isn’t fair and you should have said something before and I think you should just say it now.”
You’re pushing his buttons with a heavy hand, though your own voice shakes. He’s feeling it too—you’ve never been so short with each other. His voice is raised.
“What am I supposed to say?”
It boils over.
“That you like me!”
It rings.
Then it’s silent.
His face is mostly blank. A little sorrowful around his eyes.
It’s cold, jumping into the deep end like this.
“We can’t talk about this right now,” he finally says, glancing to the side as if to suggest a situation the size of the whole city.
“Spencer, I—”
“It’s impossible to have a meaningful discussion until your judgement isn’t impaired, otherwise it’s—”
“I am telling you that I flirt with you because I really like you.”
“I—”
It appears you’ve truly thrown him for a loop. For a moment his jaw works at nothing, a soliloquy of words go unspoken, and then he’s stuttering and fumbling for the right thing to say, looking everywhere but at you.
“I can’t—that’s—regardless of whether or not it’s even true—”
“It is true.”
“Could you—stop?” He pleads. “You can’t tell me that. I mean, the power imbalance when you’ve been drinking and I haven’t—it’s—I mean, it's coercive. Because I brought it up, I asked an inappropriate question—or at least started to ask it, and you—not that it was your fault, I’m the responsible party in this instance, but if tomorrow you realize you never wanted to tell me—so I have to take that with a grain of salt. I’m just—I have to pretend I didn’t hear that, alright? And you can’t say it again.”
He’s ridiculous. You shift your weight onto one foot casually.
“That’s not very nice. I just confessed to having a huge crush on you and you’re gonna leave me hanging?”
There is an undeniable sort of pleasure in the bright of his eyes, and you phrased it that way on purpose, just to see him preen and glow—also to see if you could make him trip all over himself some more. Right now, despite the liminal space your relationship may or may not be occupying, you’re teasing him like you always do. Like he’s a friend, because he is. Before anything else.
He tries to glower, barely.
“Were you listening to me at all?”
“It was hard with all the stammering. I thought you might pass out.”
“I might,” he grumbles, and the admission pleases you greatly. Your lips tug as you admire him for a moment—watch his defenses go down and his features ease into something more inviting.
God, maybe you really had been too hard on him. Maybe he really didn’t expect that you would like him back.
You’re struck with the need to reassure.
A dampened clack emits from your shoe where the heel hits the ground as you step down off the curb.
“You know… I do like you. A lot. I mean it. And I’m glad I told you, because... you like me too, right?”
He raises his brows, like don’t do anything stupid, as you approach unhurriedly. It’s good to see that you haven’t broken his spirit completely.
Less than a foot away, you stop. Close enough to be in his space. Too far for him to have the grounds to step back.
His eyes are careful on you, analytical as always, constantly predicting an infinite number of outcomes to any given scenario. That’s how he keeps his footing in the world. But he’s never very good at predicting you. And it helps that his razor sharp intellect is dulled, some, with affection. Attraction.
It shows in his eyes. He’ll let you push boundaries he knows he shouldn’t. More so if you keep speaking to him this softly. Almost whispering.
“Tell me you like me, Spencer.”
Because he hasn’t yet. All the heavy lifting has been done for him, and that just won’t do.
First, he opens his mouth, and you watch the internal debate, a million things he could say, spinning round in his eyes like pinwheels. Rules, and buts, and caveats.
In the end, he just clears his throat. Speaks in the same secretive tone. Low enough to be intimate.
“I like you.”
Such a simple thing has never made you feel so airy before in your life. You steal another glance at his lips.
“So it’s really not that complicated. We could probably just kiss.”
He tinges pink.
“We definitely can’t.”
“You also said we couldn’t talk about it, and yet…”
“Talking is different. As far as I’m concerned, nothing you say to me tonight is binding. Whatever just transpired happened completely off the record. We can… talk about it tomorrow, but right now, you and I are friends.”
You shrug.
“Friends can kiss.”
“No, they can’t,” he says definitively, though not without a healthy dose of sardonic self-awareness and a dark smile. His hand finds your waist, and it’s glancing, if anything a light push, but you’re delighted nonetheless. Almost as pleased as if he really had kissed you. “It’s cold. I’m ready to leave.”
You’ve pushed him enough for one night. And it is cold. So you shuffle around the car with quick steps to the passenger side door, hooking your fingers under the biting metal handle and waiting for him to unlock the vehicle.
You’re shivering as your thighs press against leather upholstery, only the thinnest layer of synthetic material protecting your legs. Spencer is already starting the car, but the engine is too cold to bother turning the heat on yet.
“I think it’s colder in here than outside. Look at my hand.” You hold it up for him, and it is discolored, waxy, as he mindlessly takes it between his own much warmer ones. “I thought alcohol was supposed to keep you warm. Didn’t that chef on the Titanic survive hours in the ocean because he was hammered?”
“That’s a myth. Not the chef—he did survive, but it was a complete anomaly. Alcohol causes vasodilation in the dermis layer of the skin, so you feel warmer, but it draws blood flow away from your internal organs and significantly raises your likelihood of developing hypothermia.”
Does he notice how he’s holding your hand? Carefully pressing his thumbs to the center of your palm and pushing up through your love and life lines, cupping the fingers, before sandwiching them between his own and generating friction the way a child furiously rolls a play-doh worm?
“I guess I’m really not that drunk, then.”
He’s not expecting it, and maybe he doesn’t know what to make of your exceptionally gentle tone at first. It was a mistake, you think, as he relinquishes his hold on your hand, and you curl it to retain the memory of his warmth. But then he tucks hair behind your ear, like he’s done once or twice before, and smiles in a way you don’t quite understand.
“I know.”
You won’t push him. You won’t ask for anything else, and you won’t demand an explanation. Spencer is special. It can all wait, because you have something good with him already. Something important. Something like holding hands.
It comes as a surprise when he leans across the console, and you lean in a trance to meet him, and another surprise when he gently redirects, pressing his lips to your cheek, close enough to match the corners of your mouths and nothing more.
You’d let him do it a hundred times over, but he draws back after a fraction of a lingering second, and finds your hand to stroke the back of it, forgotten in your lap.
“You said no kissing,” you murmur, as if in a dream. If you had the wherewithal to be embarrassed maybe you wouldn’t be ogling so much.
“Compromise.”
If anything, you should be the cheek-kisser. But there will be time to feel slighted about that later. Time to amend. For now, you look ahead robotically.
“Is there a rule against friendly hand-holding?”
“Probably,” he says.
But he lets you hold his hand in your lap the whole drive to your apartment, anyway.
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