#feels like i was gone for a while (<- i spent an hour reading)

[inadaydream99]

How they respond after a kiss

A/N - just another random reaction that I got carried away with… especially Jeongin’s

Disclaimer: this does not represent any of the members in real life and is for entertainment purposes only.

Chan

“Quick, kiss me again. He’s coming back!”

Chan was barely able to catch his breath, let alone register your words, before you had pulled him in and smashed your lips against his once again. Not that he was ever going to refuse kissing you.

If someone had told you at the beginning of the night - heck or even an hour ago - that you’d end up kissing your best friend the way you currently are, you’d have laughed in their face. But as unforeseen events unfolded, Chan’s lips had come to your rescue.

You see, you’d been minding your own business at the bar, waiting to be served after offering to get the next round for your group of friends. It was busy and so you had begun occupying yourself with the soggy cardboard coaster that had been left on the bar top to wilt, tearing it into small sodden pieces until a staff member became available to attend to you. Until some overconfident - and clearly already pretty drunk - guy had decided that you needed to be chatted up by him.

Unbeknownst to you, Chan had been eyeing up the interaction from your table a short distance away, taking note of your standoffish body language. He was just waiting for the slightest indication from you before he stepped in… ah yeah, there it is.

“You good baby?” You flinched upon the hand that carefully landed on your shoulder, exhaling when you turn to find that it was only Chan. You don’t say a word, instead sending him your best “help me” look. And you’re relieved to see your best friend nod, having read your mind and clearly the situation at hand, before he gives a quick glance to the guy who’d been trying to chat you up.

You’d half expected Chan to calmly pretend to be your boyfriend and coerce the guy away. But instead you feel a finger tuck under your chin and, before you know it, his lips connecting with yours. It takes everything in you to keep your knees from buckling under you, having had all the air sucked out of your lungs. But luckily Chan feels you wobble and moves his hands to secure your waist before breaking the kiss to see if your unwanted admirer had left.

“All gone.” Chan smirks, feeling satisfied with his work. There’s not even a glimpse of embarrassment upon his features like you may have expected there to be - had you not been frozen in place like you are. The only thing that breaks you out of your swirling mind is the approaching face from before from just past Chan’s shoulder.

And that’s how you end up pulling him back in, smashing your lips into his and making out with you best friend, the drinks you’d initially set out to get long forgotten.

Minho

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because you wouldn’t shut up.” Minho rolls his eyes, like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. Why else would he have kissed you? Because he wanted to? Pft. Yes, he actually did want to, but that’s besides to point because he also wanted to shut you up.

You’d been yammering on for what felt like an eternity and all your boyfriend wanted to do was rest after a long day of practice. Minho loves you, he really does, and he would usually let you talk to your hearts content without any complaint. But he’s spent all day with Hyunjin and Seungmin, both of whom had been in the most annoying moods Minho had had to endure for a long time. Even his threats of tissues and being put in the air fryer were ineffective. So by the end of the day, once he’d finally returned to his quiet room and you’d messaged to say you were on your way over, Minho finally felt like he was able to relax.

“That was uncalled for.” You grumble, more so to yourself but still loud enough that you knew Minho would be able to hear you.

“Which part?” Minho raises a brow in challenge. You stare each other down while he waits for you to dare answer him. “The kiss or the shutting up?” and then he has the audacity to smirk at you.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna go hang out with one of the others.” You make for the door, but are stopped by his hand grabbing your wrist. “Minho if you don’t let me go-”

Before you have a chance to utter any half-hearted threat to him, he’s spun you around and captured you in his hold. You frown up at him when you meet stern expression.

“Call me that again. I dare you.” You gulp. While your boyfriend clearly isn’t that mad at you (you know because if he was, he would have just let you leave and then proceeded to give you the silent treatment until you are practically begging him to acknowledge you), his stare makes you nervous. You think back to just before, how you knew he’d had a long day. And the guilt washes over you like a tidal wave because, although he’d tried to get you to be quiet, he’d only kissed you to do so…

“Min…” your voice is soft, almost a whisper, as your hand slowly raises to cup his cheek. “My love. I’m sorry. I know you’re tired and I should have let you rest… please let me go so you can have some quiet.” You hold his gaze until his eyes begin to soften and you feel his grip on your waist falter.

“I’m sorry too kitten.” He sighs, placing a tender kiss to your forehead. “But please stay with me. I don’t want to be without you.” You hug him tight in response, burying your head into his chest and wrapping your arms tightly around his torso, intending to never let him go. Eventually he manages to move you so you’re cuddling on his bed, pressing a delicate kiss to your lips before you both fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Changbin

The world around you seemed to slow the moment your lips met Changbin’s. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t something you had even been thinking about. Until suddenly, it was the only thing that made sense. His hand, which had been resting gently on your arm, froze in place as the warmth of the kiss lingered between you two.

Changbin blinked, wide-eyed, his expression a mix of surprise and something softer that you couldn’t quite put into words. Then, the corners of his lips slowly curled up into a shy, almost boyish grin. His hand, which had been frozen against your arm, finally moved, gently brushing up to cup your cheek. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, his cheeks pink with a blush that matched the warmth in your own.

“Did that… really just happen?” he asked, his voice soft, almost disbelieving. There was a playful edge to his tone, but you could tell that he was being sincere.

You smiled, feeling a little embarrassed but also strangely at ease. “It did.”

“You know,” he began, his voice low but filled with warmth, “I was just thinking about how I wanted to do that.”

“You were?”

Changbin nodded, his grin growing wider, more confident now. “Yeah… but I didn’t know how to make the first move...”

You felt your heart swell at his words, the soft sincerity in his voice making the moment feel even more special.

“I didn’t want to wait any longer,” you admitted, the honesty coming easily in the quiet, intimate space between you. His smile softened, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he leaned closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet confidence. “Because I don’t think I want to wait any longer either.” His thumb gently traced along your cheek before pulling you in once again. This time the kiss wasn’t filled with hesitation or surprise. Instead, it was soft and full of warmth and when he pulled back, his cheeks were still pink, but his smile was brighter than you’d ever seen it.

Changbin chuckled, pulling you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you in that familiar, comforting way. As he held you close, you could feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a soft blanket.

“I’m really glad it was you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low and content.

You smiled into his chest, feeling the same warmth bloom in your heart. “Me too.”

Hyunjin

“You can’t just do that without warning me!”

Hyunjin hadn’t expected you to freak out so much. The delulu part of his mind had actually thought you’d react very differently to him kissing you. Like thanking him or instantly confessing your undying love for him. Most certainly not reprimanding him like you currently are…

“I thought it would be romantic!” He throws his hands in the air, exasperatedly explaining his reasoning. “You said you wanted a guy to, and I quote, “sweep you off your feet”. So that’s what I was trying to do.”

He’s not lying. You had said that only the day before. But you didn’t think he’d take your words so seriously and literally try to do just that barely 24 hours later.

“I wasn’t aware you’d actually do it.” You begin to laugh, the humour of the situation finally setting in. You can’t help the smile that breaks across your face or the laughter that just won’t stop tumbling past your lips. Even Hyunjin begins to join in after a moment. And the longer you allow his actions to sink in, the more you realise how flattered you actually are and how good his lips felt against yours…

The laughter slowly dissipates between you into silence, which you would feel the need to fill if you weren’t fixated onto Hyunjin’s lips. You can’t seem to pull your gaze away from them no matter how much you tell yourself you should and it’s not until Hyunjin breaks your daze by waving his hand in front of your face that you realise there’s no way of playing it off.

“What’s on your mind Pretty?” You gulp, finally taking in his knowing smirk. You know Hyunjin isn’t really looking for an answer, you’ve been caught red handed. And to top it off, he’s using the nickname that you have always protested him calling you…

It takes you another moment to gather the words into a coherent sentence, but once you’ve decided what you want to happen next, there’s no way you’re not going to tell him.

“Do it again.” You try to sound assured and confident in your choice, watching as Hyunjin’s devilish expression grows. He mutters a low “do what again?” to you, knowing fully well what you meant the first time. “Sweep me off my feet.” You assert.

The words have barely left your mouth when Hyunjin launches into action, scooping you into his arms and crashing his lips into yours. You can feel his smile as you allow him to deepen the kiss, your fingers reaching up to thread through his hair and giving it a little tug. You reluctantly break the kiss a second later, in much need of air, both of you staring into each other’s eyes knowing that you’re officially done for. You’ve been well and truly swept away.

Jisung

As you pulled away, you could still feel the softness of Jisung’s lips against yours, the warmth of his breath, and the slight tremble in his hands as they hovered uncertainly by your waist. His eyes were wide, surprise and wonder dancing in them as he stared at you, his lips slightly parted as if he was trying to form words but couldn’t quite find them. You could hear the distant sounds of the other members in the dorm, laughing and talking in the next room, and suddenly the closeness of the moment felt both exhilarating and a little dangerous.

The noise made Jisung blink, snapping out of his daze, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he looked at you, his hand instinctively moving to rub the back of his neck in that shy, awkward way you’d seen a hundred times before.

“You should go before someone sees,” he whispers, his voice a mix of nervous laughter and soft fondness. His eyes dart toward the door, and you can practically see his thoughts racing, imagining one of the members barging in and witnessing the whole thing.

Your heart skips a beat, the playful urgency of his words making you smile. “And what if I don’t want to go?”

Jisung’s cheeks flush a deep pink, as he quickly looks away, biting his lip to suppress a grin. He glances back at you, his eyes sparkling with a teasing glint, though you can tell he is still trying to calm the rapid beating of his own heart.

“I mean… we could stay here,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, “but if Hyunjin or Seungmin catch us, we’ll never hear the end of it.” His tone is light, but the way he looks at you makes your heart swell.

You laugh softly, stepping a little closer, feeling bolder now despite the playful warning. “Are you really that scared of them?”

Jisung’s expression turns mock-serious, though he can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. The teasing? Endless.”

You giggle, the tension between you melting away into something light and easy, just like it always does with him. There is still that lingering warmth in his gaze, a softness in the way he looks at you that makes you feel like this moment is more than just a joke.

Before you can respond, jisung suddenly takes a step closer, closing the distance between you with a surprising tenderness. His fingers brush against your hand, hesitant at first, before slowly curling around it.

“I’m really glad you kissed me,” he whispers, reflecting on the week before when you finally caved in and made a move. Since then, it’s been a lot of kissing behind closed doors, neither of you wanting things to get out until you both felt ready.

Your heart flutters at the quiet sincerity in his tone, rendering you unable to speak. Upon this, his smile softens and his thumb gently rubs circles on the back of your hand. For a second, it feels like the rest of the world has faded away, the sounds of the dorm distant and unimportant. It’s just you and him, standing in the small space, the closeness between you comforting and safe. But then, the faint sound of footsteps from down the hall snaps you both back to reality. Jisung’s eyes widening as he quickly lets go of your hand before taking a step back. “Seriously, you should go before they see…”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh at how serious he suddenly looked, like getting caught would be the end of the world. “Alright, alright. I’m going.” You hold your hands up in surrender.

As you start to walk toward the door, you glance back at him. His gaze has followed you, his cheeks still a soft shade of pink, but his smile is wide and genuine. “See you next time,” you utter with a teasing smile.

Jisung chuckles, shaking his head fondly. “Next time, I’ll make sure we’re alone.”

Felix

“You, uh… you taste amazing,” Felix shyly gushes, his voice dropping into that familiar, deep tone, tinged with a hint of nervousness. His eyes flicker to yours as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he immediately bites his lip, as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I mean, it’s just…” He stumbles over his words, looking down at the floor for a second before glancing back up at you through his lashes, his shy smile never leaving his face. “You taste like… strawberries or something. It’s really nice.”

Your stomach flips at how adorable he is, his usual confidence giving way to something much softer. “I was just eating strawberry candy before you came in,” you admit with a giggle, feeling your own cheeks flush. Felix’s eyes light up, his smile widening as he nods.

“That explains it.” He glances down at your lips again, his voice a bit quieter now, a little more thoughtful. “I like it.”

“You taste amazing too,” you tease lightly.

Felix’s eyes widen in surprise before a deep, rumbly laugh escapes him, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your heart flutter. “Oh, do I?” he asks, his voice filled with amusement and warmth now.

You grin, feeling more confident as you nod. “Yeah, like cinnamon… sweet and warm.”

Felix’s grin softens into something more tender, his hand finally resting gently on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. He looks at you like you are the most precious thing in the world, the playful teasing fading into a quiet moment that felt just as sweet as the kiss had been.

For a moment, neither of you say anything, just standing there in the comfortable silence, enjoying the closeness. Then, with a soft chuckle, Felix leans in slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

“Maybe next time, I’ll bring some strawberry candy too,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

“Next time?” you ask, raising an eyebrow playfully.

Felix grins, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischievous glint. “Yeah. I think we’re going to need a lot of next times.” And with that, he leans in, kissing you again, just as soft and sweet as the first time, but this time with the promise of many more to come.

Seungmin

The kiss was soft and warm, full of the familiar comfort you’d come to love about your arrangement with Seungmin. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you, the quiet hum of the room and the warmth of his body pressing against yours making everything feel right. But then, suddenly, Seungmin pulled back, his lips parting from yours with a mischievous glint in his eyes. His expression oddly calm, as if he’d just paused a moment to consider something.

“Why’d you stop?” you ask, still feeling the tingle of his kiss on your lips.

Seungmin shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, the corners of his mouth twitching into a playful grin. “Because you weren’t responding.”

You frown, your brows knitting together in confusion. “But… I was?”

The amusement in Seungmin’s eyes only grows upon your reaction. “You’re saying that your lips were moving against mine? That I wasn’t doing all the work?”

His teasing tone makes you want to roll your eyes, but you hold back, knowing that doing so would only encourage him to be more infuriating. Instead, you try to keep your composure, even though you can feel a hint of annoyance bubbling up inside you.

Your agreement is simple: kisses whenever you both want, without the baggage of a relationship. It works well, and Seungmin’s kisses are, without a doubt, addictive. His lips are soft and plush, making every touch a sweet temptation.

“Pup, I put my tongue in your mouth and you froze,” Seungmin states, his voice dripping with condescension as he watches you mumble “You didn’t warn me.”

You shoot him a sulky look, trying to hide how his teasing is making you really feel. Seungmin’s eyes soften as he takes in your pouty expression, and a warm chuckle escapes him. “You look so cute when you sulk,” he continues to tease.

Ever since you’d struck up this kissing deal, Seungmin had found it hard to imagine why he hadn’t made a move sooner. Everything about you felt so right, your laugh, your smile, the way your lips fit against his… He couldn’t help but feel drawn to you, and it was becoming harder to keep things just as simple as you both had agreed upon.

“Just come back here and we’ll pick up from where we left off, okay?” Seungmin holds his hand out to you, his smile affectionate and warm, a silent promise of more to come. It was the kind of smile that made it impossible for you to say no. With a shy smile of your own, you take his hand, letting him pull you back against him. His warmth envelops you, your lips just close enough to feel his hot breath. The anticipation makes your heart race as your noses brush together; the closeness making every small touch feel electric.

“You ready?” Seungmin asks softly, his eyes locked onto yours with an earnestness that makes your pulse quicken.

“Ready,” you whisper back, leaning in closer. This time, as his tongue seeks entrance into your mouth, you accept it without hesitation. The kiss deepens and you feel a shiver of delight run through you as Seungmin’s arms wrap around you, pulling you in closer.

When you finally brake apart, both of you breathless and smiling, Seungmin’s eyes are filled with a satisfied glow. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Not at all.”

Seungmin grins, the mischievous glint still dancing in his eyes. “Good. Because I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

You can’t help but smile, leaning in for another kiss, your lips meeting his with the same warmth and affection. It was clear that, despite the teasing and the occasional annoyance, Seungmin was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.

Jeongin

So, you’d accidentally kissed the bane of your existence, and now he wouldn’t let you forget it. You weren’t sure how it had happened. One minute, you were squabbling like usual, the same old playful back-and-forth that always seemed to erupt between you two whenever you were in the same room. Jeongin had made some sarcastic comment, flashing that signature smug grin of his, and you, frustrated and flustered, had turned sharply, and somehow… your lips had met. It was brief, barely a second, but the impact was enough to knock the air out of your lungs. And Jeongin, of course, had the audacity to just stare at you, completely unfazed, his eyes wide but sparkling with amusement, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. It was a complete accident, but try telling that to Jeongin.

Now, here you are days later, still reeling from the embarrassment while he seemed to be living his best life. Jeongin, famously sweet and adored by practically everyone, was one of the few people you couldn’t stand. He was annoyingly charming, effortlessly liked by everyone and always had this expectant attitude, like he knew you’d give in to him eventually. And now he had this to hold over your head. You glared at him across the room as he lounged casually on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, his expression far too relaxed for someone who had been driving you up the wall for days.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement. “Still thinking about it, huh?”

You shoot him a sharp glare, hoping the heat creeping up your cheeks isn’t as obvious as it feels. “I am not thinking about it.” You force a response through gritted teeth.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You’re definitely thinking about it.” His grin widens, that infuriatingly smug look returning to his face. “I mean, it’s understandable. I’d probably be thinking about it too if I were you.”

You groan, throwing your head back in exasperation. “Jeongin, I swear, if you bring it up one more time—”

“What? You gonna kiss me again?” he teases, sitting up a little straighter, his eyes sparkling mischievously. Your face flames at the memory, and you clench your fists, trying to maintain what little dignity you have left.

“It was an accident.”

Jeongin’s grin softens, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. “You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you…”

You groan again, pressing your palms to your face. This is torture. Absolute torture. “Why do you insist on making everything so difficult?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression softening just a little. “Difficult? Or interesting?” He chuckles, a low, pleasant sound that somehow makes your stomach do a little flip. “You just make it so easy to mess with you. You get all worked up over the smallest things.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly as he studies you. “Maybe that’s why I like teasing you so much.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. His smugness is still there, but you’re sure you see a glimmer of something else, too. Something softer, almost playful in a way that wasn’t designed just to get under your skin. “I don’t know how anyone puts up with you,” you mutter, though the bite in your words is far less sharp than usual.

“Well, my friends think I’m charming,” he smirks triumphantly. “They all see me as their younger brother. Innocent, adorable… maybe you should start seeing me that way too.”

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest. “You? A younger brother? Absolutely not.”

Jeongin’s eyes light up, his grin widening. “What, so you see me as something else then?”

Your eyes narrow, heart racing as you realise how your words had played right into his hands. “Don’t twist my words.”

But Jeongin isn’t about to let this go. He leans back against the couch, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Too late. I’m twisting them.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he is delusional, but the words die in your throat as you see the look in his eyes. His teasing smile has softened into something gentler, his gaze steady and, for once, not filled with mischief. The silence stretches out between you, and you suddenly feel the weight of what had happened a few days ago settle over you again. The accidental kiss. The way he’d looked at you afterward, surprised but not… upset. Like he hadn’t minded it at all.

Your heart thuds in your chest as you meet his gaze. “Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Jeongin tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “Because you’re fun to be around.” He pauses, his lips quirking up in a half-smile. “And because I like seeing that look on your face.”

You blink, startled by his honesty. “What look?”

“That look,” he speaks softly, his gaze never leaving yours. “The one where you’re actually thinking about me, and not as if you hate me.”

Your breath catches in your throat, the heat rising in your cheeks again. You can’t believe it. The bane of your existence is actually saying something sweet. And the worst part? It isn’t annoying anymore. It’s making your heart race in a way you would never expect.

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter, looking away, embarrassed by how vulnerable you suddenly feel.

Jeongin’s voice softens even more, and he leans closer, his words a gentle murmur. “I know. And I don’t hate you either… but I’m still not going to let you forget that kiss.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands again. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he playfully shrugs. “But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t remind you every day.”

You peek through your fingers at him, rolling your eyes even though you’re unable to hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “You really won’t let me live this down, will you?”

“Not a chance.”

[vyzz-undercover]

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3)

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink (obligatory)

•vaginal fingering

•oral (f receiving)

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

———————————————————————————————————

im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

———————————————————————————————————

Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you where as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little boots practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side in on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small hugg as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

[redrose10]

Since spooky season is among us 7 or 8 would set those vibes 👀

Here is #7 from the picture game! I was hoping someone would request a spooky season one with this photo. It starts off pretty spooky but there is a lot of humor and stuff in there too. Also it’s kind of loosely based on that drama My Demon.

Warnings: Death, demons, small unwanted advancements, mention of hospitals and cancer

You looked around the room taking in the scenery as if it was all new to you even though you’d spent plenty of time there. Your grandma was a sweet woman. She really was, but sometimes you wondered what had happened in her life that caused her to become the way that she was now. She wasn’t always like this. Then one day she suddenly adorned her home with dozens and dozens of various crosses and pictures of the Virgin Mary. A bowl of Holy Water sat in each room. She recited prayers on the hour like her life depended on it. Even on her death bed it seemed to be the last thing she could think of. She held your hand as you studied her face trying to memorize every wrinkle and hair.

She hadn’t spoken in several days at this point. The nurses warned you to prepare for the end as it was near.

“Y/N”, she suddenly whispered with what little strength she had left.

Immediately you leaned forward, “I’m here grandma. I’m here. What do you need?”

“Y/N, I see him. I can see him. Do you?”

You looked around the room but it was only you and her. The nurse already having left for the night.

One of the pamphlets you read had talked about how hallucinations were common in the final stages of death. You remained quiet as your grandmother continued to mumble.

“Y/N, don’t make the same mistakes I have. I’m so sorry for what I did.”

You shook your head, “Grandma everyone makes mistakes. It’s okay. You did nothing wrong.”

“No Y/N. You don’t understand. If he ever comes to you, you run. You run away as fast as you can and don’t fall for his tricks.”

You were startled by her words but tried to remind yourself that the nurses told you this was normal and that it wasn’t really your grandmother talking any more.

“Y/N if you don’t remember anything I’ve ever taught you just please at least remember this. The Devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He is beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel. And he’s here now Y/N. He’s here for me and I can’t avoid him any longer.”

She began to cry as her breath became even more ragged.

“Grandma it’s okay. It’s okay”, you said through tears trying to soothe her. You grabbed your phone to call the nurse hoping they could come administer some more sedatives or something. You hated seeing your grandmother cry in fear. But by the time the nurse picked up your grandmother had passed.

The nurse was at your door in no time. She helped you make the necessary phone calls and waited with you until the funeral home arrived. Once they were all gone and you were left alone sitting in your grandmothers room you stared at the now empty bed. The thought that your grandma’s last moments were filled with fear was more heartbreaking for you than anything else.

“Your grandmother was a good woman. I almost feel bad.”, a deep voice spoke behind you. You shrieked in fear jumping back against the wall.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?”, you screamed while frantically searching for your phone.

“Your grandmother just warned you about me. Were you not listening?”, he smirked.

You looked over this strange man who was standing in your grandmother’s bedroom. He had raven black hair and sleek cat like eyes. He was dressed in all black. His long cloak hanging lazily off of him. Skin without a single blemish. He looked like an angel.

“I’m sorry I’m still confused as to who you are and why you’re here.”, you said while slowly inching towards the door hoping you could make a run for it.

“Y/N, I’m here to collect what is mine.”

Your skin turned ice cold. Was he the man that your grandma had been seeing in her final moments? And how did he know your name?

The man let out an annoyed sigh before snapping his fingers teleporting you to an unknown location. The room was filled with thousands and thousands of clocks. All ticking away. The sound was overwhelming. Under each clock was a name plate. You gasped when you read the name under the clock directly in front of you.

Unlike the others your grandmothers clock wasn’t ticking any more and instead of being a beautiful gold color like the rest, it was gray.

“What is all this?”, you asked.

“Well I grant wishes.”

“Like a genie?”

“Yes…wait no not like a genie.”

“Well genies grant wishes so…”

“You humans really are insufferable.”, he scoffed before pinching the bridge of his nose, “As I was saying, I grant wishes for people in need. I come to them when they are the most vulnerable and in exchange for granting their wish they sign a contract stating that at the end of their life their soul will eternally be mine.”

You looked over this man trying to make sense of what he just said and why it involved your grandma.

“So what does this have to do with my grandmother?”

He grinned as he was happy to relive the moment, “Many many years ago I was at a hospital. It’s one of the easiest places to make a deal. People are willing to sign away their eternity if it means saving their loved ones or even extending their own time on earth. I came across your grandfather. He had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer, given less than three months to live. He was worried how your grandmother would be able to survive without him. She had a young child at home, only working part time at a bakery. He was desperate to make sure she was taken care of. Soooo I made him a deal. At his next doctors appointment he would be magically cured and then would live the rest of his life cancer free and when he died as an old man warm in his bed, his soul would be mine.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

He continued, “When your grandmother found out she was livid. She tracked me down and begged me to make a deal with her. At first I declined because I make the deals, not some measly human. But she was relentless. I kind of admired her honestly. Finally I gave in and made her a deal. Instead of taking her husbands soul I would get hers. She spent the rest of her life thinking that cheap porcelain crosses and holy water would save her. She paid her dues and now her soul is mine for eternity.”

Tears brimmed your eyes as you shook your head backing away from him, “You’re a monster.”

“Well they don’t call me the devil for nothing babe.”, he smirked.

Your grandmothers words repeated in your head. The devil can be beautiful and here he was standing in front of you looking as bewitching as ever.

“So what happens to the souls after you take them?”

“They’re used to fuel the livelihood of hell. Kind of like you would put gasoline in a car.”

You scoffed, “Okay and what happens when people stop making deals with you and you can’t collect any more souls?”

The devil let out a loud laugh, “That will never happen. Humans are far too selfish and weak. They will always be willing to make a deal if it benefits them in some way.”

You glared at him as hard as you could but deep down you knew he was right.

“Well it’s been a pleasure Y/N.”

“Wait! How do you know my name?”

“Babe, I know everyone and everything.”

And with that he snapped his fingers and you were back at your grandmothers and alone and confused.

Tonight was going to be a good night. You were showered and moisturized and ready to go out and have a great time. You had just exited your shower and was walking your way to the bedroom when you were greeted by a familiar voice.

“Give it back.”

You jumped in shock making sure your were completely covered with the towel.

“Excuse me! You can’t just enter into people’s homes like this.”, you spat, “I could’ve walked in here naked.”

“And I could’ve just walked into your shower and saw you naked myself if I wanted to but I didn’t. So now give it back!”, he demanded really not in the mood for anything right now.

“Give what back?

“My powers?”

“You’re pow- What?”, you’d said walking into the living room.

“Where are you going?”

“To call the police like I should’ve the first time.”

The devil lunged forward and grabbed your wrist pulling you against him, “Y/N, you really don’t want to do that.”

“You smell like cinnamon and vanilla.”, you whispered.

His brows furrowed, “What am I supposed to smell like?”

“I don’t know. Smoke with a touch of sulfur.”

“Seriously? Do you also think I should have horns and a pointy tail?”

“Actually ye-“

He shook his head, “Never mind that. You’re getting me off topic. Give me back my powers.”

“What powers? I don’t have any powers. Trust me because if I did you wouldn’t be here right now.”

He ran a hand through his somehow still perfectly styled hair, “Ever since I met you my powers have been all out of sorts. You are the only thing that was different from my normal routine. So what did you do to them?”

“Listen devil boy, I didn’t take your powers. And I really don’t appreciate you thinking you can just show up here whenever you want either. You made a deal with my grandparents, not me.”, you said poking your finger into his chest.

He looked at you somewhat shocked. No one had ever had the nerve to speak to him like that and he had to admit that he kind of liked it.

He straightened up his jacket before stepping away to give you some space, “Okay first off my name isn’t devil boy. You can call me Yoongi. Secondly if you didn’t take my powers then what happened to them?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know? Maybe you got fired or demoted or something.”

He snorted, “I am great at my job and I’m like literally the king of hell. Who’s gonna fire me?”

Rolling your eyes you grabbed your bag and started heading towards the door, “Look Yoongi I certainly don’t have your powers but if I come across them I’ll give you a call.”

You left him standing there alone and speechless.

“No thanks”, you said to the same guy for probably the 10th time. He didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer. “Hey I think I’m gonna get out of here and go home.”, you said to your friend. The noise and the people getting to be too much. She asked if you were okay by yourself which you were so you paid your tab and headed for the front door. As you waited for your ride a presence walked up next to you. Before you could react you were being dragged away down a dark alley next to the club.

“Since you didn’t want to play nice, now

I have to forcefully take it from you.”, said someone. You recognized the voice as the man who was insistent in the club earlier.

You whimpered while trying to break free of his grasp but he was significantly stronger than you were.

“Mmm you smell really nice.”, he said running his nose against your neck.

A loud bang rang through the air and smoke began to fill up the space around you. In an instant the man was thrown back against the opposite wall. Intimidatingly Yoongi stood next to you. He stared daggers at the man as he was picked up nearly twenty feet int he air before slammed back against the ground.

“If you ever even think about her again you’ll die instantly.”, Yoongi growled as he kneeled down next to the man.

He took the hint and hastily sprinted out of the alleyway somehow still in one piece.

“I thought you lost your powers?”, you questioned.

“Oh gee thanks for saving me Yoongi. That was really sexy of you. How can I ever repay you for that?”, he mocked in a high pitched voice.

You ran your tongue over your teeth before sighing, “Thank you for saving me Yoongi. That was really ANGELIC of you. I’ll repay you by getting out of your hair and going home.”

You tried to walk past him but he grabbed your wrist, “Not so fast Y/N. It seems like my powers are only strong enough when I’m near you.”

“Alright so what does that mean?”, you inquired.

He moved closer to you. So close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

“It means that you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together.”, he smirked, “And I hope you’re ready for it babe.”

[solidwater05]

Hyperfocus messed with my time perception so bad omg

Have you ever experienced non-linear time? Like half an hour went by in half a minute and then it stopped. Entirely. Logically I know that it's been around 15 minutes, but I can't even say that it felt like forever because it didn't feel like ANYTHING [PT: anything. /End PT]. It's been hours but not the 60 minute kind of hours y'know? It's been a while. Not really

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[frmisnow]

ONCE AGAIN, MILAN ! - (nsfw)

summary. what happens when you and jungkook find yourselves once again in milan, this time with no business attached — well a hol' lotta sex for sure!

notes. guysss i changed my mind! there will be a fifth chapter because there is something that i want them to do- a refrence to chp. 2 + they need to get lil cheonsa duh?? ✶𝄞 if y'all are currently reading this, i'm probs already on vacation! so it'll take a minute, regardless, i hope everybody enjoys!!

warnings/includes. non idol! ceo! jungkook x f! employee! reader, smut described/implied multiple times!! (morning sex, very slight voyeurism / heavy flirting in a boutique, NASTY dirty talk) , drabble-ish (idk i just want them to be happy), cheonsa mention (we cheered)

the morning had begun in the best way possible. the bright italian sun on your face, the hotel sheets lightly crumpled, well- and jungkook.

jungkook who had woken you up with gentle kisses starting from your face, moving to your shoulder, all the way to your tits. kissed your sore little thighs too, because "they deserved it" after all the things they've gone through - sure.

he made love to you. moaned how beautiful you were along with some other sweet dirty nothings.

it was the kind of sex that made you feel cherished, worshipped even, as if all of his love was burried solely in his tip and he poured all of it into you, when you both came.

after spending what felt like hours wrapped up in each other, you had finally left the bed, your body still tingling from the morning’s activities. the first spot was a cat café, jungkook had read about it somewhere, thinking of you.

you both had spent a few hours in there, sipping on your respective lattes, playing with the little cats while their tiny paws brush against your legs. jungkook had his polaroid camera out at all times, clicking away.

showed the photos to you, told you how cute you looked, how the kitten in your lap looked just like you. how you both should get little cheonsa just like that.

closely after, you both took your time strolling through the streets, hands intertwined, ending with him pushing you into a high-end boutique. you smiled at his eagerness, it wasn't the first time he spend that black card of his on you.

jungkook handed you a dress, that reminded more of a whisper of fabric rather then a real garment, leaving little to the imagination. but you instantly nodded, that's what you liked about being with him; you didn't feel shy, there was no reason to. not with every single thing jungkook has said about your body this far.

the fitting rooms were large, they felt like rooms by themselves. jungkook sat outside patentily, tapping his legs. when you walked out you could clearly see him trying his absolute best not to reach out his hands, his pupils widening ever so slightly, taking a deep breath to compose himself, "turn around, angel, for me."

you did as he said when done, walking over to take a seat on his thigh while his fingers immediately moved to stroke your thighs, mumbling how pretty you were.

the way you were sitting, so close to him, he could make out your pretty panties peeking under the dress. black lace, with little bows he had gifted to you when you visited that lingerie place a few days ago, thinking of you in that store didn't make his growing buldge any better.

and you most certaintly made it even worse by whispering into his ear, how much you needed him and how wet you've been ever since this morning.

he bit his lip, your body was so painfully close and your skirt only rode up, gently pinching your thigh almost as a light warning, "remember where we are"

following you made a little pout, but mumbled a reluctant 'fine' anyway, making your way back into the fitting room.

next stop was a restaurant, you hadn't even noticed that it had gotten late by this time but jungkook took care of it, as always. how he managed to get a reservation at this place, you didn't quite know but you certaintly weren't complaining. he had pulled your leg over his some time ago, running his hands over the skin, the action innoccent in a way caring, like he was so sorry that you had to walk this whole day even though he had spoiled you shamelessly.

his fingers drew patterns and tiny circles over the skin, his face glowing from what was left of the sun through the large windows.

"i'm so happy" you smile, your fingers moving through his hair lightly.

jungkook's lips curl into a soft smile, just like yours, leaning into your touch, "i'm happy too, angel" his voice low and affectionate, "everday"

the evening went exeptionelly well, he talked you stupid about some of the other things he wanted to do, didn't mention business even once.

you both walked back to the hotel, you liked the city at night and had asked him to walk instead of taking a taxi. he didn't let go of your hand, swinging.

he walked back to the hotel with you, holding your hand tightly, it had been your wish to stroll back, you liked the city at night. it all reminded you of that night but it was different this time, it felt good not having wine in your system.

for once you felt like you actually could love jungkook, without alcohol, without your job, any other factor in your way. you could fuck him freely without having to blame the alcohol for it, after.

love is lust. that's why he pounds you into the large matress, tells you how bad you've been, how greedy you were.

he asked questions, dirty ones, you were way to brain fucked to understand dare to say even answer.

asks how much you'd like it, him filling you up everywhere, in the bathrooms, around his apartment, in the elevator, during your shifts at work, how he'd make you walk around feeling full, feeling dripping and sticky under your skirt.

describes how he'd call you into his office just so he could take you nicely on his desk. have you walk out later, nod to all your colleagues, like a good girl.

you barerly hear him and the words make you moan out are vile things that people only say when they are about to come. how you wanted to marry him, have him around you all times, how much you wanted him every minute.

you thought about how small you'd want the wedding to be, you, him and little kitten cheonsa. and you moan again, like a porn star.

and he responds, gripping your hips tighter, "i'd marry you tomorrow if you asked me to, hell i'd make a baby with you right this second if you wanted."

he let out a grunted string of 'please's though you weren't even sure what he was begging you for. your brain felt so incredibly mushy.

few seconds later, he filled you up, making a mess of you. he instantly reached out to touch your chin gently to look at you, "you okay, princess?"

you managed to nod but he shock his head, "words, i need to hear you, angel" it was a soft order, one you couldn't look away from.

so you reassure him that you are happy and so content, he seems to like your words, smiling. lifting you up and maneuvering you on top of him, still inside of you. his fingers trace over your bare back soothingly as he lights a cigarette with his other hand, just like that night.

and you smiled to yourself because you knew. you knew that this time when you woke up, you wouldn't have to leave, you would be able to look at his sleeping smile as long as you wanted. it was a comforting thought.

— cheonsa means angel.

🍓 tag list — @chansloverr , @marimarvelfan , @bxcndd , @1-in-abillion , @ahgasegotarmy116 , @copycat-namjesus , @malkaimoon , @geminiml95 , @taiwan0618 , @jungkookfics , @rrosiitas , @stuti2904 , @spiderlilyserendipity , @m00njinnie , @ririkookiemonster , @emptynessclub , @yoongznme , @snow-strawberry , @ttanniett

[augustinewrites]

the dull throb resonating over your entire body is what eventually rouses you, slowly bringing you back into consciousness. your head feels like a sword’s been driven through it, leaving your mind muddled.

the first thing you see is satoru hunched over your bedside, his hand carefully clutching yours. you call his name, but your voice is hoarse and scratchy and barely above a whisper.

he hears you regardless, eyes wide and alert as he lifts his head. he looks tired, dark circles stamped under his eyes and an unusual stiffness in his movements.

“you’re…okay,” he says, strained. as if he can’t believe it. you hum in response - because it’s all you can manage at the moment - feeling your eyelids begin to droop your will. “get some more rest. i’ll call shoko.” 

the gentle brush of his lips against your forehead is the last thing you feel before drifting back to sleep.

_____

you’re not sure how much time has passed when you come to. now, the room is illuminated by honeyed lamplight and you see shoko and satoru talking quietly at the foot of your bed. 

“glad to see you’re still with us,” your best friend smiles once she notices you’re awake. she moves to your side, leaning over you to pull back the thin blanket. there’s a swathe of bandages wrapped around your shoulder and a sling immobilizing your arm. 

“how do you feel?” satoru asks, that worried look still set in his expression. 

“i‘m fine,” you manage to answer, trying to blink the room into focus.

“you need to be more careful,” shoko tells you, peeling her gloves off and tossing them into the trash. the usual air indifference in her voice is gone, replaced with concern. “take satoru with you next time. not because i think you’re incapable of doing your job, but so he can do the corny, heroic thing and take the hit for you. god knows he could stand to be humbled every once in a while…” 

“thanks, shoko,” your boyfriend scoffs, but the way his hand grips yours tightly tells you he’d be more than willing to be your corny hero. 

you hate the way they look down at your prone form as shoko goes over your treatment plan. it makes you feel small and weak, and you are neither of those things. 

“can you help me sit up?”

“you shouldn’t be moving around–” 

your body burns with protest as you awkwardly push yourself up anyway, exhaling a pained hiss as gojo swears, reaching out to help steady your trembling torso as shoko shoves pillows behind your back. 

“i’m fine,” you argue, trying to ignore the throbbing behind your temples. you don’t remember exactly how you’d ended up in the school’s infirmary, just remember the way pain had exploded across your left side when you’d been hit.  

“you almost weren’t,” he says quietly. a deeply haunted look clouds his face as he recalls what must have happened after you’d been brought in, and you feel guilty for not being able to remember it. 

so you let him squeeze into bed next to you, let him carefully pull you into his chest and hold you until you feel the tension in his body dissipate. you know he needs this a little more than you do, know that the knowledge of you being okay isn’t enough. it won’t stop the fear and anxiety of losing you from gnawing on the edge of his sanity.

“i wanna give the flowers–”

“so you can take all the credit? i’m the one who bought them!”

your pained grimace easily turns to a smile when the door opens to reveal megumi and tsumiki, who are both gripping a bouquet of flowers. nanami follows them in, wearing the tired look of a man that’s never spent more than three hours dealing with moody preteens raised by gojo – until today.

_____

your family spoils you over the next few days. the three of them falling asleep on the little couch in your room, tucked under gojo’s arms every night until you’re cleared to go home. even then, they don’t leave your side. tsumiki snuggles next to you to watch movies and bakes you little treats. megumi reads to you from the book you’d been going through together and listens to your favourite records with you after school. 

satoru posts himself by your side. you like having him around. like the gentle way he handles you when working through the stretches shoko prescribes. like watching the way his hands move he diligently slices wedges of fresh fruit. 

you like being the focus of his single-minded attention, but you know how restless he can get when he doesn’t go off to work. rightfully so, because the jujutsu world would probably fall apart without him.

“you can go if you want,” you say one day, when he gets off a phone call with yaga. “i’ll be okay for a few hours.” 

he doesn’t get up, instead beginning to peel a plump orange (you’d never noticed how nice his hands were until now). “no, nanami’s still covering for me.” 

“satoru,” you sigh, taking an orange slice from him. “there’s a lot going on, you have bigger fish to fry.”

“i’m not going anywhere,” he tells you firmly, looking like he’d physically fight the idea of leaving your side. “you’re my fish.”

[lavenderspence]

Missing the happy hormone | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content warning: emotional reader, period mention, fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

Summary: Apparently Spencer Reid could make anything better - even the emotional disaster of being on your period

A/N: First, huge thank you to the cutie that sent in this request, you literally caught me while on my period so this was born. Also, here’s to my inability to write short fics, this is your only warning that i can make and will make anything long, lol. Also, my titles suck omg. And shoutout to my crazy bestie for making me a Mamma Mia girly, she rocks.

But also, happy one month to this blog! When I carved out this little space for myself a month ago I wasn’t really sure how I’d feel being back here and writing again, but so far it’s been a treat. A huge thank you for all of your support and love and thank you to my mutuals and everyone that interacted with my blog. 💕 Here’s to many more months to come!

Request: spencer x fem!reader on her period/ovulating and shes in tears all the time?? Im ovulating and have been crying for hours and keep calling my mom lmaoo he’d been so lovely and sweet I know it I can feel it in my bones

It was a slow day at the BAU. The most exciting thing in the 6 hours Spencer had spent at work was Rossi’s invitation to dinner the following weekend. 

Paperwork had piled high after their last 2 cases, so every team member was hunched over their desk, writing and revising reports. It was a never-ending cycle - finish a report, close the file, open a new one, and start all over again.

His eyes had started getting tired after four and a half hours, his hand had started cramping and he was down two pens so far, yet there was still a prominent pile on his desk.

He suspected Morgan and Emily might have pushed a file or two from theirs onto his load, seeing as he was getting done the fastest. Regardless, every few hours JJ was bringing even more to pile on top of everything that wasn’t finished, so buried in paperwork they stayed - no matter how fast he wrote or read, or how used to the load he was.

He was just thinking about getting up to prepare a fresh pot of coffee so he could function properly for a few more hours when his phone started ringing. He felt around the pockets of his suit jacket, where it sat draped on his chair, and then pulled it free. 

His display showed an incoming call, a picture of you as he hugged you, hands around your middle and face almost buried into your neck, a soft smile gracing both your faces. A scenery rich with reds, browns, and yellows stood behind you, the beauty of fall was nothing short of spectacular. 

The picture you’d taken last year when the team spent a weekend at Rossi’s cabin in the woods, surrounded by the beauty of landscapes and leaves, nature for miles. 

He accepted the call right away, a small smile on his face. 

“Hey sweetheart.” His voice was gentle, if a little raspy from misuse. He hadn’t talked much in the last few hours - just a distracted short answer here or a hum there. He was happy you were calling, though, welcoming the reprieve from the most recent report. 

It was silent for a few seconds, and he wondered absentmindedly if maybe you hadn’t called him on accident, and then there came a tiny little sniffle from your side. 

“Sweetheart?” He prompted, “Are you there? What’s going on?” Worry was starting to creep into the base of his spine, but he still remained calm and kept his voice gentle. 

“I’m here. Hi.” Another small sniffle, “All’s good. Just…I was just wondering how much longer you’d be gone.” Your voice was small,like you thought you might upset him by asking, and a little crackly, like you yourself were upset about something. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and he checked the time quickly - 3:57 pm. 

“Probably about two more hours, there’s a lot of paperwork we need to go through.” His eyes met Emily’s as she sent him a curious, questioning look. 

“Oh, okay.” The resignation was clear in your voice, “I’ll see you later then.” The call ended abruptly, and it took him a second to catch up.

He couldn’t help but feel like not everything was as good as you claimed it was. For one, you rarely called to ask when he’d be home - you knew his work could span into the late hours, or even stretch for days. You let him update you on any changes in his work schedule. 

In your interactions, your voice was usually upbeat and teasing - especially on the phone. Your kindness was always evident in your voice, as was your mood. You were a sunshine person, if he ever met one, that’s probably why you and Penelope formed such a close bond upon meeting. 

There was something that nagged him - a change in your mood he could pick up on just by your voice - too low, too small, and the cracks that he could now identify as he replayed your conversation in his head. You were keeping yourself from crying out, and yet there was nothing more apparent than the tears in your voice. And that made him worry. 

“Reid, are you okay?” Emily’s voice snapped him from the hard stare he’d been giving his phone in the last several minutes since the call ended. 

“I…I don’t know.” His eye twitched, and he cleared his throat before he tried and failed to articulate exactly what was happening - he himself had a hard time understanding. One thing he knew was that he needed to get home. “I..um, I need to go. Can you, please?” He asked, gusting at the remaining three files on his desk before he pulled his suit jacket on and grabbed his satchel. 

Morgan and Emily shared a mildly concerned look before they both nodded their heads, “Yeah, go. Text to let us know if everything is okay.” Morgan reminded him before he exited the bullpen with a fast step and tried to keep calm.

He was aware the situation wasn’t anything that he needed to be incredibly worried over - if something was really wrong, he knew you would have let him know. Yet, he couldn’t help the way his heart constricted by the sound of your voice, or the overwhelming desire to come home and gently hold you, see what could have caused this behavior. 

You were curled up on the couch, watching as Donna helped Sophie get ready for her wedding, the gentle melody of “Slipping through my fingers” filling the empty apartment. Your eyes were watering, to the point that everything was starting to get blurry. A shaky exhale left your lips.

Today has simply been a rollercoaster. Kissing Spencer goodbye this morning was the highlight of the day. What followed was nothing short of an emotional disaster. 

You’d teared up during breakfast, images of picking berries with Spencer flying through your mind. The desire to make it a reality was strong. 

Following that had come the overwhelming urge to bawl your eyes out, for no apparent reason whatsoever. Just cry and cry until you had it all emptied out and you could take a deep breath and continue with your day. So, cry you did, and then you’d finished with your chores for the day. 

Apparently letting it all out and emptying your tear supply hadn’t happened. Seeing as around 3:30 you’d started missing your boyfriend so much, the need to hear his voice had won out, so you’d called him. You felt the need to have him home to hold you because this month’s visit from mother flow was making you feel like a crybaby.

But then there was disappointment at the notion that you needed to wait close to 3 hours before that could happen. So you quickly ended the call before he could pick up on the tone of your voice, and then you shed a few tears. 

Now here you were, rewatching Mamma Mia because you really needed a pick me up, and once again, eyes shining as the tears started falling. At this point, it was a losing battle, so you let them fall, humming to the song with a broken voice. 

That’s exactly how Spencer found you, not a minute later. His keys were in his hand, the satchel on his shoulder, and he was just a little bit out of breath. 

The moment his eyes met you, they softened as he dropped everything and sat down next to you. His hand reached up and he cradled the side of your face, wiping your tears away. 

“Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?” He asked in a whisper.

“Look at Donna painting Sophie’s nails, it’s...” You hiccuped, another wave of tears washing over you. “And you’re home, why are you home?” Your question was met with a furrow in his brow, as his thumbs continued wiping underneath your eyes. 

“You called.” He answered simply. 

“But you said-” He stopped you before you could finish your sentence.

“I did, yes. But you sounded off and sad, so. Want to tell me what’s going on?” He prompted you gently as he pushed your hair back and pulled you into his lap after, feeling like you needed the physical contact. 

You weren’t ashamed to admit it, per se, but you were ashamed that your hormones had caused him to leave work and race home to be with you. 

“It’s my period,” you mumbled, hands wrapping around his neck as you hid your face in his chest, too tired to prevent your eyes from watering again. “It’s been going on all day. Randomly, I’d just get so emotional, and the tears would start. I was missing you so much too, and then hearing the song, bam, tears again. I’m so done with this Spence.” You sounded barely coherent, with your face pushed as close to him as possible. 

It all made sense now, you’d been cranky a few days ago, and then you’d told him last night your cramps were unbearable, so he knew you were on your period, but right now he felt like an idiot for not figuring it out himself. 

“It’s okay, everything is fine. The drop in estrogen and progesterone, following your ovulation triggered this. This in turn reduced the production of serotonin, your happy hormone. So, we just need to boost it a bit.” He whispered into your ear as you played with the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“How?” You sighed into his chest, almost being able to pick up on the sound of his heartbeat.

He got deep in thought for a few seconds as you breathed in his scent, and a sense of calmness slowly overtook you now that he was home and holding you. One of his hands was running soothing circles on your back as the other held your hand, fingers interlocked. 

“How about we take a trip to the store and get you some snacks? We’ll pick up dinner on the way home and then I'll hold you some more and you'll pick a movie for us to watch.” He suggested, kissing the crown of your head once, twice, and many more times until you gave him an answer. 

“Yeah, yeah, I think that would help, but just having you here has done wonders.” You finally laid your head against his chest, looking up to meet his eyes. He smiled, and so did you. Having him here really had helped immensely, and when had it not? He was your other half, your rock, and even when your emotions ran rampant or you were feeling down, just his presence, his touch, and his understanding were enough to make it all okay. 

Later in the evening, Penelope sent you a photo of Sergio sleep-hugging a little plushy you’d gotten him, and the waterworks started all over again. Luckily, Spencer was there, wiping your tears and kissing your head, saying a thousand things without actually speaking a word.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Requests are open for both Spencer and Hotch if you want to send any!

[rynbutt]

pierced. pt. 3 | spencer reid.

Spencer wanted this date to go perfectly, he wanted to treat you like a princess and maybe even land a second date... but why is Hotch calling?

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 4

cw: fem!reader, kissing, slight angst, fluffy

a/n: kicking my feet fr

You started getting ready two hours earlier than you normally would.

Sure, you had been on dates before, but you could confidently say you’d never been this excited to go on a date before. You’d been on the odd blind date that your friend from back home set up, but they usually went as well as you’d expect a date with a misogynistic frat boy with mommy issues to go… not great. After Spencer had walked you home, and called to ask you out for dinner, you were utterly giddy. 

You barely got any sleep that night, your mind and heart racing a mile a minute thinking about the kiss you shared outside your apartment building. You spent the most of the afternoon picking out an outfit, staring at your body in the mirror while you turned side on, front on, side on again to make sure your ass looked good (it did).

You asked Spencer to tell you where he was taking you, because you really didn’t want to be underdressed or overdressed. He insisted it was nothing fancy but a man’s idea of fancy and a woman’s idea of fancy are very different things.

You picked something that felt like the best of both worlds, a semi-formal mini dress and dressed down with your favourite knitted cardigan. You spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready, styling your hair, picking jewellery and shoes and doing your makeup. 

You had been excited the whole day but as 6pm got closer and closer, you started to get nervous. It had been a while since you’d gone on a date with someone you felt you really liked and wanted to impress, it was a strange feeling.

Spencer knocked on your door at exactly 6pm. You were in the middle of pulling applying your lipgloss when he knocked. You cursed quietly to yourself, thinking you had way more time than you actually did. You’d hoped he’d be at least a little bit late. He was a genius though, punctuality was kind of his thing. 

You almost tripped over your shoes running to the front door, a cleaning task you would tackle when you got home. You pulled the door open with a smile beaming across your face. Your heart fluttered at the sight of Spencer’s precious face peeking over a bouquet of pink tulips.

“Hi,” he said softly with a tight lipped smile. He held the tulips out toward you, “for you.”

“Spencer…” you pouted at the gesture, taking the tulips from his grasp. “They’re so beautiful.”

“Garcia said flowers would make a good impression,” he lied, he actually read a considerable amount of articles and first date guides all day at work. But Garcia did help him pick the flowers.

“Well, she was right. Tulips are my favourite,” you grinned, turning back into your apartment to find and fill a vase. “Come in, I won’t be a minute, I just need to put my shoes on and grab my purse.”

Spencer awkwardly stepped into your apartment, glancing around at the now fully decorated space, a far cry from what it looked like just 3 weeks ago. You quickly went to put your shoes on and put some money, your lipgloss and perfume in your purse. You closed the door to your bedroom and paused, staring at Spencer as he squatted down and rubbed Tofu’s belly.

“Made a new friend?” You asked.

Spencer smiled with utter delight, “She’s so fluffy.”

You giggled at Spencer’s response, grabbing the keys for your apartment off the kitchen counter. Spencer dusted the cat fur off his pants before spinning on his heel to face you, “ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. You stepped closer until you were just in front of him, you reached up and adjusted his tie gently. “You look very handsome.”

His cheeks felt hot, “T-thank you… You-! You look really nice too- beautiful! You look beautiful…” he stammered, exaggeratedly gesturing at your appearance.

You giggled softly, “thank you, Spence… Shall we?”

“Yes, yes, right,” he replied, quickly scurrying to the door to open it for you.

The two of you made your way down to his car and he made a point to run ahead of you when you left your apartment building to open his passenger door for you. He was intensely determined to be a gentleman, wanting to give you a good impression so maybe you’d go on another date with him, maybe even come to Rossi’s dinner party next week. But he was getting ahead of himself, he should probably focus on the road.

“...So where are you taking me?” You asked, glancing out the car window at the city speeding by. 

“It’s one of my favourite places,” he replied, hands nervously gripping the wheel. “I… hope you like it.”

“I’m just happy to spend time with you, Spencer… We could sit on the pavement outside a seven eleven and I’d be thrilled,” you grinned, folding your hands in your lap as you watched him glance at you. You watched him for a moment, chuckling to yourself whenever he would glance down at your lap then clear his throat.

Spencer was really trying to keep his eyes on the road, but your plush thighs in the corner of his eye were proving to be very distracting. He had never had a pretty girl in his passenger seat before, especially not a girl he was taking on a date. 

Spencer drove for maybe 30 minutes before he pulled into a parking lot. Once he parked, he quickly got out of the car and did a little run around the front to open your door for you, reaching to help you out of his car.

Spencer held his elbow out for you and you linked arms, your hand gently holding his upper arm. There was a long line up outside the restaurant, people talking and laughing, clearly it was a popular spot. Spencer was stiff with nervousness, his hands clammy as you leaned your temple against his shoulder.

“You okay?” You questioned gently.

He nodded quickly, “Yeah, just… I’ve never been on a proper date before.”

You pouted, “well don’t be nervous. I’m only here for you, Spence. I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

Spencer’s phone suddenly rang in his jacket pocket. You quickly let go of his arm as he pulled it out of his pocket, staring at Hotch’s caller ID. He hesitated for a moment, knowing it was work and he would likely have to leave. Spencer looked at you with such sadness and disappointment in his eyes.

“Work?” You asked softly.

“Yeah… But I-”

“It’s okay, Spencer,” you smiled sadly. “Your job’s important.”

Spencer sighed before stepping away from the line and answering the call. You couldn’t hear what he was saying but he sounded upset given his gestures and frantic running of his hand through his hair. After a minute he hung up, slipping his phone in his pocket. He looked at you sadly, opening his mouth to say something but you cut him off.

“It’s okay, Spencer,” you held his face softly. “You go, I’ll get a cab, okay? And when you get back you can tell me all about how you kicked ass, okay?”

Spencer breathed out a laugh and nodded timidly, “Okay.”

“Go,” you said, letting go of his face as he quickly darted away to his car. He was almost out of sight when you watched him turn back, running back to you. He quickly planted a kiss on your lips, breathing hard against you. You smiled against his lips and held his cheek in your hand. He pulled away just as fast, your lipgloss smeared along his lips. You wiped it off with your thumb, “okay, now go.”

“I’ll call you,” he breathed, kissing your cheek quickly before running off.

It killed him leaving you there. Spencer wasn’t someone who got angry that easily but he was in a bad mood about this. He charged through the bullpen that night like a bulldozer, ready to set fire to anyone who dared ask him ‘how he was’. Morgan, JJ and Emily sensed the crankiness the moment Spencer pulled his chair out and sat down with a thud, crossing his arms angrily. 

“Rough night, lover boy?” Morgan asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Wasn’t much of a night at all, really,” Spencer retorted with an attitude.

“Woah, woah, what happened?” Emily questioned, eyes narrowing at Spencer.

“I had a date, okay? That girl you met last night? Y/N? I was taking her to my favourite restaurant and then Hotch called and I-” Spencer had to stop himself before he blew up. His lips formed a tight line as he stared at the table, not daring to look up.

“Aw, Spence…” JJ sighed, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t help,” Spencer mumbled. He spent the rest of their meeting in a foul mood, barely listening to JJ as she listed the details of their next case. They were never usually called in on their days off but after almost twenty bodies, the BAU had a lot cut out for them.

“We’ll leave in two hours,” Hotch dismissed. Spencer was first up, grabbing the small stack of files and pushing toward the door to go to his desk. Morgan and Emily looked at each other, sharing a look of disbelief over Spencer’s crankiness. 

Spencer sat at his desk pushing his pen around, barely touching the cup of sugar with a splash of coffee that JJ got for him. All he could think about was how you probably wouldn’t talk to him again after this, he knew this job came with sacrifices, but he just wanted one thing, one thing, to himself.

“You okay, Reid?” Penelope asked softly. 

Spencer glanced up at her, letting out a sigh, “I was on a date with Y/N before this… We didn’t even get to sit down.”

Penelope’s shoulders slumped at his words, “I’m sure you’ll be able to make it up to her,” she said hopefully. 

Spencer nodded slowly, “I hope so.”

Penelope stepped away to answer a phone call and Spencer was left feeling sorry for himself at his desk for the next 30 minutes, going through his mind the different things he could say or do to make it up to you. Maybe he should call you? Text you? Drop by when he gets back? Or maybe he could buy you another cat as a peace offering-

“Is this seat taken?”

Spencer’s head shot up from his desk, coming face to face with you, your hand resting on the empty chair by his desk.

“Y/N? What are you-”

“I called Penelope,” you answered, “She told me you weren’t leaving for another hour so… I thought I’d bring dinner?”

You held out a plastic bag of take away food from the restaurant he took you to. You asked Penelope what his favourite thing on the menu was and bought some extra for yourself. Spencer looked like a kicked puppy as he stared up at you in disbelief.

He stood up and quickly hugged you, making you chuckle at the sudden affection. You felt your face heat up at all the eyes suddenly on you and Spencer. Morgan whooped from his desk, cheering loudly and obnoxiously, prompting Spencer to pull away from you.

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer whispered.

“You don’t have to apologise, Spence,” you replied. “You love your job and it’s important,” you shrugged, placing the plastic bag on his desk.

“God, you’re so sweet it’s killing me,” Emily grumbled, walking by with a fresh cup of coffee. She pointed at Spencer, brows raised, “keep her.”

You and Spencer shared a laugh before he pulled a chair over closer to his for you. You sat down and pulled your takeaway dinner from the plastic bag, letting Spencer tell you all about the restaurant and why this specific meal was his absolute favourite. His knees brushed against yours under his desk and he just revelled in the comfort of your company.

“So, what’s your new case?” You asked, taking a sip of your drink.

“Uh, well,” he trailed off.

“You can’t tell me, huh?” You chuckled.

“Not really, sorry,” he replied. “I’m sure it’ll be on the news tomorrow.”

“Right, well. I’m sure deep down I don’t really wanna know,” you shrugged.

He nodded, “the cases we work aren’t exactly pleasant.” Spencer sighed, “I wish we could have actually had a date.”

“This is a date,” you replied. “Is it not?”

“Well… I mean, it’s just not what I wanted for our first date.”

“Like I said Spence, you could take me to a seven eleven and I’d have a blast,” you chuckled, reaching over to run a thumb across his cheek. “You can make it up to be on our second date.”

Spencer quickly looked at you, “Second date?”

“Yeah… only if you want to?”

“Yes, yeah. I want to,” he replied almost too fast. You smiled sweetly at him, a piece of your hair falling from behind your ear. Oh yeah, he’s done for.

a/n: had you in the first half, didn't i... dare i say you've pierced his heart, HAHAHAH

taglist: @crazycat-ladys-blog @cillsnostalgia @secretly-tumb1r

[ellecdc]

HI HI i recently read “the winner takes it all” and i was wondering if you’re planning to create a part 2? if you don’t, can i request it with the plot of emmeline trying to win n the boys over, as well as to embarrass the reader, but the boys decided it was the perfect time to hard launch the reader?

BUT IF YOU ALREADY HAVVE A. PLOT IN MIND PLS DONT LISTEN TO ME I LOVE UR FICS!! 💕💕🫶🏻

You know, I actually didn't plan on making a companion piece to this but this was such a fun idea I couldn't help myself - thanks for requesting!!! 💖

*chanting* hard launch, hard launch, hard launch 👏 👏 👏

Poly!Marauders x reader (gender not specified)

The Loser Has to Fall

Companion piece to The Winner Takes It All

It felt like a giant weight had been lifted off your shoulders now that you knew exactly where you stood with the boys. You didn’t realize how deeply it had been distressing you to not know what you meant to them.

Apparently, you meant the world to them.

You spent the rest of that evening in the Gryffindor common room; James and Remus ran down to the kitchens to bring a picnic for you four and Sirius told you to enjoy the princess treatment when you insisted on going with them. You’re pretty sure that was just a ruse to keep you seated in his lap.

You were floating on cloud 9 the entire week afterwards with one of the boys by your side at any given moment. While that wasn’t necessarily new, knowing why they were there made a world of difference. 

You spent hours in the library with Remus sharing shy glances, gentle touches, and sitting far closer to one another than was strictly necessary. 

James and Sirius would show up with food or drinks for you two, but Sirius would eventually convince James to “leave the boring swots to their books, Prongsie” by promising him a race around the quidditch field on their brooms.

James made a solid (and embarrassing) effort to sit beside you everywhere. Great Hall – he sat beside you. Gryffindor common room – he sat beside you. Classes you had together – he sat beside you. Classes you didn’t have together – he tried to sit beside you before Flitwick took five points from Gryffindor and kicked him out.  

And Sirius appeared to simply enjoy your presence. One rarely ever saw Sirius Black without him speaking, smirking, or the likes; but it appeared he enjoyed your company for the solace that it was. Most of your time spent together was in companionable silence, or him asking you to tell him all about your day, your week, your life. James said he was sure this was the longest he'd ever gone without having to listen to Sirius’ voice – Sirius swatted his ass for that.  

But the way the rest of the school saw it: nothing had changed.

Which is why when you watched Emmeline approach the Gryffindor table with a look of determination painting her features, you had to hide your laugh behind your hand.

“Hello, handsome boys.” She said cheerily as she sat beside Sirius. He looked to James sat across from him before his eyes shot to you.

“Hello, Emmeline.” James said politely. 

“Where have you boys been? I feel like I never get to see you anymore.” She carried on, either unaware or undeterred by the boys’ lack of interest.

“Mm, here and there.” James said suspiciously, moving his body so he was sat straddling the bench and facing you, effectively pointing his back to Emmeline.

“Mostly with Y/N.” Sirius added pointedly.

Emmeline grimaced at the mention of your name, but quickly saved face.

“That’s nice. Well, I was wondering if you guys were going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” She asked, voice sickly sweet. 

James seemed to remember something at the mention of Hogsmeade. “Actually, yeah. Moons, you need more chocolate, right?”

Remus blushed a little but nodded in the affirmative. “We’re running low since someone stress ate most of the reserve.” He said pointedly, shooting Sirius a glare.

Apparently, Sirius had been so nervous about asking you to be official (Sirius Black: nervous? Who knew?) that he’d ransacked Rem’s stash.

Sirius – not one to be shame-faced – shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster. “Don’t worry your pretty little mind, my moonshine – I’ll replenish your reserves and then some.” He declared.

“Great!” Emmeline said with a clap of her hands, clearly unable to manage the conversation as it steered further and further away from her. “I was thinking the four of us could go together!”

She had placed one of her hands on Sirius’ bicep and you felt your face turn red from repressing your laughter. Lily would be losing her mind right now.

Sirius looked at the hand with a look of half confused concern and half disgust before he used the forefinger and thumb of his opposite hand to peel it off of him and place it gingerly onto the table.

“Well, I know that the four of us were going to go.” James clarified as he motioned between himself, Sirius, Remus, and you. “I’m sure Lily, Pete and the others will be going as well, so you’re welcome to ask to tag along with them.” 

Undeterred, Emmeline carried on. “Come on, boys. We used to have a lot of fun together! I thought we could pick up where we left off.” She sing-songed as she sent you a devious wink.

Sirius – with his flair for dramatics – slammed both hands onto the table and stood from his place before hopping onto the table, boots knocking over glasses and plates and reached down for you. 

“What?” You whispered in a little bit of horror.

“Up you go, my love.” He said loudly as he hauled you up to join him on the Gryffindor table. 

“Mr. Black.” You heard one of the professors call from the head table. You never fully understood the phrase die of embarrassment before, but you sure as hell did now. Your gravestone would read: Y/N L/N, gone too soon, killed by dramatic public display of affection.

Sirius, completely oblivious to your horror or thriving off of it (you were sure it was the latter), wrapped one arm around your shoulders and the other around your waist - dipping you so low you were sure your hair was getting into someone’s pancakes - and kissed you in front of the entire Great Hall. 

You could hear cheering and wolf whistles as he kept you suspended for a few moments before he pulled you back up to your full height.

“I am so bloody mad about you.” He shouted out for everyone to hear. More students cheered and whistled as Professor McGonagall shouted “Mr. Black, get down this instant! 15 points from Gryffindor and detention with me tonight.” 

“Worth it.” Sirius said with a smirk as he shot a glance to Emmeline.

“In case that wasn’t clear enough, we’re very taken.” He added with finality as Remus helped you down from your place on the table and Sirius took your previously vacated seat beside James, and Emmeline stalked off.

You shoved your face into Remus’ side as he offered you refuge under his arm.

“Oh, my poor dovey. Did he embarrass you?” He cooed as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

You moaned in a way you hoped portrayed a resounding ‘yes’. 

“I’m sorry. They’re the worst sometimes.” He commiserated with you. 

Feeling slightly less flustered, you pulled your head away from his ribs, though you stayed glued safely to his side. 

“You weren’t innocent in all of that, doll face.” Sirius accused you from across the table.

“I beg your pardon?” you asked feigning innocence.

“You knew exactly what she was doing when she came over here. You didn’t feel the need to mark your territory?”

You scoffed. “First of all, I’m not a dog; I don’t ‘mark’ territory. Second, you’re not my territory, you’re my boyfriends. And thirdly… well, you seemed to have handled her fine on your own.” You said as you pointed your nose up in the air.

“Ah, I get it. You just wanted to watch your sexy man turn down a girl by stating how madly in love he is, hm?” He smirked at you.

You suddenly wished you’d stayed in Remus’ rib cage. 

[1d1195]

Invitation

~3.5k words

From me: I mentioned I had a kinda rough weekend. This just sort of wrote itself. Def a stand alone. Second chance at love. I wrote it mostly in the drafts page and didn't do a whole lot of editing for continuity so it's probs not very realistic nor will it make a ton of sense. But anyway.

Warnings: MC parent death; funeral, angst, angst angst. But I'm hoping if you read it you'll see some cathartic, comforting fluff.

Summary: She and Harry broke up years ago and it was completely fine. But seeing her again, even under sad circumstances has his heart pulling him closer to her.

It had been eight years since he had last laid eyes on her. But when he read the piece on her mum off a mutual friend’s Facebook page he was transported back to one of those moments he spent so totally in love with her.

The idea that her best friend was gone made him terrified for her well being. It was the reason he was in a hotel room, straightening his tie in the mirror. Double checking he didn't miss any spots while shaving. He looked simultaneously presentable yet solemn. Her mum was special, beautiful. She made Harry feel at home the entire time they dated. Bought him thoughtful gifts for his birthday and Christmas. Made sure she bought his favorite snacks and always inquired about school, work, or his favorite show. She joked with her that Harry was too good for her and she didn’t treat him well enough (which was inherently false). She was the perfect girlfriend and had the perfect mum.

He couldn’t imagine how she was feeling.

Harry didn’t want to make his appearance about his arrival at the funeral home at all. He stepped in line silently, tried not to make eye contact with anyone and slowly made his way through toward the front, pretending he was invisible. He looked at the picture boards as he walked along his favorite girl and her mother in so many of them. Both were beautiful and Harry thought she was going to look just like her mother when she was older and so he was really lucky that he would know she was beautiful for the rest of his life. But he would have predicted that anyway.

Their relationship ended amicably enough. They were changing, time moving on, and quite frankly it felt like they couldn't spend enough time together so it didn't seem fair. "Shouldn't we want t'spend time with each other, beautiful? Shouldn't we feel feel bad we're not spending time together? It shouldn't be forced. You're m'favorite person in the world, kitten. S'not fair."

He was right of course. She agreed. So they went their separate ways. Since they were still in university at the time, they saw each other frequently. Their friend groups overlapped a bit so they weren't rid of each other all that much until after graduation. There was even a picture of the pair of them together on that day--her mum's suggestion. It was apparent more so then, that they were changing and moving on but Harry was grateful for that picture. When he saw the notice of her mum's passing, he looked at it fondly and felt something in the pit of his stomach. Wanting and wishing he had made more time for her. That she wasn't so busy and their time apart hadn't lasted as long.

But that was eight years ago. Harry was thirty now. He had a few girlfriends during that time and maybe it wasn't a surprise they didn't work out. When he inquired of his friends if he should go to support her, they said it was up to him. Louis and Eleanor were out of the country so they would send flowers. Mitch and Sarah were waiting for Sarah to give birth at any moment so they too, would send flowers.

"I'll be at the funeral," Niall assured him. "I can't make the visiting hours, sorry, Harry," Harry could hear his frown as they spoke on the phone.

"S'okay, s'nice y'can make it t'any of it. She'll appreciate it."

"I hope," a frown in his voice, a sigh in his tone.

"No, she will," Harry was confident. She would never make Niall feel bad--anyone feel bad. It was just the way she was.

Harry was in front of the urn containing the ashes of her mother and he knelt and said a short prayer for her and her sweet daughter. He tried not to think about his own mother at such a sad time and how he would feel if this was her. He shook his head, blessed himself automatically, and stood to greet the receiving line. It was filled with aunts and uncles who were surprised to see him. He didn't fully understand their surprise (of course he would be there for her--even if things were different now) but moved to each one, quietly apologizing for the loss of their sister and only answering how work, life, and everything was with as few words as possible. It was just her and her mom. Dad was out of the picture before she was even born. It wasn't a bad thing because she was her mum's whole life and she never made her want for anything. "Where is she?" Harry asked quietly. Usually the children were first in the line but she wasn't there.

"Another spat with the boyfriend," her aunt rolled her eyes. "You are by far our favorite," she smiled at him encouragingly. "Don't leave till she gets back, if you can. She deserves to see someone who will make her happy right now," she winked.

Harry felt his eyebrows crawl up his forehead in surprise. He nodded. Pride bloomed inside him for being the favorite. It wasn't the time but he couldn't help it. His heart felt heavy, worried she was with someone horrible. "Yeah, sure. Of course."

So Harry stayed in the little seating area, watching people walk through the receiving line, looking at the slideshow of pictures that somehow managed to boil down to one person's life. There was even a picture or two of him. It made sense, he was in her life for nearly four years and they were inseparable until they weren't.

Harry smiled fondly at the memories within the pictures and wondered where she could be right now. He had seen the full slideshow twice.

"Harry, you're still here?"

He cleared his throat, stood, and shook one of her uncle's hands again. "Yeah... um... haven't seen her yet."

"She went outside with the boyfriend ages ago. I'm assuming they're still arguing or she's trying to calm herself down enough to come in and fake that everything's fine."

Harry frowned. "Maybe I'll go check then," he suggested and headed for the door.

Why was she dating someone if it was clear no one in her family liked him?

The men at the door, let Harry through and he quietly walked to the side of the building wondering where she could be having a private conversation at a funeral home. The side was dark except for a flood light that perfectly illuminated the couple. Harry stepped out of sight but strained to listen.

"What do you mean, 'you have to go'? You're seriously joking right?"

Harry didn't know her voice could take on a tone that sounded so angry like that. They never fought that way. No more than who's pizza topping was better or if they had to pick which dinner place to go to on a busy Saturday night.

"Babe, you know with my work--"

"This is my mother," she croaked. It felt like a bullet through Harry's chest to hear her choked up like that. All that grief wrapping in her throat and pulling on her vocal cords.

"I know, but don't you think she would want me to continue living my life and doing what I need to do so--"

"She's my best friend," her voice cracked because she was crying so hard. Harry wanted to run over, unceremoniously knock him to the ground, and comfort her. "You're supposed to be here to support me!"

"Well you know death kind of freaks me out, babe. I'm trying to support our future. I've been here all day."

Her tone was so biting, he truly couldn't believe it. "You've been here for an hour."

Harry winced and shook his head. No one liked death. Everyone was freaked out by it to some degree. But he was supposed to love her; be there for her.

"If you leave, we're done," Harry felt intrusive for listening in but he couldn't move.

"You don't mean that."

"I do, mean that. I really, really, really, really mean that," she sniffed. Good girl. Harry thought. "I have put up with your bullshit like this for way too long and you're unsupportive and if you leave this is it," she assured him. "Work cannot be more important than me."

"It's important for us, babe. So when we get married--"

"And when will that be?" She shouted.

"For the love of God, we're going to do this now?"

"It's been three years. I'm thirty and wanted kids and you are just..." she trailed off. "Fine. Go. We're done anyway."

"Babe, you don't mean that--"

"I will pack my stuff up when I get home."

"And where are you going to go? You don't have a job right now--"

"BECAUSE I WAS TAKING CARE OF MY DYING MOTHER."

Why was she even with this guy? Harry couldn't fathom it. It was so unlike her to date someone so crass and careless. Or maybe Harry was just filled with rage and envy of a man that couldn't help her the way she deserved.

"Well..." he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I have a plane to catch. Maybe after you've calmed down and aren't grieving we can have a more pleasant conversation."

A silent moment passed between them. Surely he heard it as he said it. It couldn't have been just her and Harry that heard what he implied. "Do... do you... do you think I'm supposed to be done grieving?" She hissed.

He sighed, mumbled something about calling her when he landed, and walked away. He didn't even notice Harry pressed to the building.

Harry watched him get in his car and pull away as if this wasn't the worst day of her life. Harry took several deep breaths to calm himself. This wasn't about him or how he wanted to strangle him. This was about her, her grief.

She was leaning against the wall. She was heaving, sobbing into one hand. For what, at that point, Harry didn't know. He could only see her from behind, the same figure he could have picked out in a lineup and if he was blind. But she seemed smaller. Withdrawn of course. Her free arm wrapped around her stomach like she was trying to hold herself together.

"Hey beautiful," he murmured softly. She sniveled, spun around. Harry was met with her face grief stricken, heartbroken, and tear soaked. But yeah, she was still as beautiful as he remembered. "Aw, kitten," he cooed gently. "C'mon s'cold outside. Let's get you--"

She threw herself against him as he approached. Her arms around his neck and she continued her sobbing against his shoulder. Sighing, he wrapped his arms wrapped around her waist and back, she fit effortlessly into his embrace even after eight or so years since he last saw her. It felt natural to hold her like this. "I know," he murmured comfortingly. "I know, kitten," he kissed the side of her head, soothingly rubbing his hand up and down her spine.

"Please don't let go of me," she cried. "I can't--"

"Shh," he hushed. "M'here. M'not letting go until you do," he promised softly. He hoped she wouldn't pull away because he wanted to take care of her the way that asshole couldn't. It didn't matter what the past was it only mattered that her sweet self could find some sort of contentment.

"Please don't leave me," she begged. "I can't do this alone."

It felt like a switch changed in him. Or maybe it was the anger he felt for her ex-boyfriend. Or perhaps a combination of missing her when he didn't really know he had been missing her and all the frustration he felt for the reasons she was so distraught. He would do anything for her. "No way, beautiful. M'not going anywhere," he assured her pressing his lips instinctively to the top of her hair. Patiently he listened to her cries, held her tightly, and lightly brought a hand to the side of her neck. He carefully pressed his fingertips against her skin, hoping that if she was aching (which he assumed every part of her was) it relieved the smallest bit of tension.

"How much did you hear?" She sniveled pulling away enough to glance into his eyes. Her face was blotchy and red, she was sure. Harry looked like he just left his modeling job for ties and cologne. She wanted to look more beautiful--so it would have at least made sense that Harry had ever decided to date her--even if it was years ago. But she was so overwhelmed with sadness, she couldn't feel anything but that and not even her horrendous look could deter her long enough to utter more than a quick apology for snotting all over him. "M'sorry. I look--"

"Shh," he hushed immediately. Harry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket--Mum was always insistent he have one when he wore a suit. Someone is always crying when you need to wear a suit and it's not to work. Carefully, he dabbed under her eyes, and swiped the fabric across her delicate cheeks. "You look beautiful," he assured her a kind, small smile made his lips curl up just enough to get the dimple in his cheek to appear. The one she had told him she was going to stick her tongue in back when they laid on a mattress that was too small for two people and resulted in a giggling tickle fight between two people who were much too old for tickle fights.

What he would have given to make her laugh now.

Harry kept one arm around her waist taking over her own job to hold herself together. "How much did you hear?" She repeated.

He shrugged, nonchalantly. "Too much, probably."

She frowned; if she could muster an emotion other than sadness and grief, she probably would have been embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry. I was waiting inside, but then your uncle said y'were out here and I wanted t'see you and--"

"Do you need to leave?" She asked quickly. "I'm sorry I'm holding--"

"Kitten," he said gently pinching her chin between his fingers so she had no choice but to look in his eyes and process what he was saying. "M'staying here until y'tell me t'leave."

She sighed. For the first time in what felt like months she felt relief. "Okay."

*

She dragged him alongside her to the front of the receiving line. Harry felt slightly embarrassed and out of place but the rest of her family paid no attention to it. Like he was supposed to be there. She hugged and cried a lot over the next two hours. Harry handed her tissues and water.

“What if I don’t tell you to leave?” She whispered. Harry was standing so close to her that no one else could hear. Like it was just the two of them. She was sipping from a water bottle and Harry was stroking her hair back with his fingers while wiping below her eyes with a tissue.

“Then I’ll never go," his voice was quiet, like hers. He kissed her forehead softly.

"You don't have to obviously, you have no obligation... but is there any chance you were planning to be here tomorrow?" She asked.

He nodded hurriedly. "Course, kitten," he smiled gently, almost sad that she thought he wouldn't. "Niall's going t'come too. He's really sorry he couldn't make it tonight," he explained. "I have a hotel room right nearby so I can stay s'long as y'need me. Do anything y'need, too. And Niall m'sure would be happy t'help if y'need anything requiring two people, as well."

"Really?" A fresh well of tears filled her eyes and Harry's grin grew even if it was sad she was so surprised.

"Of course, beautiful. We... we want t'be here for you," he assured her.

She pressed her face against his shoulder again and sniveled against him. "I owe you a new suit," she mumbled into the fabric.

"Shh..." he hushed. "M'here," he promised. "Don't worry 'bout anything else."

*

His hotel room was dark when they entered. Harry didn’t want anything to happen that could be misconstrued due to her grief but she seemed adamant and sure that she wanted to spend the night. Harry was planning to sleep on the floor but instead they chatted way too much. Much later than a girl who had her mum’s funeral the following morning should have chatted. She giggled the way Harry loved and smiled despite how sad she was. Harry told her all about the last eight years, his job, his mum, their old friends and everything in between.

When he looked at the clock, his phone said it was well past one in the morning and she needed to be up early. “Think y’need t’sleep, kitten,” he was lying beside her, fully clothed except he lost the tie. He was brushing her hair away from her face watching her eyes droop.

“Mom didn’t like him,” she whispered. “She didn’t like anyone that wasn’t you,” she told him.

Harry swallowed nervously. Not because he was worried about her sentiment but because her grief was fresh and the tire tracks of where her stupid ex peeled out of the parking lot were still warm. Her mind had to be jumbled and as much as he wanted to kiss her and make promises, it wasn’t the time. Harry was older and more mature now. The way he wasn’t but wished he had been when they broke up. “After that performance, beautiful,” he sighed with a shake of his head. “M’surprised she didn’t poison him.”

“He didn’t even like her oatmeal raisin and white chocolate chip cookies,” she grumbled bitterly.

“Kitten,” he tutted. “How could you let that continue?” He joked, nudging her playfully.

She turned on her side, their faces inches apart on the same pillow. “Thank you for being here for me,” she whispered.

“There’s no where else I want t’be, beautiful,” he promised.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed you. It’s sad this is what it took.”

He leaned forward, pressed his lips to her forehead and let the kiss linger there. “Do y’want me t’sleep on the floor?”

“No,” she shook her head. “This is the first night I’ve felt tired in months. You have to stay here if you want me to sleep through the night.”

“If you’re sure,” he reached for the bedside lamp and turned it off. He didn’t want to change into different clothes or anything. He just wanted to be there for her.

“This is also your hotel room that I invited myself into," she reminded him.

He grinned at her in the dark. “You’ve always had an open invitation, t’me, kitten,” he brought her closer toward him, kissing the top of her head.

There would be about a thousand and one things to discuss after the funeral. But right then it was late, and they needed to sleep because the day was going to bring more exhaustion and sadness that was inevitable. “Did you mean it?” She whispered quietly after Harry thought she had fallen asleep.

“Mean what, beautiful?” He murmured.

“You’ll never go?”

He nodded. “Mmm,” he hummed inhaling the scent of her shampoo. “I meant it,” his words were slurred with sleep and she knew it because she had heard it in his voice hundreds of times in their time together. He was on the brink of dreaming and her mind was reeling.

“Mom wanted us to get back together,” she whispered. “For ages. She had our graduation picture on the fridge,” she explained. “When I was taking care of her these last few months and he was useless, she kept mentioning you. Told me it wasn’t too late to start over. I guess... I guess this was one way she thought she could bring us back together.”

There was no response because Harry had fallen asleep, and she was close behind. She brought the hand that held his to her lips and kissed his fingers inhaling the comforting smell of him as she finally felt like sleep.

“Your mum was the best,” he mumbled. “She brought you into this world, just for me t’find you.”

The words were lost in her mind, her throat, and her aching heart. But she liked to believe that Harry knew already because he was there, and he wasn’t planning on leaving again.

“We can start over, beautiful. M’not going anywhere,” he whispered one more time as sleep overtook her tired mind.

--

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach

@straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals

@angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams

@summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland

@lovrave @st-ev-ie @pandeebearstyles @toosarcastic03 @luvonstyles

@tenaciousperfectionunknown @classychalamet @love-letters-to-uranus @emmaawbr @crossyourpeter

@kissitnhekitchen @kittenhere @stylesfever @indierockgirrl @michellekstyles

@just-another-reader1098 @hermionelove @tiredinwinter @whimsy-willows @hannah9921

@fangirl7060 @triski73 @vikiii07 @prettygurl-2009 @madstyles3204

@angeldavis777

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[rafecameroninterlude]

hi angel! i love your work so much and fell in love with bambi!reader, so i was hoping you could write something for me ^_^

can you pls pls pls write bambi!reader comforting rafe after he gets into it with ward? i feel like she’d know exactly how to comfort himmm (pure fluff pls, i read too much smut lmaooo)

warnings: ward cameron, arguing, shouting, a little bit of physical violence, poor rafe who deserves so much better, mention of murder (i’m not referencing peterkin), fluff, soft petting, words of affirmation

a/n: aww bambi!reader has been getting so much love, it makes my heart happy to know that you enjoy the works that she’s in <3

“you had one job, rafe.. one!” ward had been shouting at rafe for nearly an hour already, his face flush with anger. “you really have a way of fucking things up, huh? i should put a caution sign on your forehead.” rafe’s fist clenched as he listened to his father, trying his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest with every word that ward spat.

“i already told you that i couldn’t close out the business accounts and wire the money to a different one. apparently i’m not next in line to own cameron development anymore. ‘you know something about that?” rafe was in disbelief when he had to find out from a service representative that his own father took him off of the family business, something that he worked hard all these years for in order to prove he was worthy of running.

ward froze. he had forgotten about that. “were you ever gonna tell me, or were you just gonna be a coward about it?” rafe stood up, towering over his father with that crazy look in his eyes. “what you forgot to do before you faked your own death instead of facing your problems like a man, was take my name off of the inheritance of tanneyhill.” he laughed, “i own this shit now.” rafe stepped closer, backing ward into the wall. “get out of my house.” ward was seething, his hand coming up to fist rafe’s shirt.

“your house? i’m the one who worked like a dog to get us here.” ward said through gritted teeth, shoving rafe in his chest. rafe stumbled, scoffing out a laugh as he then pushed his father. “worked like a dog to get us here but you were more than willing to leave me here while you start a new life in fuckin’ guadeloupe.” rafe fought to keep his emotions at bay.

“leave. and don’t ever come back.” ward’s chest was rising and falling, both him and rafe glaring at one another. “you’re cut off. good luck keeping up with this place on your own.” ward smiled bitterly. “cut off?” rafe narrowed his eyes, “i’ve been cut off, dad. i haven’t used a cent of yours since i was nineteen. all this time i’ve been making money my own way, and a lot of it too. ‘seems like your old man brain forgot about that.” rafe nudged ward as he walked past, his father following him out of the master bedroom.

“i’m leaving. when i come back i want you out of here,” rafe grabbed his truck keys, his skin on fire as he looked up the staircase, “and by the way, asshole, i’m not by myself. i got the prettiest girl on the island on my arm everywhere i go.” ward watched as his son walked out the front door. rafe was seeing red the whole time he drove to your house, cursing under his breath as he recalled his father’s words.

“the fucking nerve that guy has.” he punched the steering wheel, nostrils flaring as tears pricked at his eyes. he was the only one who was there to take care of things when ward was ‘gone’. even going as far as committing crimes so his father wouldn’t face any kind of scrutiny. yet, there he was telling him that he was a fuck up.

rafe spent the next five minutes mumbling to himself, his hands shaking as he parked outside your driveway. you were curled up on the porch swing, an open book in your lap when he walked up the stone path. all it took was one look at your boyfriend to have you scrambling up from your seat, eager to soothe him in any way you can. “oh, ray, what’s wrong?” you guided him inside, locking the door shut before both of you made your way up to your room.

“it’s ward. he came back just to tell me shit about not closing the bank accounts under cameron development.” you knew all about rafe’s conflict with his father. from the way he favored everyone else over his eldest, to the constant nagging and insults. sitting rafe down on the edge of your bed, you couldn’t help the way your heart sunk at the sight of defeat in his shoulders, his eyes void of any emotion.

slipping his shoes off, you took your usual seat in his lap, stroking the outline of his jaw as he vented. “i’ll never be good enough for him. i killed for him goddamit, and what do i get in return? ‘i should put a caution sign on your forehead.’ rafe imitated ward’s voice from earlier. you blinked, pecking his cheek. “you’re an amazing son, rafe. shame on him for not recognizing that.” rafe stared up at you, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

you were the only one that looked at him with pure adoration, the only one who made him feel like he had a purpose. “i think you’re amazing, rafe. you don’t sit around, waiting to get things done, you’re so helpful, and so, so kind— to me.” he chuckled at the clarification, rubbing a large hand over your knee. “you think so?” he leaned his head against your chest, your arms coming up to hold him. “i know so.” you sighed, breathing in his scent.

“wanna be little spoon tonight?” your voice alone made him relax, his eyes fluttering shut.

“..yeah.”

[ceilidho]

prompt: IKEA soap/reader fic. PART 4. (read 1, 2, 3) tags: dubcon; nsfw

-

You only realize after the fact that you may have miscalculated in thinking that this could be a one-time thing between the two of you. 

After listening to Johnny bitch and moan during the Christmas party about having to take time off work to spend the holidays with his very religious family, you delude yourself into thinking you’ll finally be able to have some peace and quiet around the store. Not literally, of course. Working during the holidays is always a recipe for exhaustion—parents coming in at the last minute to demand toys that have long since sold out, fights breaking out in every other aisle as customers fight for the last palatable set of Christmas ornaments and boxed fruit cake. 

You’re not delusional enough to think that work will be a piece of cake, but you are selfishly a little happy that you’ll finally get some time to breathe without Johnny hovering over your shoulder at all hours of your shift. Seasonal shoppers are as exhausting as always, but you get to sit alone in the breakroom with a cup of coffee in the morning right before your shift without someone staring at you or breathing into your personal bubble. 

Johnny spends his entire time off blowing up your phone, sending you pictures of his childhood home, calling you during your breaks, and sending you weird videos that seem to have been filmed entirely in the dark where you can’t see or hear anything apart from some weird squeaks and one loud grunt at the very end of the video that sounds kind of like—you close the video.

You spend the first few days of January dreading his return. The day of is like a shock to your nervous system, the whole morning spent pouring coffee with a trembling hand. 

“Hiya gorgeous,” he purrs when you clock in for your shift. You’re somewhat used to Johnny sneaking up behind you, so you don’t flinch this time when you feel the length of his body press up against you at the time clock. 

“Johnny, it’s seven in the morning,” you mutter out through pursed lips, shoulders stiff when he puts his hands on them and digs his thumbs into the tender points of your back. You bite back a moan.

“Missed ye, kitten. Cannae believe I went a whole week without hearing you purr.”

He could’ve phrased that a thousand other ways, but he just had to choose the one that would make you wince. He digs his thumbs in again, trying to push the moan out of you, but you tamp it down. You hold back a shudder when he plants his nose onto the crown of your head and inhales, drawing your scent into his lungs. 

“Where’ye assigned ta today? Jeff owes me a favour—gonna ask him if I can spend the day with ye so we can catch up.” 

You go still when he drops a firm kiss to the side of your head. “I’m…not sure. I haven’t checked the schedule yet.” It’s a half-lie. You may not have checked the schedule yet, but you know from having briefly chatted with your manager this morning in the parking lot where you’ll be spending most of your day.

Still, it means that you get to shake off Johnny for a bit. “Lemme go check for ye, okay, hen? Stay here, a’right?”

You watch him jog off down the hall to the breakroom before finally leaving. It’ll be better for you if you’re gone before he comes back. 

The first hour of your day is spent on softlines until Priya in jewellery randomly comes down with a chill and gets sent home early, forcing you to cover her section. Usually that wouldn’t be such a bad deal—it means you get to spend your shift helping people try on bracelets and rings, restocking the earring display, and leaning against the counter for hours at a time. It’s not a particularly busy station.  

While you're assigned to the jewellery section though, Johnny pops out of nowhere as you're helping a customer contemplating a birthday ring for his fiancé. With the kind of confidence that you’ve come to expect from Johnny, he uses your hand to model some of the rings, but this time it feels oddly weirdly intense. When he slides the first ring onto your finger, you can feel the way he holds his breath, even shudders a bit. He presses himself right up against you behind the display counter, hardness pressing against your hip. 

It doesn’t take long for your customer to leave. Johnny’s demeanour is off-putting, concerning even. You can’t fault the guy for being rightfully repulsed by the way Johnny crowds up against you like you’re alone together. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss through your teeth.

“Cannae help it, hen. I ken ye wanna wait, but it jus’ makes me a bit emotional seein’ my girl wearing a ring I put on.”

He blinks down at you with big, blue eyes, the picture of innocence. You should’ve anticipated there being a danger in letting Johnny stew over that on his own. Of course he’d come to his own conclusions, even one as deranged as thinking of your hook up as a step towards dating. You can’t help but side eye him. 

“We—we’re not a couple, Johnny.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Ye just let anybody eat you out in the supply closet then? S’that right?” It’s said rhetorically, like he knows the answer already. You flinch at the slight though.

“That was—” you cut yourself off to take a breath, an ache growing behind your forehead, “—that was a…it was a one-time thing. You can’t just act like we’re dating.”

His lips turn down in a pout, displeasure rippling across his face. You brace yourself for the inevitable argument, for shit to hit the fan, because obviously that’s what’s brewing under the surface. You brace yourself for worse too because when you happen to glance around, you realize how few people are actually milling around in the area. 

Then, instead of losing his temper, Johnny’s eyes grow smoky, heavy-lidded, and the pout lifts into a lazy, playful grin. “A’right, kitty, no’ dating then. That’s fine wi’ me.”

This time it’s you that frowns, staring up at him dubiously. “…Really?” It feels too sudden, quicksilver. Johnny’s fiery by nature, short tempered on his best days and more likely to grit his teeth and bear the displeasure of not getting his way than happily giving into it. His sudden smile is at odds with the version of him that exists in your mind, furious at you for denying him. 

Maybe you’ve got him all wrong. 

The gleam in his eye betrays nothing, however. “I swear.” He leans closer to you then, fingers fiddling with the name tag pinned over your chest on your work vest, straightening it. “Doesnae mean we have ta give the rest up though. Ye liked what we did in the closet, right, hen?”

It feels like he’s sucked the air out of the room, as big as it is. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”

“Och, c’mon, kitty,” Johnny breathes, hunching just a little over and into your space, making the moment feel private, just the two of you. “Had to talk about it eventually. Did ye just expect that everything would go back to normal after ye let me eat ye out? Hey—” he catches you when you try to make a move to step away from him, wrapping a big hand around your wrist and tugging you closer to him, “—listen, kitty—it doesnae have to be anything serious, right? That’s what’s making ye all jumpy and nervous? I’ll lick your pussy, free of charge. Dinnae need any labels. How’s that sound, kitty? Dick on demand?”

It should repulse you. The way he speaks to you is crass, crude. His voice is hushed, haggard, fur stretched taut over stone—and yet, your hands tremble, just a little. It tempts you. Purring Scottish burr, lapis lazuli eyes, bristle cheeks that you still remember scraping up your inner thighs. He’s a package you can’t imagine sending back.

“You won’t get…you promise not to get weird about it?” you ask.

His smile curls up, impish. “Cross my heart, kitten.”

Maybe you’re delusional enough to think that you can have your cake and eat it too. There’s a voice in your head telling you to face the facts, but you disregard it as if you haven’t been working with Johnny for months. As if you aren’t aware of his penchant for saying or doing anything to get his way. It’s maybe naive of you. 

All you know is that he smothers a laugh when you tell him you’ll think about it. Knows he’s got you right where he wants.

You don’t fight when he drags you into the single-stall bathroom towards the end of your shift, letting him position you in front of the mirror before sinking to his knees behind you. Forces you to watch the way you come apart on his tongue, not giving you his fingers until you beg him to, the whispered plea a hairsbreadth away from becoming a scream. 

“Oh, did she miss me?” Johnny breathes, a happy laugh in his voice when he runs the broad side of his tongue over your entrance from the back. “Fuck, look at that. Winked at me ‘n everythin’. Hi darling, missed ye too.”

You don’t think you’ll ever be the same after hearing that come out of his mouth. You go hot all over again when you clench involuntarily, equal parts turned on and horrified. He sniggers before trying to cram his whole tongue up into you. 

There’s a moment of panic when Johnny draws up behind you after making you come and you hear him undo his pants. There’s nowhere for you to go with your pants still looped around your ankles, underwear pulled all the way down as well. You hear yourself hiss a startled Johnny when he slots a fat cock between your thighs, staring dumbly at the reflection of him behind you. At your back, he seems massive, lean and trim but towering over you, broad. 

He shushes you. “Dinnae be selfish, hen—gotta get mine too. Jus’ gonna fuck your thighs, dinnae fret.”

You squeak when he pushes your thighs together forcefully, dragging his cock over your folds to wet himself. Watching Johnny fuck is nothing like staring down at him when he eats you out. He pants harsh and ragged into the side of your head, nips at your ear. The glint in his eyes goes animalistic, vacant. Human desire recedes, subsumed into the animal part of his brain with the single-minded need to fuck. 

The only thing keeping him from driving up into you, accidentally or not, is the way you keep your thighs pressed together. A warm, tight channel for him to push his cock into. Thick fingers dig into your waist, sure to leave bruises. You wince when lean hips pound against your backside, growing frantic as need overtakes him. You flirt at the edge of panic, certain that at any second, he’ll pull your thighs apart and nudge the head of his cock up into you. 

“Jus’ like that, fuck,” he grunts. “Be a good little fuckin’ girl and jus’ let me—”

His tongue lolls out on a particularly rough thrust, hands groping over your belly and up to your chest, slipping his hand under your shirt and bra to pinch your nipple. He twists it mean, nasty, until you have no choice but to grunt through grit teeth, eyes watering. You feel like a doll meant for his pleasure, no choice but to grip the sides of the sink and let Johnny use you until he comes. 

“Fuck,” Johnny groans, eyes going half-lidded. “Love makin’ this pussy come. Love gettin’ her all messy and wet. Lettin’ me between your thighs even when I make ye nervous—fuck, ‘m gonna come, ‘m gonna—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

White come stripes the sink in front of you, thick and viscous. Paints the inside of your thighs as well when he drags his hips back until just the head of his cock sits nestled up against your sex. Hyperconscious of where it tags your inner lips, that there’s no barrier between the two of you, just come and skin. 

The full body shake shocks you, a ripple from your heels to the top of your head. 

His free hand grasps you by the hair when you try to slip away. “Ye gonna clean up your mess, baby?”

You glance back up at his reflection in the mirror, trying to suss him out. Shark-like eyes meet yours. Something you’ve seen in glances before finally staring back at you with full force. You reach for the paper towel dispenser with a shaking hand. 

“Nah,” Johnny scolds, giving you a shake. “With your mouth.”

The command hangs in the air, no joke or laugh to undercut it. His eyes read serious to you, still dark. No leniency present in the blue. 

You stare down at his come on the sink, slack-jawed. “You don’t seriously mean—”

“Jus’ kidding, silly,” he chuckles, giving a teasing bite to your earlobe and tugging. The tension in the air disperses. “Got ye, huh?” 

You force a laugh. “Yeah…got me.”

[yogurtkags]

❝ DISTANT DESIRES ❞ — miya atsumu (18+)

cw. MDNI, f!reader, timeskip!atsumu, established relationship, pet names (baby, princess, darling), fluff to smut, sexting, sending risqué photos, teasing, phone sex, masturbation, language, dirty talk, not beta read word count. ~ 2.3k synopsis. atsumu’s away and misses the way you feel against his skin before a big game.

shutting down and closing your laptop, you push yourself up from the uncomfortable desk chair, groaning as you twist and turn, popping your neck and back as you stretch the tense muscles. another day at the office, done and dusted.

you switch out your fluffy fox office slippers for the black slingbacks you came in, walking towards the large floor-to-ceiling windows to take in the scene before you. the sun has set, the moon slowly coming out to play — it’s a friday night, groups of friends and couples alike take the streets to celebrate the end of a busy work week. city lights shine over the crowded roads, hustle and bustle illuminated by the vibrant colours of osaka’s nightlife.

you’d be one with the crowd below if not for the fatigue of crunch time seeping deep into your bones, it’s been one hell of a day, a week even, you’ve lost all concept of time, feeling a little more drained than usual without your love here.

the msby black jackals have a series of away games in tokyo, so naturally, atsumu’s been away for the past couple of days, and you miss him dearly. you understood why he had to go, it just didn’t make sense for him to make the commute everyday and waste precious time that could be spent resting, even if it meant still being by your side. it doesn’t make you miss him any less though, you’ve never been apart from him for more than a day since he asked you to move in with him two summers ago, and you feel it even more so now that he’s put on a ring on your finger.

casting one last look at the files and mountains of paperwork, you sigh, packing up your things and swinging your tote over your shoulder, preparing to finally leave the office. the rest of the floor is empty and the lights are dimmed, pretty much everyone in the building has already left for the night. honestly you were too busy to even notice, feeling stressed is an understatement with multiple deadlines looming.

bzzt. bzzt. your phone buzzes as you’re exiting the main elevator and walking to your parked car— 2 new messages from tsumu ♡

tsumu ♡ : hi princess tsumu ♡ : i miss you

just his name alone is enough to perk you up and put a smile on your weary face, spreading a warmth in your soul, like a fireplace crackling to life in a chilly cabin up in the northern mountains in the dead of winter.

me : hi baby me : i miss you too :(

climbing into the driver's seat, you allow yourself to sink into the leather seats, quickly shooting him a message that you'll be driving in case you take a while to respond and that you'll text him when you get home, getting the car started and heading home.

in the meantime, atsumu's sprawled out on his back over the plush ivory sheets on his queen bed, fresh out of the shower after practice and dinner with the boys, lazily toying with his phone while staring at the ceiling. he thinks the bed's much too large for just him alone, still defaulting to laying on his side of the bed — it's a force of habit that comes with living together, missing the warmth of your embrace and the scent of your strawberry vanilla shampoo lingering on what would've been your pillow.

he knows you’ve been slaving away at work while he was gone, you’re usually home by now but if you’re only just leaving the office at this hour, you’re probably clocking voluntary overtime just to clear as much off your plate as possible. you never liked bringing work home anyway.

he hopes you’ve been taking care of yourself, not that you don’t normally, but you tend to get stuck in your head sometimes when you’re busy and pushed to the limits. regardless, he always worries, despite you telling him that you’re a big girl and can take care of yourself, that he shouldn’t worry his pretty lil head about you.

atsumu thinks he has a growing distaste for away games. they usually mean that he has to be away from you, meaning he’s a tad bit more grouchy than usual, a bit more snappy, much to the team’s chagrin. there’s no point searching the stands for you when you won’t be there, no you to kiss him good luck before lining up, no you to dick down the night before for some fun, overnight loving and a good night’s sleep.

well, lady luck seems to be on his side because little did he know, you’d be coming home to find a very exciting parcel sitting at your doorstep.

you on the other hand, are slightly puzzled. strange, you didn’t receive any delivery notifications, but you won’t say no to a haul. who knows, it might just be what you need at the end of a shitty day, a little retail therapy doesn’t hurt nobody.

stepping out of your shoes and leaving your coat hung by the door, you bring the cardboard box up on your kitchen counter, carefully slicing it open with the first knife you could find. with a gasp, you lift up the contents of the box to find a very lovely set of lace lingerie. i forgot i ordered this.

in a burst of excitement, you immediately bring the dainty piece of fabric to the bedroom, peeling off your black pencil skirt and white button up. putting it on, you stand in front of floor length mirror, hands lightly tracing over the fine details of patterned lace in admiration. it’s beautiful, hugging your figure in all the right places, and you happen to know someone who would love it even more.

flicking on the light switch of your shared walk-in closet, your eyes zero-in on a green shoe box sitting in the corner of the room. it’s tucked away, no one’s ever really needed it, the contents being kept more so for nostalgic purposes, but you’re really hoping what you’re looking for is still in there.

kneeling down to open it up, you come face to face with atsumu’s high school jersey. inarizaki’s #7. perfect, just what you were looking for.

with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you put the jersey on. atsumu’s definitely grown larger and more buff in the several years since high school, but he wasn’t by any means small to begin with, the dri-fit material hanging loose on your frame and ending right by your upper thighs.

it unfortunately no longer smells like him, having been kept away for that long, but just a little spritz of his perfume should do the trick. it’s a far cry from having him here with you but it’ll do for now.

crawling into bed and getting tangled in the soft sheets, you raise the hem of the jersey just to tastefully expose your skimpily clad lower half, arching your back just a little and angling your phone to snap a photo. you’ve definitely taken more risqué photos in the past, for sure, but given you were both apart, much farther than just a short drive, you know this will be enough to set him off, leaving just enough room for imagination.

less than a minute after you hit send, your phone rings with an incoming call and checking the caller ID, sure enough, it’s atsumu.

biting back a smile, you feign innocence, propping your phone up between your ear and shoulder, picking at your manicured nails as you lean back against the soft pillows, “hi tsumu, everything okay?”

“come on, don’t play coy with me now baby, with my jersey too? you know exactly what you’re doin’.”

he is, as always, so so easy to rile up.

with a giggle, you egg him on, “i just wanted to show you what came in the mail today, isn’t it pretty?”

“it is, looks ravishing on you darling. you know exactly what i like don’t you? it’s in my favourite colour too.”

atsumu hums in delight, bringing the phone closer to his mouth and voice dropping barely above a whisper and muttering out the next few words, “though i must say, i think it looks better on the floor.”

you can’t help but bring your bottom lip between your teeth, sinful thoughts begin to run through your mind about what the night entails if this carries on. making sure he can hear your pouting through the phone, “mhmm but you’re not here to undress me, strip me of my clothes one article at a time.”

atsumu pictures you in your shared bed, mind conjuring images of you slowly peeling off your clothes, nipples perked as the cool night air hits your skin, peeking through the sheer lace fabric. he was already sporting a semi hard on, the beginning of an erection provoked by the delicious photo you sent earlier.

he can’t help but reach a hand down to touch himself over his boxers, letting out a desperate and breathy whine that you recognise all too well, “s-shit— baby, please, just help me out here.”

your eyes widened, breath hitching in your throat at the realisation, a wave of pleasure going straight to your heat.

breathing out an okay, you wiggle into a more comfortable position, bringing the collar of his jersey up to your nose and taking a deep inhale of his fragrance, closing your eyes and letting his voice and your imagination do the work for you.

your hands trail down your sides, pulling the delicate panties aside and letting your fingers brush against your clit, folds already glistening with arousal from the mere thoughts of atsumu laying in his bed, naked skin glazed with a sheen of sweat and pleasuring himself to pictures of you.

"talk to me, baby. can you describe to me what you’re doing?”

“touching myself, rubbing my clit.” you gasp, “feels good.”

“yeah? good girl, apply a little more pressure and when you’re ready, put a finger in for me?” he shakily breathes out, "i bet ya look real pretty right now."

you do as you’re told, clenching around your finger, his simple praise shooting straight to your core. oh how quickly the tables have turned, from taunting him to eagerly following his instructions without any second thoughts.

you can almost hear the wet sounds of his hand spreading the precum over his length and his strokes over his cock gradually increasing in speed, his voice breathless and broken,"that's it baby, slide another finger in?”

“that’s my good girl. imagine it's my thick fingers in your pussy right now." you moan at the delicious sensation, eyes squeezed shut as you pump your fingers in and out of your cunt. he hasn't been gone for long but you miss him so much, in more ways than one.

“i miss you so much, miss being inside you, your pretty face when you’re moaning my name, hmm?”

reaching up and rolling your nipples through the thin lace, you moan, “i do, i m-hah, miss you too tsumu!”

at this point, days worth of stress melts away as you chase your release, mind overwhelmed with pleasure as the saccharine voice of your lover leads you to an orgasm.

“i can’t wait to get back and fuck you for real, just doesn’t feel the same without you.” it’s almost like his phone is on his pillow right next to his face, sweet moans and groans tumbling out of atsumu’s mouth, straight into your ears, almost like he’s right here with you caged below him, breathing into your neck.

despite the distance, he feels so close, almost like he can touch you if he just reached forward, “keep going baby, don’t stop.”

your orgasm is building much faster than you initially anticipated, pleasure ripping through you as his wrecked voice and whimpering pushes you closer and closer to the edge as tears line your closed lids and threaten to spill over your cheeks.

“a-atsu!” you cry with urgency, grinding your sensitive bundle of nerves into the palm of your hand, barely holding on to the cusp of release. “atsu i’m gonna—“

“come on, let go f'me pretty.”

with a high-pitched cry, your body stiffens and the coil in your abdomen finally snaps, squeezing tight and releasing all over your fingers.

atsumu pictures it all too well, your muscles contracting under soft skin as you cum to his encouragement— that was the last push he needed and he’s letting out a string of expletives and sharp moans, sinking into the pale sheets as his release sputters over his stomach and lower abdomen.

the both of you lay in silence for a few moments, catching your breath as you come down from the high. you hear some movement through the phone, presumably atsumu cleaning up the mess he made on himself, before collapsing on the firm mattress again.

"man, i wish i could hold you and kiss you all over your pretty face." you can even hear the pout in his voice, heart clenching as you yearn to kiss it off his handsome face. all you can do at the moment is hum in response, wrapping your arms around a pillow and tucking your face into his jersey that you still had on, inhaling the scent of his perfume now mixed with your sweat, pretending that he’s here in bed with you.

regardless, you’re spent, the post-orgasm sleepiness paired with the long day you just had hitting you all at once and your eyes flutter shut, softly mumbling with a tired yet satisfied smile, “i love you, atsumu.”

“i love you too, princess.” atsumu sighs in quiet longing, “i’ll see you soon okay? be back before ya know it.”

bzzt. bzzt. just as he’s about to drift off into slumber, his phone buzzes with an unread message from kiyoomi in the adjoining suite next to his— 1 new message from omi-omi

omi-omi : next time you’re calling your fiancé and beating your meat, please keep it down

notes. @atsumou surprise >:) was listening to snooze - sza while adding the last touches reblogs & interactions are always appreciated !

© yogurtkags. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.

[virgoilluminati]

can u please write a jude fic where your in a talking stage and he comes over and you both make out for the first time 🤭

It's been a long time coming...

A/N: this is my first request in absolutely ages so tysm you have made my day ✨❣️ As I am now unemployed (😜✌️) i have a lot of free time before i head back to university. So please if anyone has any ideas lmk 🥹

Inspo: Jude and You have been close friends since high school, but after one very drunken night, you admit your feelings for him, right before he leaves for the euro's. When Jude arrives home, he has only one goal, to give you that kiss that you've been waiting for.

Oh, you had royally fucked up.

So royally fucked up that you probably shouldn’t leave the house for at least the next two days, perhaps a week, even a month.

You’d told your best friend that you liked him, in a sweaty club, the night before he was going to the Euros. With the drink loosening your tongue, you blurted it out without thinking. The look on his face said it all; he was stunned into silence.

You and Jude had known each other since high school. He was in the year above you, but you both shared a huge interest in football. While he played for the boys’ squad, you played for the girls’. You got really close in the last year of high school as he began prepping for the under-21s football team while you were preparing for university. You became each other’s anchor, someone you both could rely on, no matter how tough it got. You told each other absolutely everything. So when you blurted out that you liked him, it was as if you had shattered an unspoken rule.

You had been drunk. That was the justification you were giving. You didn’t know what you were thinking; you couldn’t control what was going through your head. You couldn’t face him, not now. The memory of his expression replayed in your mind, a painful reminder.

You had sent him one text message, mentioning nothing about the incident, just wishing him luck in the Euros. Maybe he’d just forget it even happened. After all, he was pretty drunk too.

You had spent all morning preoccupying yourself with your uni work, taking the dog out for a walk, cleaning your room… basically anything to distract from the impending apocalypse. But it was pointless; every other second, you would check the blue tick on the message, with a simple “read” underneath it.

Hey, I hope the head isn’t too sore from last night ahaha. Best of luck in the Euros, I’ll be screaming your name at the local, love ya. (Read)

His response came about three hours later. In that time, you had gone through all five stages of grief. First, Denial: you denied that you even told him, that it was a huge mistake. Anger: you were angry that no one stopped you, as it was an open secret between all of your friends but him, but they had let you blurt it out. Bargaining: maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, you know. You could just say it was a mistake or you didn’t remember. Depression: this would be the end of your friendship—that he’d no longer look at you the same way ever again. Acceptance: your life was doomed, and that was the end of it. However, when his response came, you hadn’t actually prepared yourself.

Yeah, my head’s fine ahaha, though I think you drank more than me in the end. Currently on the way to the airport, Trent says hi. Pretty nervous about the Euros, I can’t lie.

You sat there staring at the three dots, wondering what else he was thinking. You cringed at him mentioning your drunkenness. He not only knew but he must’ve remembered. Oh god, this was going to be awkward.

You didn’t respond, noticing the frequent three dots on his screen going rapidly on and off. Sighing, you attempted to make a joke, quickly sending back a response.

I’m sure Trent is feeling it right now ahaha, how many shots did he have last night again? Don’t be nervous, you’ll be ace!

His reply came almost instantly.

Enough to need a new liver, I’m sure. Thanks for the vote of confidence. We’re about to board, talk later?

You couldn’t help but feel relieved. He wasn’t addressing your confession at all. Maybe he really had chosen to forget about it. Or perhaps he was giving you a way out, a chance to pretend it never happened. Either way, you seized the opportunity.

Sure, have a safe flight! Catch you later.

With that, you put your phone down and took a deep breath. Maybe this wouldn’t ruin everything after all. For now, you’d focus on the positives: Jude was still talking to you, and you still had your friendship, even if it was a little shaken.

The next couple of days were a whirlwind of activity. Jude was swamped with training and media commitments, so your interactions were mostly confined to texts. Despite the busyness, he made sure to check in frequently, sending you updates and little messages that kept the connection alive.

After the Slovakia game, which they won in a nail-biting finish, you received a call from Jude. You could hear the adrenaline in his voice, the excitement of the victory still fresh.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless. “Did you see the game?”

“Of course I did! You were amazing! That last-minute goal!" you replied, unable to hide the pride in your voice.

“Thanks. It felt good out there tonight. The fans were crazy. Nearly thought we were goners—"

"Nah, I knew you'd pull through."

"Really?" His voice sounded hopeful, as if he had more to say, but instead, he coughed and continued talking. "Uh, listen, there is something I need to talk to you about.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Okay, what’s up?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about what you said."

"What I said? When?" you responded, your heart beating faster by the minute.

"The night before I went, about you liking me. I thought I could just put it aside and focus on the tournament, but… I can’t.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Jude…”

“No, let me finish,” he interrupted gently. “I’ve been trying to figure out how I feel. And the truth is, I like you too."

Tears pricked at your eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah. I hope you don't mind, but I told Dec and Trent, and after they completely humbled me, they made me realize—I think I've always had a bit of a thing for you. It’s just… I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to lose what we have.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “We’ll figure it out together. One step at a time.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jude let out a breath. “Okay. One step at a time. I like the sound of that.”

For the rest of the night, you talked about everything and nothing, letting the conversation flow naturally. The tension from the confession began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of hope and excitement.

The next game was against Switzerland, and you decided to go out to the pub to watch it with a couple of your pals. The place was buzzing with excitement, filled with fans donning jerseys and scarves, and the energy was infectious. As the match began, you found yourself nervously scanning the screen for Jude, your eyes automatically seeking him out every few seconds.

Your friends, of course, noticed.

“Honestly, if you stare any harder, you might burn a hole through the screen,” teased Sarah, nudging you playfully.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the blush that crept up your cheeks. “I’m just… making sure he’s doing okay.”

“Sure, just making sure,” Mark chimed in with a grin. “We all know you’re head over heels.”

“Guys, can we please just focus on the game?” you said, though you couldn’t help but smile.

As the match progressed, every time Jude touched the ball, your heart seemed to leap into your throat. You could hear your friends’ comments in the background, teasing you about how intently you were watching him.

“There he is again, Y/N! Are you taking notes on his every move?” Sarah laughed.

“Come on, give her a break. She’s just a supportive friend,” Mark added, though his tone was dripping with sarcasm.

You tried to ignore them, but the truth was, they weren’t entirely wrong. You were more invested in Jude’s performance than anything else. When he made a particularly brilliant pass, you couldn’t help but cheer louder than anyone else.

“Wow, you’ve got it bad,” Sarah remarked, shaking her head in amusement.

The game was intense, with both teams playing aggressively. Jude was in top form, making crucial plays and demonstrating why he was such an asset to the team. As the game neared its end, with the score tied, the tension in the pub was palpable.

Just then, your phone buzzed with a message from Jude.

Jude: Gaffer gave us 5 minutes, couldn't wait any longer to not text you.

You: What are you doing?! You're supposed to be on the pitch.

Jude: I think this is going to penalties, I feel it.

You quickly typed back, trying to infuse your message with as much confidence as you could muster.

You: Don’t worry, you’ve got this. I believe in you.

There was a brief pause before his next message came through.

Jude: Listen, how about this: if we win, I’ll take you out on a date.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stared at the screen, rereading his words. A date. With Jude. Your heart was racing now for an entirely different reason.

You: Deal.

The penalties were agonizing to watch. Each kick, each save, each miss, had the entire pub reacting in unison—groans of despair, cheers of relief, gasps of anticipation. You were barely breathing, your eyes fixed on the screen as if willing the ball into the net with sheer force of will.

Jude stepped up to take his shot. The pub fell silent. You could almost hear your own heartbeat. He took a deep breath, ran up, and kicked. The ball sailed past the goalkeeper and into the net. The pub erupted in cheers, and you jumped up, your shout of triumph mingling with everyone else’s.

The penalties continued, and finally, it came down to Trent. The pressure was immense. If he scored, England would win.

The pub fell silent again as Trent prepared for his shot. You could feel the tension in the air, your heart pounding louder than ever. He took his position, focused, ran up, and kicked. The ball flew towards the goal, past the goalkeeper, and hit the back of the net.

The pub exploded in cheers. People were hugging, high-fiving, and celebrating. You couldn’t believe it. They had done it.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jude: We did it! Can’t believe it. Guess I owe you that date ;)

You couldn’t stop smiling, your heart soaring with pride and excitement.

You: You were amazing! We're so proud!! I can't wait x

Jude: Trust me, I’m looking forward to it. See you soon, Y/N.

You spent the rest of the night celebrating with your friends, the victory and Jude’s promise keeping your spirits high. Amidst all the revelry, one thing was clear: your relationship with Jude was about to take a new and thrilling turn.

The next few days were a whirlwind of emotions and excitement. Jude’s team had just secured a 2-1 victory against the Netherlands. The pub you were in was filled with joyous celebration and raucous cheers. You knew Jude would be over the moon, and you couldn’t wait to hear from him.

Soon enough, your phone rang with an incoming call from Jude. You stepped outside, away from the pub’s noise, to answer.

“Hey, Jude!” you answered, your voice bright with excitement. “Congrats on the win!”

“Y/N!” Jude’s voice was noticeably slurred, and you could hear the background noise of a lively celebration. “I can’t believe we did it! We actually won!”

“I know, it was amazing!” you said, smiling. “You were incredible out there.”

“Thanks!” Jude’s words were slightly jumbled. “I’m just so… so buzzed right now! Remember when we were kids and we’d dream about moments like this? It’s really happening!”

“I know, it’s like a dream come true,” you said warmly.

“And you were always… so pretty, you know? I never really understood why you’d hang out with me,” he continued, his voice full of affection. “Everyone loved you, and I was just this goofy football guy.”

You felt a blush rising. “Jude, it didn’t matter. We had so much fun together.”

“Really?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “I always thought… thought you were too good for me. I was just this guy with a big dream, and you were this amazing person who could have been anywhere.”

“Well, I was where I wanted to be,” you said softly. “With you.”

Jude’s voice grew more tender. “I’ve always admired you, Y/N. Even back then, I was captivated by you. The way you carried yourself, the way you looked—it was like you had this light that drew me in. I was always amazed by how stunning you were, both inside and out.”

You could hear Bukayo’s voice faintly in the background. “Jude, mate, turn the phone off. You're pissed-"

Jude chuckled, though his tone remained affectionate. “I can’t help it, Bukayo! Y/N, you have no idea how incredible you are. I mean, just thinking about you—how beautiful you looked back then and how stunning you still are—drives me crazy.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words. “Jude, you’re making me blush.”

“I’m just speaking the truth,” he said earnestly. “You’ve always been this amazing person, and I’ve been lucky to have you as a friend and now… maybe something more.”

You felt a warm flutter in your chest. “I’m really glad we’re sharing these moments together. It means a lot to me.”

Jude’s voice grew more serious, though still a bit tipsy. “If we keep winning, I want to make sure we celebrate together. I can’t imagine doing it without you.”

“I’d love that,” you said, smiling. “For now, enjoy the celebration. You’ve earned it.”

Jude’s laughter was warm and content. “Alright, I’ll let you go. But I’ll call you again soon, okay?”

“Sure thing. Enjoy the rest of your night, Jude,” you said.

As you ended the call, you couldn’t help but smile. Jude’s heartfelt, tipsy confessions and the sound of his celebration had deepened your connection, making you realize just how much you both meant to each other. The future felt full of promise, and you were excited to see where this new chapter would lead.

When England lost 2-1 to Spain, the crushing disappointment was felt by everyone, especially Jude. As he and the team made their way back, he couldn't shake the feeling of defeat.

You, back home, had been anxiously awaiting any word from him. After a few hours, you decided to check in, hoping he was doing okay.

You: Hey Jude, are you alright? Just wanted to check in.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzed with a message from Jude. The text was brief, but the words were heavy with the weight of the loss.

Jude: Not great, honestly. It's been a rough night.

You felt a pang of sadness reading his message.

You could picture him, lost in thought, longing for comfort.

You: I'm so sorry, Jude. I wish I could be there with you too. You wanna hang out tomorrow? Watch a crappy horror movie and crash on my sofa?

The reply came back quickly.

Jude: Sure. I could use a little cheer up. I'd better go, journalists want a chat before we board.

You stared at the phone, hoping your words brought him some measure of comfort. You knew how much this loss meant to him, and how hard he had worked for this moment. The idea of him being alone in his thoughts broke your heart a little more.

You wanted to do something special for him, something that would show him just how much you cared. An idea started to form in your mind, and you sprang into action.

First, you pulled out his favorite hoodie from the closet. It was slightly oversized on you, but it felt like a warm hug. You wore it while you tidied up the apartment, making sure everything was perfect for when he got home.

Then, you went into the kitchen to start cooking his favorite meal. The process was therapeutic, each stir of the pot a way to channel your nervous energy. As the aromas filled the room, you felt a little more at peace, knowing that you were doing something to help him, even from afar.

As the hours ticked by, you kept checking your phone, hoping for any update on his flight. Finally, a message popped up.

Jude: Just landed. See you soon

Your heart skipped a beat. You quickly finished setting the table, dimming the lights to create a cozy atmosphere. You lit a few candles, their soft glow adding a touch of warmth to the room.

When you heard the key in the lock, you rushed to the door, your heart pounding with anticipation. As the door opened, there he was, looking exhausted but so incredibly relieved to see you.

Without a word, he dropped his bags and pulled you into a tight embrace. You held him close, feeling the tension slowly drain from his body as he buried his face in your neck.

"I missed you so much," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.

"I missed you too, Jude," you replied softly, running your fingers through his hair. "I'm so glad you're home."

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his eyes filled with gratitude. "You have no idea how much this means to me. Thank you."

You smiled, cupping his face in your hands. "Come on, I made your favorite dinner. Let's sit down and talk about everything."

Later on, after you had let him get everything off his chest, you decided to watch a movie, something that would probably become background noise. As the movie played, you and Jude sat side by side on the couch, the tension between you that seemed to dance in time with the flickering images. You could feel the heat of his body next to yours, and every time your arms or legs brushed, a jolt of electricity shot through you.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.

He was staring at the screen, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere. The furrow in his brow, the way his jaw tightened, the constant fidgeting-he was still wrestling with the aftermath of the game.

You wished there was something you could do to ease his mind.

As if sensing your thoughts, he turned to you, his eyes softening. "I'm sorry I've been a grumpy sod."

You smiled, feeling a flutter in your chest. "No, don't be. I'm your friend!" You smirk a little as you made eye contact with him for the first time that night. "I'm just glad you're here."

The movie continued, but the air between you grew thicker with unspoken words and emotions.

"Listen. About what I said-"

"We don't have too-"

"No we should! Because, i know I've been swept up with all of the euro's but- I meant what i said. I like you."

"I like you too."

You could feel his gaze lingering on you more frequently, and each time you met his eyes, it was like a silent conversation passed between you.

"Do you remember the last time we watched a movie together?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You chuckled softly. "Yeah, you fell asleep halfway through."

He grinned, the first genuine smile you'd seen from him all night. "I was exhausted. You have a way of making me feel very relaxed. Always have done."

"It's a very good thing," he replied, his voice low.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the intensity in his eyes. The movie, now a distant background noise, was all but forgotten. The distance between you seemed to shrink with each passing second.

"Jude..." you began, but the words caught in your throat. "I-." His eyes looked up and down at your lips as you settled into his embrace. He looks for any uncertainty before he continues.

"You make me feel seen. Like I can't hide anything from you. It's scary really-"

"Is that so-" you smile, your eyes casting over his lips.

"Mhmm. You make me such a good person-"

"Jude, just kiss me already." You laugh. He smiles instinctively,

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek. "Can I...?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, unable to form a coherent response.

Your heart pounded in your chest as he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. The world seemed to hold its breath as your lips finally met in a soft, tentative kiss.

It was like a spark igniting a fire, the kiss quickly deepening with a hunger that had been building all night. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss grew more intense.

You responded in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pressed against him, the kiss growing more intense. His lips were insistent, exploring yours with a desperate need. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, mirroring your own racing pulse.

Jude's hands roamed, tracing the curve of your back, sending shivers down your spine. Your skin felt electrified wherever he touched, each caress igniting a new wave of desire. You gasped as his lips left yours, trailing hot kisses down your neck, nibbling and sucking gently at the sensitive skin.

"Jude," you moaned softly, your fingers tightening in his hair. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating against your throat as he continued his exploration, his hands slipping under your shirt to caress the bare skin of your back.

Your breath hitched when his lips found the hollow of your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin. You arched into him, your body responding instinctively to his touch. The heat between you was almost unbearable, a consuming fire that threatened to engulf you both.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for breath, you looked into his eyes and couldn't help but smile. "Do you know how long l've wanted to do that?" you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of relief and desire.

Jude chuckled, resting his forehead against yours.

"Probably as long as I have," he replied, his breath warm against your lips.

You both knew this was just the beginning, but for now, the world outside could wait. All that mattered was the two of you, tangled in each other's arms, finally giving in to the desire that had been simmering between you for so long.