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abbotjack · 1 month ago

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Sticky Fingers, Quiet Mornings

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : Jack Abbot was built for crisis—night shifts, trauma codes, war. But fatherhood breaks him in all the best ways. Told in twelve toddler phases.

word count : 9,321

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! toddler behavior and development, parenting themes, pregnancy (including trying to conceive), soft domestic smut, minor illness scare, marriage/relationship intimacy, emotionally vulnerable Jack Abbot.

Phase One: The Cling Era

7:04 PM on a Wednesday, and she thinks he’s leaving forever again

She doesn’t cry when he puts on his badge.

Or when he zips the fleece halfway up, or when he takes his coffee from the microwave with his non-dominant hand like he always does.

She waits.

Waits until he reaches for the door.

Then she breaks.

“No!” she wails, voice cracking. “No, no, no—Dada no!”

Jack stills mid-step.

He closes his eyes, shoulders stiffening as her bare feet slap against the floor behind him.

You’re standing at the sink watching the whole thing unfold like it has every night this week. Her in tears. Him halfway gone. You trying not to say the wrong thing and make it worse.

Jack turns, just in time for her to hurl herself into his leg.

It’s the right one. The one that isn’t real.

She doesn’t know that yet.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters under his breath. He drops to a knee, balancing on the other like muscle memory. “Hey. Hey. Come on, bean.”

She’s sobbing now—small body shaking, cheeks red and hot, tiny fists grabbing at the front of his scrub top like she can keep him from vanishing.

“Dada don’t go,” she whispers. “No go. No go.”

He wraps his arms around her. Sinks the rest of the way to the floor.

You exhale and kneel beside them, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s back. You feel the tension in him—how he holds her like she’s a patient coming apart in his arms, like every second of this is costing him something.

“I can’t keep doing this to her,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re going to work.”

“She thinks I’m dying.”

“She thinks you’re gone. That’s different. And she’s one, Jack. She doesn’t know how to name it yet.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then he leans down and murmurs something into her hair. You can’t hear what. Just that his voice shakes at the edges.

By 7:22PM, he’s supposed to be gone.

Instead, he’s lying on the couch with her draped across his chest, her hands tangled in the collar of his fleece. He still hasn’t put on his boots.

“I’ve got five minutes,” he mutters. “If I’m late, Robby can start the shift with less sarcasm for once in his life.”

“She’s going to wake up the second you move,” you warn.

“I know.” His hand moves gently up and down her back. “She always does.”

You sit on the arm of the couch and stroke your fingers through her hair. “Want me to take her?”

“No,” he says. Quiet but firm.

A pause.

“Jack…”

He looks up at you.

And it hits you—how tired he is. How deep under the surface this ache runs. The discipline keeps him standing. The darkness keeps him working. But this? This small body asleep against his chest? It’s the only thing that unmans him.

“She didn’t cry like this before,” he says. “Before she knew what ‘bye’ meant.”

“She cries because she does know.”

He swallows. “That’s worse.”

“Not to her.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything.

At 7:39PM, he finally lifts her.

She stirs but doesn’t cry, nose wrinkling as she blinks up at him like she can’t remember whether he’s staying or going.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone. Okay?”

She stares. Says nothing.

Then—like clockwork—she bursts into fresh tears.

Jack clenches his jaw, sets her down on the ottoman, and crouches to lace up his boots.

You hover behind her, one hand braced on her back.

She screams when he opens the door.

“Dada!” she sobs. “No. Dada stay. Dada stay.”

Jack freezes in the threshold.

His shoulders curl forward like someone’s punched him.

Then, without looking back, he pulls his phone from his pocket.

The door closes.

By 8:15PM, she’s asleep in your arms—still sniffling, exhausted, the front of your shirt damp from tears.

You get a text just as you’re lowering her into the crib.

I should’ve handled that better. I made it worse.

She calmed down. She always does. You made it worse by being someone she loves so much she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I’ll be back before sunrise. Will you tell her that?

She knows. It’s why she screams.

I’d rather get shot again. This hurts worse.

He comes home at 6:56AM.

You’re already dressed—button-down tucked into slacks, second cup of coffee half-finished on the bathroom counter. The bedroom light is off, hallway dim in the early winter gray. You hear the door close, then the heavy sound of his boots being eased off.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks in slow—scrub top wrinkled, fleece half-zipped, exhaustion written in the slope of his shoulders. His bag drops by the bench. You meet him at the doorway, socked feet on the hardwood.

But he doesn’t stop.

He walks right past you and into her room.

You follow, quietly.

He kneels beside the crib and reaches one hand through the slats.

She doesn’t wake. But her body shifts instinctively toward the warmth, toward him, like something cellular inside her recognizes he’s home.

He stays there like that for a long time. Silent. Steady. Palm resting gently on her back like he’s holding something together—something fragile and unseen.

You watch from the doorway, still holding your travel mug.

After a while, he looks over at you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You cross the room, set your coffee down, and open your arms.

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER doc, man who finds comfort in the darkness but still comes home to the light—lets himself be held.

You wrap your arms around him like scaffolding. Let him breathe.

You hold him the way he held her.

Quietly. Fully. As the sky over Pittsburgh begins to pale.

Phase Two: The Nap Strike

Where Jack learns you can’t negotiate with toddlers—only surrender on your knees with crackers

The plan was simple: You’d sleep in. Jack would keep her occupied for the morning. Then you’d trade, and he’d crash until dinner. A peaceful, domestic arrangement—civilized, efficient.

But at 5:06AM, the plan dies.

Jack gets home early, for once—just before dawn, fleece zipped to his chin, exhausted but functional. The shift was unusually light. Just one drunk college kid, a laceration, a call that turned out to be a false alarm. He’d left before the sun came up, driving through a foggy Pittsburgh quiet that felt like it belonged to him. Like maybe he’d sneak in two hours of sleep before she woke.

But the second he walks through the door, he hears it.

Not crying. Not fussing.

Just one word, clear as a command: “Dada?”

He freezes. Keys in hand.

Then again: “DADA WAKE. DADA UP NOW!”

He glances at the monitor on the hallway table. Bright green bar bouncing. You’re still fast asleep, curled under the duvet, face soft, peaceful. Jack exhales, rubs a hand down his face, and nods like he’s accepting deployment.

“Copy that,” he mutters. “I’m up.”

By 5:18AM, he’s on the nursery floor with her in his lap, eating Cheerios dry from a plastic bowl.

She’s wide awake. Radiant with mischief. Hair like static. Onesie already unzipped halfway down her chest.

“You didn’t even try to go back to sleep,” Jack mumbles. “Didn’t even pretend.”

She offers him a Cheerio. He takes it. She laughs like it’s hilarious.

You don’t stir. You’ve been working ten-hour days, two audits back-to-back, and this was the deal: he takes the morning, you sleep until ten. She usually doesn’t wake until eight.

Today, she’s a menace.

At 6:01AM, Jack sends the first text.

target acquired status: hostile woke up demanding crackers and Bluey currently brushing my kneecap with her toothbrush

also i love her more than oxygen but i’m scared

By 6:47AM, he’s on his second attempt at a nap wind-down.

Bottle. Dark room. Soft hum of the ceiling fan.

She drinks three sips, fake yawns, and then—grinning—claps and yells “I WAKE NOW!”

Jack sighs and tries not to take it personally.

she is refusing to sleep just said “no nap daddy” and kicked her duck across the room i fear she’s possessed or worse toddler

You wake to twelve texts.

It's 9:13AM.

You stretch, blink blearily, and pad downstairs in your robe and socks.

The living room looks like a war zone: blankets piled like barricades, board books scattered like casualties. The TV is frozen mid-Bluey. A sippy cup lies abandoned under the armchair.

And Jack?

Jack is sitting cross-legged on the rug, hair wild, t-shirt stained with what might be applesauce. The baby is climbing him like a jungle gym. He’s not moving. Just letting her.

You lean against the doorframe.

“She didn’t nap?”

Jack looks up. Blinks slowly.

“She screamed the word ‘no’ at me twenty-eight times,” he says. “I counted. Then she told me ‘Dada go to work.’ Like she was firing me.”

You snort. “That’s brutal.”

“She called duck a traitor. Then kissed him and apologized.”

“She’s learning emotional regulation.”

“She’s learning psychological warfare.”

You reach for your daughter. “My turn.”

“No.” Jack stands, lifting her off his shoulders. “I’ll try again. If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, I’ve joined her cause.”

At 9:52AM, she finally falls asleep.

Jack manages it by holding her in the glider for a full 23 minutes—just rocking and breathing, watching her eyelids flutter and fight before finally dropping.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even shift his weight. Just sits there in the soft morning light, hands steady on her back, like he's still in the trauma bay, keeping vitals steady.

When you poke your head into the nursery, he just glances up.

“Got her,” he whispers.

“You okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t answer.

You kneel beside the chair. Press your cheek to his shoulder.

“She told you to go to work?”

Jack exhales. “Twice. Then smiled and said ‘bye-bye dada.’ Like I was already gone.”

“She doesn’t mean it.”

“She does,” he says quietly. “In that moment, she does.”

You reach up, tangle your fingers with his.

“She always wants you again after.”

“I know.”

He looks down at her—soft breath, small body, warm weight.

“She always comes back,” he murmurs.

You kiss his jaw. “That’s because you do, too.”

He falls asleep an hour later in bed, one hand still curled like he’s holding her. You slide in beside him, wrap your arm across his chest, and match your breathing to his.

Phase Three: “I Do It Myself”

Where Jack learns the real grief of fatherhood is not chaos—it’s watching her not reach for you

It starts with the shoe.

Saturday morning. You’re finishing dishes in the kitchen, the windows open to a Pittsburgh breeze that smells like wet concrete and spring.

Jack’s at the bottom of the stairs, crouched, holding her sneakers. She’s sitting on the fourth step, legs swinging, watching him with a look that’s already defiant.

“You wanna help me?” Jack asks, gently, holding out one Velcro shoe.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay.” He nods. “We’ll do it together.”

She snatches the shoe from his hand and slams it on the wrong foot.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “You sure that’s how it goes?”

“I DO IT,” she snaps, voice high and serious.

Jack lets out a long breath through his nose. “Alright. You do it.”

You lean against the doorframe, towel in hand, watching this unfold with careful silence.

She starts working the Velcro. Tongue sticking out. Absolute focus.

Jack waits.

And then, when she finally gets it on—upside down, strap crooked, toes curled—she beams.

“I DID it, Dada!”

Jack nods once. “Yeah. You did.”

He smiles. But you see it—the flicker. The quiet ache behind the pride.

That afternoon, he’s quiet.

You’re folding laundry on the bed while he reads the paper beside you, still in black sweatpants and a t-shirt from some long-ago charity 5K. But he hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

You don’t push. Not yet.

It’s only when you come back with the second load that you catch him standing in the hallway outside her door, just… watching her.

She’s on the rug. Putting stickers on her duck. Quiet. Focused.

“She asked me to leave the room,” he says, not looking at you.

“What?”

“When I offered to help with the puzzle. She said, ‘Dada go. I do it myself.’”

You step up beside him. “Jack.”

“She said it twice. Not angry. Just… like a fact. Like she’d already decided.”

You rest a hand on his back. “She’s growing.”

He nods. “I know. That’s the job.”

A long pause.

“She still needs you,” you say.

He breathes out, slow and quiet. “Yeah. Just not all the time anymore.”

Later that evening, you catch him in the garage.

He’s standing by the workbench, holding one of her old shoes. The tiny white pair with the pink stripe she wore when she first learned to walk. You kept it because she scuffed the toes dragging them down the driveway after him.

He brushes a thumb across the sole.

You walk up behind him. Slide your arms around his waist.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like she’s already running. And I’m not supposed to follow.”

You hold him tighter. “You built her to run.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. But I thought I’d carry her a little longer.”

The next morning, she asks him for help again.

It’s small. Just a zipper. Her coat caught on the hem, stuck halfway up.

Jack kneels down, hands calm.

“You want me to—?”

She nods, silent this time. “Need help, Dada.”

He fixes it slowly. Carefully. Then stands.

“Thanks,” she says.

He nods, blinking hard. “Anytime, bean.”

You watch from the door as she slips her hand into his. Just for a second. Long enough to steady herself on the step.

Long enough to remind him:

She’ll always come back.

Even when she’s learning to go.

Phase Four: The Sick Day

Where Jack learns that the scariest moment isn’t watching someone code—it’s seeing “she’s not okay” on your phone when you’re twelve minutes away from home

You almost didn’t go.

It had been one of those weeks. You were late every day to work, and Jack had picked up a last-minute double on Thursday that ran until dawn. You both looked like people hanging on by threads—but he came into the bathroom that morning, caught you half-dressed and towel-drying your hair, and said:

“We need a night.”

You looked up, tired. “You’re gonna fall asleep in the booth.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’ll be across from you while I do it.”

You smiled.

And that’s how you ended up here, in heels you haven’t worn since before her first birthday, brushing your fingers through your hair in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck while he drives you into Shadyside. He’s in dark jeans, a black dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Clean-shaven. Warm-eyed. His prosthetic shifts as he drives, but he doesn’t wince. He hasn’t said much since you left the house—just glanced over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say something,” you finally murmur, brushing your fingers over the hem of your dress.

He exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to be respectful,” he mutters. “But you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “This? It’s from before I even met you.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t know what it’d do to me.”

You grin, lean back. “You could say you like it.”

“I could. Or I could spend the next hour trying to focus on what you’re saying while imagining getting you out of it.”

You laugh. He does, too—quiet and real, the kind he only gives you.

The night is soft. Pittsburgh spring chill, but tolerable. The restaurant is warm. You share bread, clink glasses. He watches your hands when you speak. Brushes his knuckles against your wrist when he wants you to keep going.

“Your voice changes when you’re not exhausted,” he says suddenly, over dessert. “Like—lighter.”

“You saying I sound like a gremlin most days?”

“I’m saying you sound like you tonight.”

You blink. He’s watching you like he’s storing you in memory.

You can feel it—the weight of his want. It’s not loud. Not overt. It’s Jack. So it lives in the way his hand stays over yours too long. The way he watches you laugh like it’s a privilege. The way his voice drops when he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

You lean closer. “Do I really look that different?”

“No,” he says. “You look like the girl I married. Just… undistracted.”

You kiss him across the table, slow and steady.

He grins into it. “You’re not gonna make me wait ‘til we’re home, are you?”

“Oh, I am.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He exhales, drops his head, grinning.

That’s when your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen.

EMILY - BABYSITTER

hey she woke up crying really warm not calming down asking for Jack

Your blood goes cold.

Jack sits up instantly. “What?”

You hand him the phone.

He’s out of his chair before he’s finished reading.

“Jack—”

“Call her,” he says. “I’ll get the truck.”

He’s gone before you stand.

You fumble your coat on, call Emily as you hurry through the door. She answers quickly.

“She’s okay, just—she’s hot. She wouldn’t let me hold her at first. Then she cried for Jack and curled up. I took her temp. It’s 101.9.”

You’re already on the sidewalk.

“Okay. We’re on the way.”

Jack’s pulled up to the curb, window already down.

“She still crying?” he asks the second you get in.

“Not anymore. Just whimpering.”

He nods. Pulls into traffic with one hand on the wheel, the other already clenching his thigh. You reach over. He’s rigid.

“She’s had fevers before.”

“She’s never asked for me in the middle of one.”

“She just needed comfort.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But his foot presses harder on the gas.

You get home in seven minutes flat.

Emily opens the door before you knock. “She’s upstairs,” she says. “I’m so sorry—she was fine when you left.”

You’re already climbing the stairs.

Jack’s ahead of you.

He opens her door and everything stops.

She’s in her crib, curled in the corner, tear-damp and blinking. The second she sees him, her hands shoot up.

“Dada…”

Jack’s across the room before you can exhale.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says softly. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

She lets out a sound—not quite a cry. Not quite a word. Just a noise of relief.

He picks her up like she’s glass.

She melts into him. Tiny hands clutching his shirt. Face pressed against his neck.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I got you.”

You hover nearby with the thermometer.

Jack sits on the glider with her still in his arms.

“101.6,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’m not letting go until it drops.”

You bring a bottle of Pedialyte. She won’t take it.

Jack hums low against her ear. “Come on, bean. Just a sip.”

She sips. Then rests again.

He holds her like that for forty minutes.

At 10:27PM, she finally sleeps.

Still on his chest. One hand tangled in his shirt.

You sit at his feet, watching her rise and fall with every breath.

Jack’s voice is hoarse. “She said my name like it hurt.”

“She needed you.”

He swallows. “I wasn’t here.”

“You came the second you could.”

“She asked for me. She asked—and I wasn’t already there.”

You press your head to his thigh.

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly: “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You glance up. “Jack—”

“You made me want to forget we had a kid for a second. That’s how bad I wanted you.”

You exhale.

“But the second that text came in—” His voice cracks. “Everything else went quiet. My whole body just—locked in. I didn’t care what it ruined. I just needed her in my arms.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, your head pressed to his leg.

“She’s okay,” you whisper. “Because you’re here.”

He looks down at you.

And the look on his face—it’s not wrecked. Not broken.

It’s reverent.

Like he’s watching the two people he loves most in the world just exist, and it’s almost too much.

You reach for his hand.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

“In a minute,” he says. “I want to hold her a little longer.”

And so you leave them there—father and daughter, tangled in breath and heat and quiet.

Phase Five: The Hint

Where Jack breaks in the best possible way when you say five simple words: I want another with you.

You’re at Target on a Sunday afternoon. Late March. That kind of Pittsburgh cold where the wind feels like it might stay in your bones until June. Your daughter is in the front of the cart, legs swinging, cheeks pink, half a cheddar cracker crushed in her fist. Jack walks beside you, one hand on the handlebar, the other casually bumping your hip every few steps.

He’s wearing a black hoodie over a soft gray henley, jeans worn at the knees, the brim of his Pirates cap low over his brow. There’s stubble on his jaw and warmth in his voice every time he leans down to make her laugh. He looks tired—you both do—but it’s the soft kind. The good kind. The kind that means you made it through another week.

You’re there for laundry pods and maybe some coffee beans.

But you pass the baby aisle.

And your feet slow.

It’s instinct. Nothing urgent. Just that old ache. That memory of standing in this same aisle over a year ago, swollen and giddy and scared.

Jack clocks it instantly.

“What,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the shelves, “just gonna do a fly-by on the baby aisle and not tell me?”

You smile. “I forgot how small the swaddles used to be.”

Your daughter makes a high, delighted noise. Jack reflexively reaches out, rubs her shoulder with one big hand, gaze still on you.

You pick up a pack of socks. Newborn. White with a yellow trim. You run your thumb across them. They weigh nothing.

Jack watches the way your fingers still.

“You miss it?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Sometimes. Not the sleep deprivation. But the rest? Yeah.”

He takes a step closer. Lowers his voice to something rougher, more private. “You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

You hesitate. Then, with a breath: “I want another.”

Jack goes completely still beside the cart.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” you say quickly. “We’re just now starting to feel like ourselves again. Your schedule’s a mess. We’re barely keeping the house in one piece. But—”

“Say it again,” he says. Voice low. Almost hoarse.

“Jack—”

“Please.”

You look him in the eye.

“I want another baby. With you.”

He closes his eyes like you just cut through him.

Then he breathes out.

“Put the socks in the cart,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

You blink. “We haven’t gotten anything.”

“I don’t care.”

You glance at the cart. “What about coffee?”

“I’ll drink air.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re serious.”

He looks at you like he’s never wanted anything more. “You expect me to walk around and buy paper towels like you didn’t just say the one thing I didn’t know I needed to hear?”

You toss the socks in the cart.

Back home, she watches a movie with her duck and some yogurt melts while you and Jack tag team bedtime. Bath. Lotion. Soft pajamas with the feet. You reads two books and brush her hair. She fights sleep until the second you turn on the white noise.

At 7:43PM, the house is quiet. Hushed like a chapel after the candles have gone out.

You close her door with care, easing it shut until the latch clicks into place. One last check on the monitor. One last scan of the nightlight’s soft glow on her face.

And then—Jack.

He’s already waiting in the hallway like he knew you’d come looking. Hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbow, bare forearms folded, shoulder against the wall. The low light from the bathroom casts his face in half-shadow. His mouth is tense. His eyes—dark, unreadable—don’t leave yours.

“You still mean it?” he asks.

His voice is low. Strained. Not cautious—just holding back something too big to let out in a hallway.

You don’t hesitate. “I meant it all day.”

A breath hitches in his throat. He nods once, the movement tight. Swallows hard like he’s anchoring himself.

Then he walks past you. Slow. Steady. Not dragging his feet, not rushing. Just… certain. Like he’s walking toward something he’s already chosen. Something that changed the minute you said I want another baby.

You follow.

Your bedroom is dim—streetlamp light bleeding silver across the floor through the blinds. The ceiling fan hums. One of his socks is still on the floor from this morning. The bed’s half-made. You couldn’t care less.

Jack closes the door behind you. Turns.

“You meant it,” he says again. Not a question this time. A quiet reckoning.

You nod. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

Something shifts in him. Like tension letting go of the wire it was wrapped around. But it doesn’t unravel. It sharpens. Refines. Focuses.

Jack steps in. Crosses to you with the deliberate calm he brings to the edge of chaos. Hands at your waist. Palms warm. Fingers curling in slowly like he’s still making sure you’re real.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” he murmurs.

“I think I do.”

He doesn’t kiss you right away. Not yet. Just stares—eyes flicking over your face, down to your lips, your throat, then back up again. Like he’s memorizing something he already knows by heart.

Then finally—

He kisses you.

It’s slow. Deep. Intentional. A breath pulled between you. Tongue tracing your bottom lip like he’s tasting the weight of the words you said. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, over skin he’s touched a thousand times but still reveres like it’s holy.

You pull his hoodie off. Then the t-shirt beneath. He lets you undress him like you’re the only one allowed. The muscles of his chest tense when your fingers brush over the old shrapnel scar near his ribs. You trace it like always—gentle, silent, familiar—and he shivers like he did the first time.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He undresses you next. Not rushed. Not greedy.

Careful.

When he lays you down on the bed, it’s with both hands braced against the mattress. His knee follows, then the shift of his weight above you. His prosthetic comes off silently at the foot of the bed—second nature by now. He doesn’t draw attention to it. He doesn’t need to.

He settles between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs, coaxing them open. You let him.

“Tell me again,” he says.

“I want another baby,” you whisper.

His eyes flutter closed like you just took the air out of his lungs.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Jack groans—low and wrecked—and bends down to kiss your chest, your stomach, the inside of your hip. He takes his time. He doesn’t tease. He worships. Because that’s how he fucks when he’s in love. With reverence. With purpose.

He presses his forehead against your belly like he’s already imagining it growing inside you.

Then he comes up. Mouth to yours. Breath mingling. And when he finally pushes into you, it’s slow. Deep. Every inch earned.

He holds there. Doesn’t thrust. Just… feels. Eyes locked on yours. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek like he’s grounding himself in you.

“You want this,” he breathes.

“I want you,” you answer. “Everything. Always.”

He starts to move. Measured. Pressed in deep. Every roll of his hips a declaration. Every breath shuddered through clenched teeth. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight. You hold on.

You arch up to meet him. He sinks deeper.

“You feel—fuck—so good,” he grits. “You always do.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“I’m not gonna,” he swears, voice ragged. “I’m never gonna stop.”

Your bodies slide in sync, sweat beginning to slick your skin. His mouth finds your collarbone, your throat, your mouth again. Every kiss hungrier. Every breath closer to breaking.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he whispers. “Hearing you say that.”

“I want you to come inside me,” you whisper back. “I want another baby.”

He groans—loud this time, broken—hips stuttering.

Jack changes pace. His grip tightens. He kisses you harder, needier. His hips grind deeper, deeper—until you’re gasping, clawing at his back, his shoulders, his sides. His name tumbles from your lips like a prayer.

“I love you,” he says against your mouth. “God, I fucking love you.”

And then you’re coming—tight, trembling, body arching into his. He fucks you through it, breath caught in his throat, rhythm faltering. His eyes stay on yours until the very last second, until he’s gone too—coming deep inside you with a sharp gasp and a whispered, “That’s it—take it, baby—take all of me—fuck—”

His whole body shakes with it.

When it passes, he doesn’t collapse. He lowers himself gently. Holds himself over you, still buried deep, still trying to catch his breath.

You stroke the back of his neck. He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your mouth.

Then he breathes.

Quiet. Steady. Like the war’s over.

You lie there tangled together for a long time. You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Eventually, Jack brushes a strand of hair from your face and says softly, “We’re really doing this.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes shine. A little red-rimmed. A little overwhelmed.

But when he kisses you again, it’s not about doubt.

It’s about forever.

Because Jack Abbot doesn’t love with fireworks or grand speeches.

He loves like this.

With hands. With breath. With the quietest yes in the world.

And when he finally falls asleep beside you—arm slung around your waist, heartbeat steady against your back—it’s not the end of anything.

It’s the beginning.

Phase Six: The Leap

Where your daughter says it first—and Jack, who never needed proof to believe, still stands there like she handed him the future in one sentence.

It’s June now.

Since Target—since you stood in that aisle holding newborn socks like a secret you hadn’t dared speak—two and a half months have passed. You’re not pregnant. Not yet. And neither of you has said the word "waiting," but it clings to everything.

You’re still trying.

And Jack’s still Jack—stoic, steady, quieter when he wants something most. But he’s watching you like he might miss something if he blinks. His touches linger. His gaze trails. He always has his hand on your back now—the middle of it, the place he holds when you’re tired or overwhelmed or standing still for too long.

Your daughter is seventeen months old. Wild-haired, loud-laughing, stubborn as hell. And lately, her favorite word is why.

This morning, Jack gets home from a long night shift just as you’re cleaning up breakfast. You’re in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, hair still wet from your shower, your daughter padding around barefoot in a peanut butter-streaked onesie.

The moment she hears the door open, she lights up.

“DADA!”

Jack barely gets his boots off before she runs full-speed into his legs.

He drops into a crouch with a groan. “Hey, bean. Miss me?”

She nods solemnly. “Mama tired.”

He glances at you over her head. “That true?”

You shrug. “I mean, I didn’t sleep through the 3AM thunder tantrum, so... yeah.”

Jack smirks. Stands with her in his arms, presses a kiss to your cheek. “She kick you again?”

“She kicked you and then rolled onto my neck like a scarf.”

He winces. “That tracks.”

You hand him a mug of reheated coffee. He takes it, leans against the counter, and watches her toddle off toward the living room with her duck.

You lean into his side. He doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the top of your head. That’s how he says thank you for keeping her alive when I wasn’t here.

You hear her talking to her toys while Jack drains half the mug.

Then:

“Duck is baby. Duck is my baby.”

You smile.

Then:

“We get baby soon?”

You freeze.

Jack sets his mug down slowly.

You both glance toward the doorway at the same time.

She’s got her duck wrapped in a tea towel. Rocking it, arms clumsy but careful.

“We get baby,” she says again. “I help.”

You look at Jack.

He looks like someone took all the air out of his lungs.

“She say that before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“She say it to you?”

“No,” you whisper. “Not once.”

He stares at her for a long beat. Then turns to you.

“She knows something we don’t?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Jack steps toward the living room, kneels beside her, hands braced on his thighs. “You want a baby, huh?”

She nods.

Jack glances back at you.

You shrug, blinking fast.

He turns back to her. “You think you’d be good at that? Helping?”

She nods solemnly. “I give duck bottle. I share blankie. I help.”

Jack smiles. Not his ER smile. Not his fake one. The real one. The one you fell in love with.

“You’d be amazing.”

She looks satisfied. Goes back to tucking Duck under the towel.

Later, when you’re sitting on the porch with the monitor between you and Jack’s hand over your knee, he breaks the silence first.

“You think it means anything?”

“What, her saying that?”

“Yeah.” He stares at the sidewalk. “Think it’s a sign?”

You lean into him.

“I think she wants what we want. Even if she doesn’t really know what it means yet.”

He nods. Quiet.

Then: “I want it too. Still.”

You smile. “I know.”

His thumb rubs a slow circle into your skin.

“And if it takes a little longer?”

You look at him.

“Then we keep trying.”

He looks at you like you just handed him the whole world.

And maybe you did.

And tonight, in the thick June air, with your daughter sleeping and the windows open and the moon beginning to rise—he pulls you into his side like a vow.

And you know.

You’re already building something bigger than all of you.

Phase Seven: The Firecracker Phase

Where your toddler discovers volume, Jack works through sirens and trauma codes, and you find out you’re pregnant during the loudest day of the year.

It’s July Fourth, and Pittsburgh is already simmering by 7AM.

Jack left before the sun came up. The night shift blurred into a day shift—holiday coverage at the Pitt means more chaos, less sleep, and barely enough time to microwave a sandwich.

Your daughter woke up early. Earlier than usual. Climbing onto your ribs at 5:42AM and whisper-shouting: “MAMA! SUN! IT’S SUN!”

She’s eighteen months old, in her loud phase.

She yells at squirrels. She yells at blueberries. She yells when you zip her dress wrong and when the fridge door beeps too long. Jack calls it the firecracker phase. Fitting, you think. She’s pure sound and spark.

By 8:15AM, she’s stripped to a diaper and has climbed inside the laundry basket. She’s yelling at her duck to put on sunscreen.

You’re on your third glass of ice water and your stomach feels... off. Not wrong. Not sick. Just not yours.

You text Jack:

update: she’s arguing with the dryer. i think she’s winning.

He replies:

two chest tubes, one firework injury, a drunk guy threw up in trauma bay C. tell her to save me a popsicle.

You send back a thumbs up, then pause.

You walk to the bathroom, heart in your throat.

There’s one test left in the drawer.

It’s expired.

You take it anyway.

Your daughter is yelling “FIRETRUCK” at the top of her lungs when you see it.

A second line.

Faint. Blurry. Real.

You sit on the closed toilet and stare. Then laugh. Then cry. Then wipe your face because your daughter is now in the hallway, asking her duck if he wants juice.

You lift her. Hold her close.

She pulls back. “Mama? Why cryin’?”

You kiss her head. “Happy cry. You were right, baby.”

Jack doesn’t get home until after five.

He walks in, exhausted. He smells like antiseptic and sun.

She runs at him, barefoot, her little star-print shorts twisted sideways. “DADA!”

Jack drops his bag and lifts her like she weighs nothing. She screams with joy. He buries his face in her hair.

“How’d she do?” he asks.

You smile. “She only tried to drink from the hose twice. And she learned a new word.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Popsicle. But she says it like ‘pop-SICKLE.’ With a vengeance.”

He grins. “That tracks.”

You take her gently from his arms. “Go shower. I left something for you on the bed.”

He finds it when he steps out.

The test. This time, a new one. Two solid lines.

He stares.

Then walks into the hallway, towel around his waist, the test in his hand.

You meet him halfway.

“You sure?” he whispers.

“I bought two more. OB appointment’s scheduled.”

He drops the test and just pulls you into him. Breath hot, body warm from the shower, arms trembling.

“It’s real,” he says. Like he still needs the words out loud.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It’s real.”

You stay like that a long time.

Eventually, your daughter peeks around the corner and shrieks, “FIREWORKS TIME!”

Jack wipes his face. “Guess we’re not telling her yet.”

“She already knows.”

He looks at you.

You nod. “She said we were getting a baby. Weeks ago.”

Jack exhales a breath that turns into a laugh.

Then he kisses you once. Soft. Deep. Full of promise.

“Let’s go light a sparkler,” he murmurs.

And the three of you step outside.

Already a family of four.

Another heart, not yet visible, already beating between you.

Phase Eight: The Slowdown

Where the world doesn't stop, but you and Jack do—because everything feels a little heavier, a little brighter, and somehow more fragile than before.

It’s late-July, and the heat hangs thick over Pittsburgh like a wet towel.

The pregnancy symptoms are creeping in now. Not full force, not yet—but enough to slow you down. You’re queasy in the mornings. Lightheaded when you stand too fast. Jack keeps offering to carry the laundry basket like it’s a boulder.

He’s different now, too. Not dramatically—but in the little things.

He double-checks that the baby gate is locked even though your daughter hasn’t touched it in weeks.

He puts a pillow behind your back whenever you sit, even on the porch swing.

He kisses your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth and says, “Don’t overdo it today,” with the same tone he uses for bleeding trauma patients: calm, sure, absolute.

You don’t tell him you already feel overdone most of the time.

Your daughter has slowed, too—but only just. She’s still seventeen months of pure emotion, pure motion. But she senses something’s shifted.

She follows you more closely.

Climbs into your lap without asking.

Sits quietly beside you on the floor with her duck when you’re stretched out, trying not to vomit.

One afternoon, Jack finds the two of you lying on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. You in an old tank top and boxer shorts, your daughter curled against your chest like she’s trying to be smaller for you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, sweat still drying on his collarbone, keys still in his hand.

Then he steps forward, kneels, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You look up. “We needed the cold.”

He nods. “You both look good here.”

You snort. “We look like puddles.”

He shrugs, settles beside you on the floor. “Then I’ll melt with you.”

Later that night, your daughter finally falls asleep after an hour of climbing the crib like a jungle gym.

Jack comes out of her room and collapses beside you on the couch, one hand already reaching for your thigh.

He rests his head against your shoulder. Breathes in.

“How you feelin’?” he asks.

You exhale. “Like my stomach’s mutinying.”

He nods. “You’re still glowing.”

You laugh. “I think that’s sweat.”

Jack leans in. Kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower.

“It’s all glow to me.”

You turn your head. Meet his eyes.

He’s serious. Not teasing. Just Jack—all warmth and ache and reverence.

You run your hand through his hair. “I love you.”

He nods. “I know. Me too.”

And in that moment, with your body sore, your baby sleeping, and the air humming with summer weight, Jack wraps his arms around your waist like it’s still March. Like he’s still shocked he gets to keep you.

You don’t talk about tomorrow. Or what’s coming.

You just stay there, quiet, in the stillness of everything new.

Because the world won’t slow down.

But for now, Jack does.

And he pulls you with him.

Phase Nine: The Echo

Where your toddler starts mimicking everything, and Jack learns that sometimes the future comes in twos.

It’s September in Pittsburgh, and your daughter is twenty months old.

She repeats everything.

Your tone, Jack’s sighs, snippets of overheard phone calls, the phrase “Jesus Christ” (which she uses while looking for her missing sock, and which Jack now pretends he’s never said).

It’s a mimicry phase. Every sentence you speak is an audition. Jack’s been calling her a baby parrot. You just call her loud.

Tonight, she yells “OH MY GOD” when she finds her duck in the laundry basket.

Jack glances over his shoulder from the kitchen. “That one’s you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She also said ‘bullshit’ this morning.”

He pauses. Nods. “Okay, that one’s me.”

She’s not just talking more. She’s listening. Watching. You can’t fake calm anymore—not when she sees through you. She knows when you’re sick, when you’re tired, when you’re worried. And lately, you’ve been all three.

It’s a Friday when Jack comes home early. You’ve both been waiting for this OB appointment all week.

“Ultrasound?” he asks, dropping his keys and pulling you in.

You nod. “Ten minutes and we need to leave.”

You kiss your daughter goodbye. She’s home with your neighbor and her favorite puzzle. You promise snacks when you’re back.

The exam room is quiet except for the hum of the monitor.

Jack holds your hand.

The OB clicks through the screen slowly. You watch the flicker. Then hear it: that heartbeat, strong and steady.

And then.

Another.

The OB smiles. “Well. That’s two.”

You blink.

Jack tilts forward slightly. “I’m sorry—what?”

She rotates the screen. “Two heartbeats. Two sacs. Two babies.”

You stare.

Jack says nothing.

“Twins?” you whisper.

“Twins,” the OB confirms.

Jack releases your hand. Then grips it again, harder.

“I need to sit down,” he mutters. “Am I sitting?”

You laugh, watery. “You’re sitting.”

He exhales. Runs his hand through his hair.

“Twins,” he says again.

You look at him. “Are you okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just—I thought we were building a house and someone handed us a cathedral.”

You choke a little on your breath.

Jack stands. Presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then your stomach.

“We can do this,” he says softly. “Right?”

You nod. “We already are.”

That night, back home, your daughter sits between you on the floor, building towers of foam blocks.

Jack watches her.

Then glances at you.

“You think she’ll lose her mind?”

You smile. “Not at first. But once there’s double snacks involved? She’ll be on board.”

Your daughter drops her duck. Crawls into your lap.

Then turns to Jack.

“Two babies in Mama belly,” she says, matter-of-fact.

Jack blinks.

You freeze.

“How did—”

She pats your stomach. “I heard it.”

You and Jack look at each other.

He nods slowly. “Yep. Definitely yours.”

You laugh until you cry.

And Jack pulls both of you close.

Because now it’s real.

Because she heard it first.

And because Jack Abbot—who once found comfort in the dark—just got handed three reasons to stay in the light.

And he’s never letting go.

Phase Ten: The Stay-At-Home Phase

Where your daughter needs more of you than ever, and Jack Abbot—so stupidly, steadfastly in love—says the one thing you needed to hear.

It’s October now.

Your daughter is twenty-one months old and riding a new wave of toddlerhood: clingy autonomy. She wants to do everything herself but also needs your hands on her at all times. She puts on her socks (wrong), brushes her teeth (mostly the air), then turns around and demands: “Mama hold you.”

Not a request. Not a question.

She won’t nap unless you’re in the room. Won’t eat unless you sit beside her. Throws a shoe if you go to the bathroom without her.

Jack calls it her “velcro era.”

“She just loves you,” he says, watching her cling to your leg while you make toast. “Can’t blame her. I’m a little obsessed myself.”

You smile, tired.

It’s been weeks of juggling. You’ve been logging hours for work during naps, squeezing in emails between tantrums and laundry and diaper refills. Jack picks up extra shifts when he can, but even he can see it wearing on you.

One Wednesday night, after she finally falls asleep draped over Duck like a dramatic artist in repose, you and Jack sit on the back porch. The air smells like woodsmoke and damp leaves. Your tea goes untouched.

Jack runs a thumb over the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve been thinking.”

You raise a brow. “That’s never good.”

He grins. Then softens.

“I think maybe it’s time. For you to pause work. Just for now.”

You inhale. Let it out slow.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit.

“She needs you more right now,” Jack says gently. “And you’re exhausted. I can see it. You’re growing two more people. And still somehow doing it all.”

You blink, overwhelmed.

“I can carry this for a while,” he adds. “Pick up shifts. Fill in the gaps. I don’t care how many hours I have to pull. We’ve got savings. We’ll be fine. I just... I want you to breathe.”

You study his face. The sincerity. The kind of love that never asks you to earn it.

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” Jack says. “This is us, right? We adapt. We show up. And right now, showing up means me making space for you.”

You lean into his chest. His arms wrap around you like they were waiting for this exact moment.

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” you whisper. “I’ll take the leave.”

Jack kisses the side of your head.

“Good.”

The next day, your daughter won’t let you out of her sight. She drags a blanket onto your lap while you answer your last work call and pats your belly. “Mama stay home now?” she asks, wide-eyed.

You smile, nod. “Yeah, baby. I’m home.”

She beams. Climbs up and holds your face in her hands.

“Love you, Mama.”

You cry right there in the middle of the floor.

Jack comes home to find you both asleep under a pile of stuffed animals.

He doesn’t say anything. Just takes a photo.

Later that night, he slides into bed behind you. His hand rests gently over your belly.

“You didn’t step back,” he whispers.

You shift, tuck your face into his shoulder.

“You stepped in. And I’m so damn proud of you.”

You fall asleep to his heartbeat behind you.

And the tiniest kicks just beneath your ribs.

Because Jack Abbot is in love.

With you. With her. With all of it.

And he’s not letting go.

Phase Eleven: The Season of Yes

Where your daughter becomes opinionated about absolutely everything, calls Jack "Jack-Jack" like the toddler from The Incredibles, and everything in the house is louder, funnier, and more loved than it’s ever been.

It’s November now.

Your daughter is twenty-two months old and firmly convinced she is the executive director of the house.

She chooses the playlist in the car (“No sad songs! Only happy happy!”). She picks everyone's breakfast item (“Mama gets toast. I get 'nana. Jack-Jack gets pancake, only pancake, that’s it.”). She vetoes your outfit choices, corrects Jack's driving from the backseat, and calls meetings with her stuffed animals that last longer than your actual Zoom calls.

The name “Jack-Jack” started last week after you let her watch The Incredibles. It stuck immediately.

At first, she shouted it mid-bath: “JACK-JACK GET THE TOWEL!”

Now it’s part of her daily vocabulary. “Jack-Jack, open juice.” “Jack-Jack, watch me run so fast.” “Jack-Jack, no more peas. Too squishy.”

Jack pretends to grumble. “I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack,” he mutters once, trying to sound stern as she runs through the hallway yelling it. But you catch the smile he hides behind his coffee every time she says it again—especially when she giggles right after. He secretly loves it. Loves all of it.

You’re four months pregnant, the twins growing faster than expected, and while you’re finally past the nausea, the fatigue has made a comeback. Your daughter seems to sense it.

This morning, you woke up to her whispering beside your bed: “Jack-Jack say let Mama sleep. But I miss you.”

You blinked awake, found her already climbing up beside you with Duck under one arm and a banana in the other.

She snuggled close. “I hold Mama.”

At the farmer’s market that weekend, she picks a small crooked gourd, declares it “my pet baby,” and names it Sandwich.

“This is Sandwich,” she tells the woman selling cider. “He go home with us now.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “We adopting produce now?”

You shrug. “We already adopted Henry the pumpkin.”

Jack nods solemnly. “You’re right. Can’t leave Sandwich behind.”

She carries it in her arms all the way back to the car.

That night, Jack makes dinner while you lie on the couch with your daughter stretched across your belly, talking to the babies through your shirt.

“I gonna teach you dancing,” she says. “But no jumping until Mama says.”

She pauses. Then calls toward the kitchen: “Jack-Jack! Babies hear me?!”

Jack leans into the doorway with the spatula still in hand. “They definitely hear you, kid.”

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “Me sing for babies?”

Jack winks. “It’s their favorite thing on Earth.”

Later, she insists Jack wear a crown made of pipe cleaners and old stickers. He does. He wears it the entire time he does dishes, and for the full length of bedtime storytime.

She curls up beside you while he reads, thumb in her mouth, and whispers: “I love Jack-Jack.”

You kiss her forehead. “Me too.”

That night, Jack joins you in bed long after she falls asleep. You’re curled on your side, one hand resting on the curve of your belly.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

He nods. “Just... full.”

You shift to face him.

“Not just your belly,” he adds. “I mean me. This whole house. Her. You. Them.”

You smile sleepily.

“You okay with being Jack-Jack forever?”

He exhales a soft laugh. “Best name I’ve ever had.”

He kisses your hand. Then your stomach. Then your cheek.

“We’re saying yes to everything these days,” he murmurs.

You nod. “That a problem?”

“Not even close.”

The wind rattles the windows softly.

Your daughter shifts in her sleep down the hall.

And Jack wraps himself around you like gravity.

Phase Twelve: The Birthday Girl Phase

Where your daughter turns two, you skip the party, and Jack Abbot becomes her favorite travel buddy, bodyguard, and forever person.

It’s January in Pittsburgh, grey-skied and salt-streaked, and your daughter is officially two years old.

No balloons. No cake-fueled chaos. No distant relatives asking if she remembers their name. Instead, you and Jack book a cabin two hours north—a hush of pine trees and snow-heavy quiet, where the only agenda is stillness and each other.

The morning you leave, Jack is up before you. Already dressed. Already double-checking the bag of snacks and backup onesies and ginger chews you swore you didn’t need. The air outside is cold enough to make your breath visible, but he’s working barehanded as he loads the trunk, face flushed pink, shoulders set.

Inside, your daughter sits on the floor beside her little suitcase narrating to Duck. “Duck need socks. Duck need book. Duck need warm blankie. Mama too.”

When Jack steps back in, she yells like a general: “JACK-JACK DRIVE US! IT’S TRIP DAY!”

He looks at you over her head and mouths, “Tour guide. I’m a damn tour guide.”

You smile. “You’re also the emotional support pack mule.”

He grins. “Sexy.”

The drive is quiet. Frozen fields, iced-over rivers, sleepy back roads. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. Your daughter hums in the back seat. You doze off somewhere past Zelienople.

The cabin is tucked between trees and lined with old timber and big windows that pour light across the floors like syrup. There’s a stone fireplace and a kitchen just small enough to feel like a movie set.

Jack puts a hand on your back. “Not gonna lie—I’d live here forever.”

That afternoon, you make grilled cheese while Jack carries your daughter around the cabin pointing at everything like a museum guide.

“This is the couch. This is the magic fire place. This is the cabinet Mama says not to slam. This,” he says, lifting her over his head like Simba, “is Duck’s kingdom now.”

She shrieks with laughter.

Later, you all eat lunch in socks and pajamas. She demands to sit on Jack’s lap and feed him bites of sandwich. He lets her. Doesn’t flinch when she wipes mustard on his cheek.

You don’t tell him, but you take a photo.

That night, she curls into his lap beside the fire, wrapped in a fleece blanket and sticky with marshmallow from the lukewarm cocoa he stirred just the way she likes.

“Jack-Jack, you read,” she mumbles.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t Mama read last night?”

“She tired. Babies make her sleepy. Jack-Jack do it.”

He looks at you. You nod.

He reads slow, voice like gravel dipped in honey. When she falls asleep on his chest, he keeps going. Finishes the book in a whisper.

Hours later, the fire is low, and you’re both curled under a blanket, your legs over his, your head on his shoulder. The twins kick once, low and soft. Jack feels it.

He shifts, then slides off the couch to kneel in front of you, forehead pressed gently to your belly.

“We don’t need perfect,” he murmurs. “We just need this. You. Her. Them. The quiet.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. “We have it. We have everything.”

He looks up. His eyes are glassy in the firelight.

“You give me too much,” he says.

You shake your head. “I give you us.”

He kisses your belly. Then your hands. Then your mouth.

And that night, you fall asleep wrapped in all of it.

At dawn, your daughter wakes and yells across the cabin: “JACK-JACK MAKE PANCAKES! IT’S STILL MY BIRTHDAY!”

Jack groans into the pillow.

“I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack.”

But he’s already up.

Flipping pancakes in his boxers. Singing a song he makes up as he goes. Smiling like a man who’s realized he’ll never be alone again.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Because she’s two now.

And he is completely, irrevocably, hers.

#i fear i expanded this series by even more parts because of the new lore #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot #dr abbot #shawn hatosy #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #the pitt #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader

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echo-exco · 2 months ago

Text

❝DOCTOR I CAN’T TELL IF I’M NOT ME.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | next.

There is only one thing you ever truly wished for in this life: a purpose.

Something that would justify your existence, that would give meaning to every breath, every wound, every sleepless night.

And you found it. Not in an empty promise or in the affection of others. You found it in your own power.

A selfish desire, yes, but undeniably yours. A purpose born not out of love, but out of need.

From that strange power growing inside you, the one that forced you to look at others’ suffering with cold, almost cynical eyes. As if every wound were a problem only you could solve. As if every scream of pain were a prayer meant solely for you.

You clung to that.

To the idea that your worth existed only in your abilities.

The ability to stop someone from dying in front of you. To rip death from their body with your own hands. To stitch broken flesh with threads that hurt, yes, but worked. That was the only thing that ever made you feel alive. The only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed.

For a while, it was enough.

For a long while, you were selfish.

It didn’t matter if they used you. It didn’t matter if it hurt. If every healing left another scar on you. If every salvation cost you a little more of the little you had left.

As long as you could keep doing it—healing, fixing, protecting— the price didn’t matter.

Because at the end of the day, you could lie down on that mattress of emptiness and tell yourself: “Today, I made it worth it.”

Your existence and your power meant something.

Of course, you didn’t have a mother to share secrets with, nor guardians who offered you love. Only faces that came and went, and the bitter understanding that you were just another burden in a broken system.

Until, by some twisted stroke of fate, you had the “pleasure” of meeting your biological father.

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.

Batman.

Even so, none of that really mattered to you. What truly hit you was learning that you had to leave everything behind and go to Gotham.

That cursed city, that concrete jungle drowned in darkness and crime. Where dreams go to die and bodies, if they’re lucky, go to sleep.

Gotham wasn’t a home. It was a prison for someone like you.

A place where meta-humans like you were enemies, threats, problems to be contained.

Your power, your only purpose, was stripped away with nothing more than a change of zip code.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

Not being able to use it.

Not being able to save.

Not being able to be useful.

Your existence, reduced to ashes, like the bodies of those you didn’t reach in time.

It must be poetic, right? The healer who cannot heal. The savior without faith.

They hate you. You've felt it. That visceral resentment from those who survived because of you, but still blame you for what you couldn’t stop. Screams, stares, choked pleas— all of them pierced your soul deeper than any weapon ever could.

For someone who once swore to save lives, it’s only natural that those you vowed and wanted to save now express their utter disgust and despair toward the false, horrific salvation you once offered them.

And now? Now you live among strangers.

An immense mansion full of absences. With brothers who seemingly don’t recognize you, and a father who doesn’t see you.

Your arrival in Gotham wasn’t exactly ideal, at least, that’s how you think you remember it.

It’s hard for you to remember that moment. You don’t hold on to unnecessary memories… none of it will make you feel alive again.

Apparently, your new father figure has several children. Some of them are already adults. With lives of their own far from the mansion, you don’t know much about them, they were almost always too busy to say anything to you.

You can’t understand them, can’t they come up with better excuses? You don’t want these people’s attention.

These people can’t help you with your abilities. They can’t make you believe you’re still allowed to use them freely.

No, these people are just strangers who stumbled into your life overnight and want nothing to do with the problem. Not even your new father had the decency or responsibility to try forming a bond with you.

Bruce Wayne was an absent father. Not in the way someone leaves and disappears completely, but in the kind of absence that feels stronger the closer the person is. A hollow physical presence, like a ghost made of flesh and bone. One who could look you in the eyes and still not see you.

He struggled to communicate, to make time for you, to even remember that there was now one more occupied room in that massive mansion of his.

He doesn’t know how to deal with you, and you don’t know how to deal with him either. At first, you wondered if the problem was you. If you had done something wrong. If the way you talked, walked—even breathed, was so bothersome that he’d rather bury himself in work than give you an hour of his time.

But soon, you realized something even crueler: You don’t need a father. You’re not looking for one. You’re not waiting for one.

What you need is a patient. Someone you can heal. Someone who needs you.

Because that’s what you’ve always done. Heal. And Bruce… Bruce simply refuses to be healed.

But he doesn’t understand.

When you approach him, when you seek him out, when you try to speak to him, all he does is throw up a wall made of cold words, as practical and impersonal as that damn business suit of his.

“I’m busy.”

“Not now.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“It’s for work.”

Always the same. Always excuses with the bitter taste of indifference.

Is this what having a father is supposed to feel like? Because if it is, then it doesn’t feel any different from your days in foster care.

At least there, you knew you were alone. Here, they make you believe you’re not… but you are, more than ever.

You’ve learned to observe the details, as always. It’s one of the few things you’re good at, aside from using your power.

You notice the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath, the way his fingers tense around his pen like he’s trying to crush it. The stack of papers on his desk never gets smaller, it’s like it multiplies just to keep you at a distance.

And the subtle changes… that lower tone in his voice when he sees you, like he can’t even be bothered to raise it for you. The way his eyebrows furrow, not out of anger, just… annoyance. Irritation.

That’s what hurt the most.

So you stopped trying. Because if you kept going, you were only going to be reprimanded by the one you were supposed to please. You convinced yourself that you don’t need his approval. That you don’t need his love. That you’re better off without him.

But then, why is it that every time you walk past his office, you pause for a second, hoping that door opens, just once, without you knocking first?

Why do you still need him to see you?

Richard Grayson is the eldest. The first adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Everyone sees him as a beacon of hope, the moral compass of this family made of shadows and scars. And it makes sense. He has that bright smile, that genuine warmth the others can barely fake. He gives out hugs without being asked, listens patiently, laughs easily, and has that absurd gift of making anyone feel seen, at least, if you’re one of his.

Because with you, it was always different.

From the beginning, Richard seemed kind. Seemed. But between that warmth and you, there was always a distance, like someone had drawn a curtain between the two of you. You heard his apologies more than you heard his actual voice.

“Sorry, I have to head out right now.”

“Sorry, I was already on my way to Blüdhaven.”

“Next time, I promise.”

He was always rushing. Always busy. Always somewhere else. And you… you’re not someone who believes in empty promises.

At first, you thought it was just bad luck. That maybe if you insisted a little, if you found an excuse, if you caught him in the kitchen, he might stay for five minutes. Just five. But those minutes never came. And you started to notice a pattern. How his demeanor shifted the moment you walked into the room. How his smile became more diplomatic. More rehearsed. How his footsteps sped up when he thought you weren’t watching.

You didn’t want to admit it at first, but something inside you began to whisper an uncomfortable truth; He was avoiding you.

And then you understood. If Richard Grayson, the kindest, the most human, the most "big brother" of them all, couldn’t be around you, then what was the point of trying with the others? What could you possibly expect from Jason, who barely speaks to you? From Tim, who seems more invested in his computer than in actual people? From Damian, who can barely tolerate his own shadow?

So you did the same.

You avoided them. One by one.

You decided it wasn’t worth it. That if you weren’t going to be a real part of this family, you weren’t going to pretend.

It’s easier that way. It doesn’t hurt as much if you’re the one walking away first.

But sometimes, when you see them laughing together from the staircase, or hear Richard speaking so fondly of the others, a part of you wonders if it was ever really your choice to walk away, or if they’d been leaving you behind from the very beginning.

Your suspicions didn’t take long to confirm. All it took was talking to a few of your supposed brothers to realize the pattern repeated itself.

Jason, Tim, Damian…

Each one was a story unto themselves. Each one was a maze of traumas, masks, and poorly calibrated emotional responses. But if you had to describe them in one word, it would be: inaccessible.

The second of your brothers was Jason, and from what little you could gather, because no one seemed eager to talk about it much, Jason had died. And then he came back. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been buried, and now he was not. That simple statement was enough to provoke a morbid curiosity, almost scientific. What had changed in his body? Did he suffer from partial necrosis? Brain damage? Did his muscles regenerate? What residual effects did resurrection have on human physiology? Everything in you screamed to investigate. To dissect. To understand.

It was a dangerous thought. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra: too tempting for your own good.

But what confused you the most wasn’t his condition, it was his behavior toward you. Jason had this aura of latent violence, like dynamite that could explode with the wrong spark. But that wasn’t what kept you away. Not entirely. It was his inexplicable rejection.

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t provoke him. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t interfere, you didn’t cross the line. And yet, his gaze was always sharp. As if your mere presence triggered something in him. Irritation. Annoyance. Maybe even disdain.

You wondered if it was your fault. If the way you were, the way you spoke, the way you were, simply bothered him. But you couldn’t find an answer. And though you wanted to, you knew that getting closer would be too risky.

Because you’ve seen the broken walls. The misaligned doors. The tables split in two like they were made of paper. You’ve felt the tension in the air when Jason enters a room and isn’t in the mood. And you know, without needing confirmation, that his punches aren’t soft. That his rage doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the witnesses.

So, you avoid him.

Not out of fear exactly, but out of caution. Self-preservation. You don’t want to be the next crack in the walls of this house.

Tim was a different kind of strange. More than Jason, though in a completely different way. His oddity didn’t stem from aggression or visible trauma. It was more subtle. More internal.

Almost clinical.

You observed him, like you observe everything. With that gaze of yours that searches for patterns, inconsistencies, vulnerabilities. And in him, you found many.

Surprisingly, Tim was brilliant. Not just "smart for his age," but one of those cases where the brain moves faster than the body. Too fast. So much so, that sometimes it seemed like his body gave up halfway through.

The dark circles under his eyes were a constant. His responses were slow, as if they had to pass through a filter of a thousand thoughts before being verbalized. He walked like his mind was too heavy for his spine to carry. A shadow carrying ideas. You were surprised he hadn’t fainted yet from the combination of insomnia, chronic stress, and mild malnutrition.

No one asked you.

No one thanked you.

But still, you started leaving him food. Food that could sustain him without causing a stomach collapse. Nothing too obvious, of course. A yogurt here. Cut fruits there.

Something easy to eat between keystrokes. You allied yourself with Alfred in that small act of silent intervention. The old butler seemed to notice, but he never mentioned it. And you never confirmed it.

Tim would probably assume it was all Alfred’s doing. In fact, you counted on it.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you knew that if he suspected you were behind something so... "thoughtful," it would only make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to respond to care, to the intention behind such detail. Tim doesn’t know how to handle it if that sincere gesture comes from you.

Just like you would if any of them ever tried it with you.

Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.

Of all the people in the house, he’s the only one who acts like your existence isn’t a miscalculation. But he doesn’t fool himself. He doesn’t offer you love, or tenderness. He offers you structure. Routine. Measured phrases and cups of tea.

It’s not affection between you.

It’s a sort of tacit alliance.

Two functional people in the middle of a broken ecosystem.

You know he tries. But you also know it’s not enough for you.

You’ve seen children like you. In hospitals. In refugee camps. In temporary homes. Children who cling to an adult figure as if their life depended on it, and are then destroyed when that figure leaves. Or worse, when they stay but stop looking.

You don’t want that for yourself.

You convince yourself this is better. A working relationship. A dynamic where each one fulfills their role and no one crosses the line into the personal. Because if you get attached, if you let yourself believe this could mean something...

You know how that ends. They can’t give you what you’re looking for.

They can’t give you purpose.

They can’t return what was taken from you when you understood that your value only exists if you can heal, if you can serve, if you can be useful.

You still don’t know who you are when you’re none of that.

Back to the subject of your "family," the last on the list of who your siblings were, was Damian.

The youngest of the group. The second biological son of Bruce Wayne.

You said it out loud once, casually: "Ah, so he is the real one."

No one found it funny.

Unlike the others, Damian didn’t need time to show you that you weren’t welcome. He didn’t bother to fake courtesy or neutrality. From the beginning, he made it clear that your existence was expendable.

Maybe it was your silence. Maybe it was your lack of reaction to his provocations. Maybe he just didn’t like you. But he pointed his katana at you the first month you arrived.

The blade against your neck wasn’t a metaphor. It was real, cold, intimidating contact. You felt a thread of power activate instinctively in your body, a reflex of defense, of desperation. If you had let it go, well, you wouldn’t be here, mentally recalling this account.

You didn’t. Not for him. For you.

Because it wasn’t worth it. Because using your power on someone in your “family” would mean admitting they were important enough to hurt you.

They weren’t. Not yet.

You can’t risk being discovered. No one can know that you actually have this power. None of them can know.

Bruce appeared just in time to prevent the confrontation from escalating. Did he protect you? Not exactly. He simply said something like, “Damian has a complicated history,” as if that justified a death threat in the family kitchen.

Is it common in Gotham to justify a child’s homicidal impulses if they've had a difficult childhood?

That was your question. You didn’t ask it out loud. No one would have liked the answer.

It was also that day you found out that Damian was Bruce’s biological son. And you couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all.

The same Bruce Wayne who, in the public eye, was a scandalous figure, a charming, charismatic playboy billionaire with endless parties, had exactly one biological child. One. Not five. Not a legion of illegitimate children scattered across the world. Just one.

That kid turned out to be a ticking time bomb with a traditional sword.

Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.

With the girls, it's complicated. Maybe even more so because, deep down, a part of you thought they could be different.

Stephanie. She was like a female version of Richard, a constant smile, a vibrant energy that everyone seemed to adore, except you.

She greeted you with empty enthusiasm, one that never went beyond the surface. It was easy to see that behind her good mood, there was a locked door she wasn’t going to open for you.

And you understood. Because you'd seen it before.

People who act as if everyone is welcome, except you.

Stephanie was just another confirmation that no matter how hard you tried to fit in, this home was already full. You weren’t in the original plan. You never were.

Barbara, on the other hand, was simpler. She was hardly ever at the mansion. You’d see her sporadically, a red ghost in the shadows of fleeting visits. And still, in that limited time, she always found a way to smile at others, share a joke, a quick conversation, a knowing glance… Never with you.

Not once.

It was as if your presence went by unnoticed, not even worth including out of courtesy.

Cassandra was the most honest, in a way. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She ignored your attempts to help with almost admirable efficiency. You could attribute it to her trauma, her history, her way of seeing the world… but that excuse starts to wear thin when it’s the only one left to justify everything.

Maybe you’re just not interesting. Maybe you don’t even stand out enough to be actively rejected.

Or is it because you don’t even deserve her attention?

It was easier to believe that they all had a reason not to see you.

Easier than admitting that maybe, you weren’t that hard to ignore.

What was dangerous about this family wasn’t the weapons, nor the katanas, nor the fists that had broken ribs more than once.

It was the mask.

It took you time to understand it. First, it was a hunch. Then a suspicion. Finally, a certainty: they were all vigilantes. Heroes of Gotham. The same ones who make your hands tremble when you try to use your power. The ones who make your gift feel useless. As if it were a mistake rather than a blessing.

The irony is so perfect it could almost make you laugh.

You can’t feel useful, can’t do the one thing you know how to do perfectly, because you’re surrounded by those who fight so that people and beings like you are neither necessary nor welcome.

And yet, you prefer them this way.

Cold. Distant. Detached. Unknown. Because connections are dangerous. Because memories weigh. Because at some point, someone taught you that affection is the hook that precedes the pain.

Because you know it better than anyone. When you get attached to someone, it’s not just pain that you feel when you lose them. It’s as if a part of you dies too. Not because you lose them, but because without your power, without that “usefulness,” you feel like you never deserved to have them in the first place.

In Gotham, you can’t do anything.

You can't heal.

You can't save.

You can't be useful.

You can't be loved. Or at least, that’s what they taught you to believe.

Here, you have no parts left that you can afford to lose. Not while you're trapped in this city that doesn’t need what you can give. A family that doesn't know what to do with you. You don’t know what to do with yourself either.

They can’t give you a purpose.

They never could.

They didn’t even try.

You expected so little, that not even that surprised you.

Until you found him.

The only living person who not only recognized your power, but accepted it for what you wanted it to be:

A miracle.

He called himself Doctor Masashi. A kind voice, a serene figure. But behind that calmness was surgical precision. He knew exactly how to shape you. How to rebuild you, only to destroy you again with elegance.

He was the only one who never lied to you about what you were:

A weapon.

A tool.

A precious jewel that only shines when it bleeds for others.

A perfect puppet.

And you, grateful for the strings.

He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.

He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.

He gave you… meaning. A cruel meaning. A conditioned meaning. But still, you took it.

It can't be that bad, right?

Clinging to that.

Clinging to him.

Clinging to something that tells you that you can still be "something."

Because if someone, even just one person, can look at you and say that you are good for something, then you're not broken.

Then you're not alone. Then everything that hurt was worth it.

Even if guilt drowns you every night.

Even if the nightmares never rest.

Even if the hands you tried to save still drag you from their graves, begging for a second death.

It doesn't matter. As long as someone believes that keeping you alive makes sense... then that’s enough.

Right?

Maybe you're a weapon.

Maybe you're selfish.

Maybe you did it all just out of fear of disappearing, for that unbearable need to feel alive.

The need to feel that you matter. To have a place to fit in.

But at least you're something. In this shattered world, that's already more than many have.

But how much more can you take before you truly break? How much longer before you completely crumble, like so many times you did on the inside? How much will the price of his greed cost… and your desperate desire to remain useful?

Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.

Nor your brothers.

Nor your sisters.

None of them ever knew who you were.

None of them understood.

Only him. Only Masashi.

That’s what scares you the most. Because if even he can make you believe that’s all you’re worth. If even he manages to make you cling to that idea, then maybe, you were never more than that.

Maybe you were never more than your power, and in Gotham, where you can no longer use it...

Not even that belongs to you.

2K notes · View notes

reidmarieprentiss · 3 months ago

Text

Life With Spencer

Part One

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, mild angst, mild hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: choppy -- like real life lol, open ending, smut & suggestive content (18+), criminal minds cases & violence, sooo in love, people being mean to Spencer, reader is nervous, reader is also grumpy when woken up (real), virgin!Spencer, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like a year…

Word count: 20.4k

a/n: i just keep imagining what it would be like to be true, domestic partner's with spencer *sighhhhh* i would love to make this a series if anyone has any suggestions for real-life scenarios with our man!!! part two is already underwayyyyyyy

main masterlist part two

It started, of all places, in a post office.

Spencer was there to send a specialty package to his mom, carefully wrapped and labeled in his neatest handwriting and checked at least three times before approaching the counter. You were there picking up a fresh sheet of funky stamps for the biweekly cards you sent to your own mom. You caught him eyeing your stamps; he caught you noticing how he triple-checked the zip code, and before either of you knew it, you were both lingering by the door, pretending you weren’t waiting for the other to say something.

He didn’t ask for your number that day. He didn’t even ask your name. But you remembered his awkward smile, and he remembered how your laugh sounded like a punctuation mark at the end of his favorite kind of sentence.

Approximately two months later, after a few more accidental post office encounters—some real, some not-so-accidental on his part—Spencer finally worked up the courage to ask if you’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime. Nothing fancy. Just... coffee. You said yes without hesitation. Not because you loved coffee or anything—you didn’t even drink it that much—but because it was him.

About five weeks after that first coffee—after getting to know each other over steaming mugs, awkward pauses, and shared smiles that turned less awkward with every meeting—Spencer asked you on an official date. He said it like it was a formal event, and you agreed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three weeks after the first date, you had your first kiss. He asked, of course—“Can I kiss you?”—softly, like a secret he wasn’t sure he could say aloud. You whispered “Please” and met him halfway.

One day later, he showed up at your doorstep, cheeks pink, breath short, and hands full of slightly wilted grocery store flowers. He blurted out, “I’d like to be your boyfriend officially. I wish I had more patience, but I don’t.” You laughed, said yes, and pulled him inside for some checkers and records. You both forgot the flowers on the kitchen counter until hours later when he gasped and apologized profusely for “botching the presentation.”

One month into dating, you finally had a proper make-out session. It happened on your couch after you watched an old movie you’d half-paid attention to. His hands were still a little unsure like he was afraid of taking up too much space, but you guided them to your hips gently, making room for all the ways he was still learning how to want.

Three months after that—after gentle kisses, warm touches, and whispered confessions—you started experimenting more fully. Slowly. Carefully. Clothes stayed mostly, but curiosity replaced fear. Hands explored. Bodies pressed close.

When you start experimenting, it’s clear right away that Spencer is a complete virgin.

Not in the accidental, whoops-it-just-never-happened kind of way. No—he carried this with him deliberately, quietly, like a fragile artifact wrapped up in careful layers of hesitation and logic.

He’d had a few kisses here and there—fumbling, fleeting moments of curiosity and awkward courage—but nothing past that. The most notable, of course, was the one in the pool with Lila Archer, which he mentioned to you once with a sheepish, barely-there smile and a lot of eye contact with the floor.

But what else could anyone expect? He was a child prodigy placed in public schools in Las Vegas—twelve years old, surrounded by kids over his age, twice his size, and with none of the social tools they’d already started to learn. By the time those awkward, formative years passed him by, he was in college. Then, the Bureau. Then, the field.

Life didn’t exactly leave time or space for learning how to kiss someone without overthinking it, how to touch someone like it was normal, or how to be touched without freezing.

So, with you, it starts very slow.

Very, very, painfully, reverently slow.

Not because he doesn’t want it. And not because you’re hesitant, either. But because he feels everything. Every brush of your fingers over his collarbone. Every time your thigh touches his on the couch. Every time your lips linger too long near the corner of his mouth, just waiting for him to close the gap.

And Spencer doesn’t want just to do things. He wants to understand them. Feel them. Memorize the lines of your body like poetry he’s afraid to get wrong.

So the first time your hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, his breath stutters like a skipped heartbeat.

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t panic. But he’s so still.

Like his body doesn’t know yet what it’s allowed to want.

And you… you go slowly. Tenderly. You kiss him like you have all the time in the world and like he’s never been kissed quite right before. You let your hands rest on his chest, warm and grounding, not moving unless he shifts toward you first.

And when he finally does—when Spencer leans in, his lips parting slightly and his hands shaking just a little as they find your waist—you can feel the trust. You can feel how much it took for him to get there.

…

After all the slow touches, the careful kisses, the long silences that weren’t uncomfortable but sacred, it finally reached that tipping point. That moment when your hand, light and sure, drifted lower, brushing down the center of his chest, past his ribs, over the soft skin of his stomach—just warm skin beneath your fingers, taut with tension but never rejection.

You weren’t rushing. You would never rush him.

But he was trembling now, just slightly, beneath your hand, and when your fingers reached the waistband of his pants, pressing there gently like a question—Can I? Are we okay?—

Spencer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his entire body freezing like someone had hit pause on him mid-thought, mid-movement, mid-desire.

And then—

��Virgin!” he blurted out, like a siren going off in the middle of a church.

You blinked. Pulled back just a little, more surprised by the sudden volume than anything else.

He was already burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” you said softly, trying not to laugh—not at him, never at him, but just at the Spencer-ness of the entire thing. “Did you just—did you just shout the word ‘virgin’ at me?”

His voice was muffled through his hands. “I panicked.”

You bit your lip, reaching out to gently tug his hands away so you could see his face, which was redder than you’d ever seen it.

“I figured,” you said with a small smile, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “That you hadn’t… done this before.”

Spencer stared at you, his eyes wide and embarrassed and pleading for you not to think less of him. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t want to ruin anything. And then your hand was—you were right there—and I didn’t know what to do or say, and I—”

“Spence,” you cut in gently, placing your hand over his heart. “Hey. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m really glad you told me.”

He swallowed hard, trying to read your expression. “You are?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “I want all of you. That includes all the firsts, too. I don’t care how much or how little you’ve done. I just care that you’re here and that you trust me.”

He looked like he was still trying to compute that. His jaw flexed slightly, eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes and back. “I do,” he said softly. “Trust you, I mean.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and slow. “Then let’s take our time.”

—

It happened in the quietest moment, a few months in.

Not during a grand gesture, not in the middle of a kiss, or some cinematic slow dance under string lights. It happened while you sat on the couch with your legs draped over his, your shared dinner growing cold on the coffee table, and an old record playing in the background.

Spencer looked over at you—your hair a little messy, one sock slipping down, hoodie too frumpy, and absolutely the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and said it.

“I love you.”

Just like that.

No stutter. No warning. No long-winded buildup, though with Spencer, that in itself was a miracle. Just three soft, perfectly-formed words like he'd been thinking them every day and finally found the courage to let them go.

You blinked.

Your chest swelled instantly, and that kind of joy was so overwhelming that it felt like your heart might burst right through your ribs. Your whole body felt lighter like gravity itself had relaxed around you. You wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Climb into his lap and never get up again.

Because you loved him. So much. And hearing it from him—from Spencer, who measures his words with surgical precision, who doesn’t say things unless he means them with his entire being—meant everything.

And yet.

Your brain-to-mouth connection short-circuited.

Like… completely fried.

You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him how long you’d wanted to say it, how long you’d wanted to hear it, how long you’d been feeling it—but nothing came out. Not one word. Not even a breath.

You could feel your face trying to smile or do something, but it wasn’t a smile. Oh God, it wasn’t a smile. It was… it was a grimace.

Not because of him. Not because of the words. Not because of the moment.

Because of you.

You were mad at yourself for freezing. For making this look like anything other than the greatest thing ever said to you—that’s ever happened to you.

Spencer’s face fell just a little—not much, just the faintest furrow of his brow, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t apologize. But he noticed. Of course, he did.

And still, you couldn’t speak.

Inside, you were screaming I love you too, so loud the words echoed through your bones, pounding against your ribs like they were trying to break free.

But your lips stayed parted in useless shock, your eyes wide, and that half smile half grimace—God, that awful grimace—still hovering across your face.

And Spencer, sweet, brilliant Spencer, reached out slowly, brushing your hand with his fingertips.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say it back yet.”

But you shook your head, once, twice—because no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why you couldn’t talk. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt.

It was love. Overwhelming, soul-consuming love. So big and deep it clogged your throat, tripped over every nerve ending, shorted out the parts of you meant to speak.

“Please just tell me what you’re thinking,” Spencer tried again, his voice barely above a whisper now, brittle at the edges with the kind of laugh that only shows up when someone is trying really hard not to fall apart. “I—” he looked down, smiled, almost like he was apologizing just for existing, “I can’t read you right now, and it’s… really scary.”

You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out except a soft breath that shook with the effort. You reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly in yours, grounding yourself, grounding him.

Inside, your thoughts were screaming:

I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

Why won’t the words come out?

You wanted to say it perfectly. You tried to mirror what he gave you. But your brain was betraying you in real-time, too caught up in the height of the moment to deliver the simple truth you’d been carrying around for weeks.

So you just stared at him—at the man who loved you, who chose you to say those words to first, who gave them to you without condition, without waiting for safety or the right moment. He gave them to you because they were true.

And the best you could do right now was squeeze his hand tighter and will your heart to speak for you.

But you saw the hurt flash across his face. Subtle. Quick. He blinked it away like it hadn’t happened, but it had.

Your silence was crushing him.

And still, the words wouldn’t come.

“Do you…” Spencer started, and you felt it in the way his hands tightened just slightly around yours, and his eyes searched your face like he was trying to read a language he suddenly didn’t understand. “Do you want to slow things down?”

He asked it like it physically pained him to say. Like the words had to be forced out through a throat full of thorns. Like he was terrified, they might be the match that set the whole thing on fire.

Your heart broke.

That wasn’t it at all. Not even close.

But from his side of things—from the outside looking in—it must’ve seemed like you froze because you didn’t want him to say it. Like your silence was a retreat. A signal to pump the brakes.

You shook your head so quickly that it blurred your vision, your voice finally punching through the barricade in your chest. “No.”

Spencer exhaled all at once like the breath had been stuck somewhere in his lungs since the moment he said I love you. His shoulders slumped, his expression softening instantly.

“Okay,” he breathed, a tiny smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay… Do you, um—” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly shy again—“do you love me?”

You nodded fast, almost too fast. “Yes.”

His face lit up—full and real. His grin was goofy and toothy and completely unguarded, like the question had been blooming in his heart for weeks, and your answer finally let it open.

“Did you forget how to speak?” he teased gently, eyes dancing now, the tension gone.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your bottom lip as you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

Spencer laughed softly and leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, still smiling. “I’ll take unintelligible nodding,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, warm, teasing, and thick with affection.

Then he tilted his head just slightly and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, sweet kiss—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything, only offered.

It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It wasn’t about the fear of losing each other or the relief of still being here. It was quiet. Certain. Gentle in the way only love can be when it’s finally spoken aloud.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and your hand curled into the soft cotton of his shirt as you kissed him back, anchoring yourself to the moment and to him.

And just before you pulled apart, he whispered against your lips, “I love you,” again, like he’d never get tired of saying it.

You kissed him once more instead. Slow. Firm. Certain.

…

The exploration continued—sweet, slow, exploratory. Neither of you were in a rush to reach any finish line, and truthfully, there was something delicious about not rushing. About drawing everything out until the tension between you was so thick, it clung to your skin like humidity.

It started with kisses that deepened over time—long, open-mouthed, tongue-slow kisses that left both of you breathless and warm. Your hands started roaming more freely, lingering on his hips, his ribs, and the dip of his lower back, and when you slid them beneath his shirt just to feel the heat of him, Spencer whimpered like you’d done something forbidden.

And he loved it.

You touched over clothes for a long time, and somehow, that made it feel more intense. The layers didn’t mute anything—they made it better. More anticipation. More teasing. Rubbing, pressing, dragging your palm down the length of him through denim, through soft cotton pajama pants when he was sleepily pliant in bed—he’d gasp like he couldn’t believe how good it felt. Like you were magic, and he was still trying to figure out how.

But grinding?

Spencer really, really liked grinding.

The first time it happened, it hadn’t been intentional. You were in his lap, straddling him during a particularly intense makeout session on your couch, your bodies pressed so close you couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster. You shifted your hips without thinking, just adjusting your weight—and he whined.

A real, honest-to-God whine. High-pitched and needy, muffled by the kiss but unmistakable.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, lips swollen, your breath ghosting over his. “Oh,” you said, surprised and wickedly delighted. “You like that.”

His head fell back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut, throat working hard around the truth. “Yes,” he breathed, like it pained him to admit it. “So much.”

From then on, it became a regular part of your experimentation. Clothes stayed on, but the heat between your bodies didn’t need anything more. You’d climb into his lap or pull him into yours, and slowly, so slowly, you’d move, letting your hips rock against his, coaxing out all those noises he barely knew he could make.

He’d grip your hips like you might float away, bury his face in your shoulder, and whisper your name over and over like it was a prayer. Sometimes, he’d tremble before anything even happened—just from the rhythm, the friction, the build.

And you loved watching him unravel.

You made it safe. You made it sweet. You made it good.

And Spencer? Spencer made it feel like no one else had ever touched you like this. Because no one had ever made him feel like this.

But the first time Spencer finished in his pants?

God, was he mortified.

It wasn’t even supposed to go that far—not technically. You’d been kissing in bed, bodies pressed close, your hands under his shirt, his on your thighs, your hips moving in lazy, deliberate circles against his. It was slow, indulgent, just another one of those experimental nights where nothing needed to happen, where the point wasn’t release—it was intimacy.

But his breathing had gone uneven, his hands had tightened their grip, and he had buried his face in your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you completely. You knew. You knew what was coming. You could feel it.

And then, with a gasp so quiet it sounded like he was shocked it happened at all—he came.

In his pants.

And froze.

Completely, totally, tragically still.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, his face still pressed into your skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from his ears. “Oh my God. Don’t say anything.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned, then slowly pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was red. Not blushing. Not pink. Red. Like he was seconds away from dissolving into atoms and leaving this plane of existence entirely.

“I—” he stammered, already reaching for the edge of the blanket like he might try to escape from under it. “That wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t mean to—God.”

But you couldn’t even speak.

Not because you were embarrassed. Not because you were annoyed.

Because you were floored.

You had never seen anything so honest, so raw, so real in your life.

You bit your lip, watching him scramble, and you could swear to God you’d died and gone to heaven.

The man you loved had just lost control with you.

You could feel the mortification radiating off of him in waves. His entire body had gone still in that telltale Spencer Reid way like he was internally building a forty-page psychological thesis on his own perceived humiliation.

You sat back slowly, your hands still on his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him.

“Hey,” you whispered, leaning in to nudge his temple with your nose. “Look at me?”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his face just barely, just enough for you to see the blooming red flush across his cheeks and neck. His lashes lowered like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“I—” he started voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. It just—you—and then—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, cradling his jaw in both hands. “You’re okay.”

His eyes fluttered shut again, lips pressing into a tight line, but then you kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, reassuring, no heat this time, just warmth.

When you pulled back, your smile was easy, teasing, but genuine. “Spencer… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He let out a choked laugh—more like a groan, really—and dropped his hands over his face in total embarrassment.

And then—

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice muffled by the back of his hand, but it didn’t have an ounce of venom. If anything, it was laced with disbelief. With wonder. With that particular kind of amazement, only Spencer could radiate after experiencing something that both shocked and deeply overwhelmed him.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just smiled against his skin, pressing lazy, lingering kisses along the edge of his jaw, then lower, to the slope of his throat—soothing, adoring. Reassuring him with touch, because you knew his brain was still spinning, his thoughts still racing, probably analyzing your tone, your face, your body language, checking for signs of judgment that would never be there.

“I mean it,” you whispered eventually, your voice warm and honest against the damp heat of his neck. “That was… incredibly hot.”

Spencer groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, grinning. “Forever. I’ll probably bring it up at random moments. Grocery store. Your birthday. Funerals—”

“Funerals?!” he squeaked, lifting his head to look at you, horrified and helpless.

You shrugged, delighted. “If the memory hits, it hits.”

He dropped his head back onto the pillow with a dramatic thunk. “I’ve created a monster.”

“You created a very happy girlfriend,” you corrected, crawling up just enough to look him in the eyes. His were still wide, still a little panicked, but they’d softened now—especially under the weight of your smile.

Your hand came to rest against his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. “Spence,” you said softly, seriously, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t embarrass yourself. You didn’t scare me off. You let yourself feel, and that’s beautiful. It’s real.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… I’ve never—”

“I know.” You kissed him again, this time slow and deep and full of all the words you hadn’t yet said.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy in that way that always made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you said gently, almost like a secret. “Every part of you. Even the part that panics when things feel too good.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath, one that felt like a release, and turned his face into your palm.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Then, after a beat—

“…But I do need to change my pants.”

You snorted, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a fit of laughter. “Deal. But I’m helping.”

“Of course you are,” he grumbled, but you could feel him smiling.

…

And approximately five months after that, he asked if you wanted to have sex.

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t push. He sat beside you in bed after a particularly long, drawn-out evening of tangled limbs, whispered names, and asked quietly, “Would you want to, sometime?”

You turned to him, brushing the hair from his forehead, and asked just as gently, “Do you feel ready?”

And when he nodded—just once, eyes wide and sure—you kissed him and said, “Then yes.”

—

You and Spencer had joined the team out for a night at O’Kieffe’s, the warm, slightly too loud bar just a block away from Quantico that everyone seemed to gravitate toward after a good case or a big change. It was the latter tonight—David Rossi had officially joined the BAU, and the team wanted to mark the occasion with drinks, stories, and maybe a little too much bar food.

Spencer had been hesitant at first. Bars weren’t exactly in his comfort zone—the crowd, the noise, the unpredictable lighting, the clinking of glasses, and the echo of music bouncing off the wood-paneled walls all tended to overwhelm him faster than he liked to admit. But when you gently placed your hand on his arm, reminding him that this wasn’t a night about chaos but celebration, he nodded.

He could do this—for you. And maybe even a little for Rossi.

Because the truth was, Spencer was excited. Really, truly excited. He wasn’t always great at expressing that kind of thing in the ways people expected—there’d be no loud cheers or performative toasts—but there was a particular brightness in his eyes as he adjusted his sweater cuffs and followed you into the bar.

Rossi was a legend. Spencer had read everything the man had written—twice—and the idea of learning from someone with field experience that rivaled Gideon's but without the same emotional volatility was, in his words, “an intellectually stabilizing opportunity.” You’d laughed when he said it, but you’d seen it for what it was: Spencer was hopeful. That was rare. And beautiful.

As for you, you were just happy to see the team again. The BAU didn’t often give space to breathe, let alone celebrate, and being surrounded by the people who lived in the trenches with Spencer—Derek with his teasing, Penelope with her sparkle, JJ already organizing everyone's drink orders, and Emily nursing a beer in her corner—made the night feel a little lighter.

You and Spencer had slid into the booth side by side, your thigh resting against his under the table. He was already reciting a fact about Italian wine in Rossi’s honor before you’d even removed your jacket, and you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder for just a second as the bar's noise faded into the background.

“Hey,” JJ grinned as she approached with two menus and two drinks. “Look who came out of his cave tonight.”

Spencer blinked up at her, already mid-sentence about vineyard elevations. “Technically, I was in the lab today—”

JJ handed you a drink and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Uh-huh. Sure, genius. Welcome to the land of the living.”

You laughed softly into your glass. Spencer looked at you, eyes squinting like, is that supposed to be funny?, and you just leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing great, baby.”

Spencer relaxed for the first time since walking in—just a little, but it was enough.

Predictably, Spencer asked for an Arnold Palmer—his go-to when he wanted to blend in at a bar. The bartender raised an eyebrow, as they always did, but he didn’t notice. Or if he did, he pretended not to, too focused on getting the ratio of iced tea to lemonade just right when he asked. You, on the other hand, simply shrugged when the girls offered to order something for you.

“Surprise me,” you’d told Penelope, sliding the laminated menu back across the sticky table. “Just nothing blue.”

Penelope gasped, one hand over her heart. “Blasphemy. You don’t like blue drinks?”

“I don’t like them when they come up,” you replied, and Emily, across from you, choked on her beer from laughing.

JJ leaned in. “I’m getting you something sweet but deadly. You’re welcome.”

You grinned. “I trust you with my life and my blood sugar.”

By the time your mystery drink arrived—pink, fizzy, and dangerously good—you were nestled between Spencer and Emily, your arm tucked behind Spencer’s back along the booth. He sat upright, knees a little too close together, fingers twitching over his glass as he listened intently to Rossi talk about his early days in the field.

He wasn’t talking much, but his eyes were wide and bright, darting between whoever was speaking and the condensation on his glass like he was cataloging every second of the conversation. Every now and then, he’d lean into you slightly when he heard something particularly interesting or particularly absurd, his shoulder bumping yours like a silent: Did you catch that?

You didn’t work for the BAU, didn’t know all the lingo, the history, the inside jokes that shot back and forth like rubber bands across the table—but it didn’t matter. You liked watching them. The way JJ would cover her mouth when she laughed too hard. The way Derek told a story with his whole body, practically reenacting the events across the table. The way Penelope reached for everyone’s arm when she got excited, physically incapable of holding her enthusiasm in place.

“I’m telling you,” Derek said now, pointing an accusatory finger at Emily. She dropped her badge into the sewer grate and then tried to fish it out with a police baton—in front of the suspect.”

“I still caught him,” Emily muttered, nursing her drink.

“Yeah, because he was laughing too hard to run.”

Everyone howled. Even Spencer, who usually reserved his laughter for niche jokes or obscure references, chuckled into his Arnold Palmer.

You leaned in, mouth near his ear. “You look happy,” you said softly.

He turned to you, his smile shy but steady. “I am.” He looked back at the table, then at you again. “I think… this is good. It feels good.”

And it did. There was something about the warmth of the bar, the laughter, the closeness of bodies pressed into booths and leaning across tabletops that felt more like a family reunion than a work celebration.

When Rossi raised his glass and toasted to “the next chapter,” everyone clinked their drinks together with grins and mock solemnity. You lifted yours, too, even though you didn’t know what chapter they were on.

Spencer clinked your glass gently with his own, then held your gaze for a second too long.

“What?” you asked, amused.

He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just glad you’re here.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Morgan groaned dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Reid, you’re buying the next round for burning our eyes with your little love fest over here.” He fake gagged for good measure, head tilted back like he was in the final scene of a tragedy.

Penelope slapped his shoulder with a firm thwack, her bangled wrist jingling as she did. “Derek! He’s in love! Leave him alone!”

Spencer, mid-sip of his Arnold Palmer, choked slightly on the lemonade, the tips of his ears immediately blooming pink.

Across the booth, Hotch barely disguised his amusement, lips twitching toward a smile that never fully broke through—but his eyes gave him away. “It is Spencer’s turn,” he said, deadpan.

That was all it took.

With a quiet sigh and cheeks still flushed like he'd accidentally been assigned to deliver a TED Talk on romance, Spencer gave you a look that was half wish me luck and half I should’ve stayed home. Then, wordlessly, he scooted out of the booth, brushing your knee as he passed, and stood beside the table, preparing to memorize everyone’s drink orders.

“Okay,” he muttered, locking in. “Everyone… just… say it slowly. No overlapping. JJ, you first.”

It was a mess, of course. Everyone calling out orders with no respect for his system—Penelope wanted something sparkly and strong but not too strong, Derek wanted whatever beer came in a glass, not a mason jar, JJ changed her mind twice, and Emily was now teasing Spencer by naming obscure cocktails just to see if he’d recognize the ingredients.

He somehow caught it all with focused determination.

As he finally finished and headed for the bar, Rossi leaned back in his seat with the kind of casual flair that only came with age and absolute confidence. Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and slipped a black card between two fingers, holding it just low enough that only Spencer could see.

Spencer blinked at him.

Rossi gave a sly wink. “Go on, kid. It’s on me tonight.”

Spencer hesitated, brow furrowed, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “But—”

“No buts,” Rossi interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re celebrating me, remember? Least I can do is pay for the honor.”

Spencer looked down at the card now resting in his palm, then back at Rossi. The older man was already returning to his drink as if the conversation was finished.

And, well, it was.

Spencer tucked the card carefully into his wallet and headed for the bar, still blushing, still flustered—but smiling all the same.

So he made it up there—shoulders slightly hunched, hands fidgeting with the corner of a cocktail napkin, cheeks still pink from Rossi’s gesture, Derek’s teasing, and the general social exhaustion that came with being Spencer Reid in a crowded bar.

He’d given the bartender the list in his soft, fast voice—apologetic but thorough. “One scotch neat, one whiskey sour, one gin and tonic, two beers, one cosmopolitan, one appletini, and—uh—an Arnold Palmer. Please.”

The bartender, to their credit, didn’t even blink. They just nodded and turned away, starting on the scotch first. Spencer exhaled, relieved, and stepped aside slightly to make room at the bar for someone else.

But apparently, someone had been listening.

And wasn’t impressed.

Behind him, a man snorted loudly—one of those exaggerated, performative sounds meant to be heard. “Jesus, what are you ordering for? A daycare?”

Spencer blinked, head turning slowly, confused. “I—what?”

The man was older, maybe in his late thirties or forties. He was tall and broad, with the overconfident stance of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. He was nursing a Jack and Coke as if it gave him some kind of authority, his eyes rolling toward Spencer as if he were the one holding up the entire establishment.

“I said,” the man drawled, louder now, clearly looking for an audience, “if you’re gonna order drinks for the whole choir group, maybe let the rest of us get a round in first.”

Spencer stared, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a limit on group orders.”

The man snorted again. “Well, there should be. Who even drinks an appletini anymore? You trying to get your girlfriend drunk off juice boxes?”

Spencer's mouth opened, then closed again, a dozen facts about cocktail popularity and historical alcohol trends immediately loading into his brain, ready to be deployed like a defense mechanism. But something about the man’s smug grin—so certain, so pleased with himself—stopped him.

Because this wasn’t a conversation. It was a provocation.

Spencer shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable but unwilling to rise to the bait. “They're for my friends,” he said simply, voice low. “It’s a celebration.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, genius. How about next time you call ahead for catering?”

At that moment, the bartender slid the scotch in front of Spencer, followed quickly by the whiskey sour.

Spencer nodded his thanks but didn’t look away from the man, who had turned back to his drink with a smirk, clearly satisfied he’d gotten in the last word.

But then, with a calmness that even surprised himself, Spencer murmured, “You know, statistically, men who police other people’s drink orders are often projecting latent insecurities about their own masculinity, particularly when in public settings designed to measure dominance, such as bars.”

The man blinked.

Spencer reached for the next glass being slid across to him. “But please,” he added, without looking up, “tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens you.”

It was clinical. Precise. Barely a jab at all—at least, not to most people. But to a drunk man with too much ego and not enough brain cells to process nuance, it was fighting words.

The stool next to Spencer scraped back with an ugly screech as the man stood, puffing out his chest like a cartoon character about to pick a bar brawl.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he slurred, stepping in too close, looming over Spencer like that would somehow make him feel bigger, stronger, smarter.

Spencer stiffened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly around the rim of the next drink, his eyes fixed forward like if he didn’t make direct eye contact, he could defuse the situation with sheer avoidance.

“I didn’t insult you,” he said carefully, quietly. “I made an observation. Based on empirical data.”

“Oh, data?” the man sneered, leaning in now, the smell of cheap liquor wafting off him. “You one of those little trivia guys? That it? You think you’re better than me because you read a book?”

Spencer’s breath caught, his shoulders rising a little, defensively—familiar posture. You’d seen it before. Fight or freeze.

And this wasn’t Spencer’s scene. Not by a long shot. He could navigate conversations with senators, unravel a serial killer’s psychosis with a few words—but bar aggression? Drunk men with something to prove? That was another beast entirely.

“I’m just here to pick up drinks for my team,” Spencer said, holding the man’s stare now, standing his ground but not escalating. “I don’t want trouble.”

Unfortunately, the guy did.

He shoved Spencer’s shoulder hard enough to slosh two drinks onto the bar. “Then don’t go running your mouth like a smartass, Poindexter.”

The bartender snapped to attention. “Hey!”

And before the situation could combust any further—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Derek Morgan appeared out of nowhere behind the guy, voice low, controlled, but laced with threat. He placed one firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turned him just enough to get him out of Spencer’s space.

“This guy bothering you, Pretty Boy?” Derek asked without breaking eye contact with the drunk.

Spencer cleared his throat, stepped back, adjusting his glasses. “He had some… strong opinions about fruit-based beverages.”

Derek clicked his tongue, expression flat as he stared the man down. “Yeah, well, I have strong opinions about idiots starting fights in public places. You wanna keep going?”

The man blinked, unsteady on his feet now that he was no longer the biggest guy in the conversation. He mumbled something that might have been “not worth it,” and turned, staggering back to his bar stool further down the line.

Derek waited a beat, watching him go. Then he turned back to Spencer, his demeanor shifting instantly. “You good?”

Spencer nodded, still holding two drinks with extreme care. “Yes. That was… unpleasant.”

“You wanna head back with what you’ve got? I can come grab the rest.”

“No,” Spencer said, squaring his shoulders like he needed to prove to himself that he could finish the job. “I’m okay.”

Derek smiled, clapped a hand to his back. “Proud of you, man.”

Spencer sighed. “I was trying to de-escalate.”

Derek chuckled. “Spencer. You probably just told a drunk guy his manhood was tied to a cosmo.”

“…Statistically, it probably is.”

“Let’s just get these drinks.”

When the two men arrived back at the booth, arms full of drinks and expressions full of something, the mood shifted immediately. Whatever easygoing laughter had been drifting between the team members froze mid-air the second they saw Spencer’s pink ears and Derek’s look of guarded amusement.

You sat up straight, eyes narrowing instinctively as you scanned Spencer’s face—flushed, stiff around the jaw, very clearly trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Emily was the first to speak, her voice laced with suspicion. “What the hell was all that?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, frowning as she took her drink from the line Spencer was meticulously assembling on the table. “What did Macho Man want with Spence?”

Penelope gasped. “Wait—was there drama?!”

Spencer sighed, softly and with great effort, as if this was the last thing he wanted to relive. Derek, on the other hand, leaned back in the booth like he was settling in for storytime.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Derek said, grinning. “Reid here almost triggered a bar fight because someone took offense to him ordering an appletini.”

“It was not about the appletini,” Spencer muttered, sitting down beside you. “It was about the man’s deeply rooted insecurities surrounding masculinity and his inappropriate hostility in response to a completely factual observation.”

You turned to him immediately. “What did you say?”

Spencer gave you a look. The one that always meant you’re going to mock me but I’m not wrong. He folded his hands in front of him like he was testifying in court. “I asked him to tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens him.”

Emily slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. JJ stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Derek confirmed, shaking his head. “I got over there just in time to stop the guy from launching into him.”

“Is he okay?” Penelope asked, peering over Spencer’s shoulder as if expecting to find evidence of bruising or trauma.

“I’m fine,” Spencer said flatly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… a little overstimulated. I didn’t expect to be insulted over a beverage. And shoved.”

You frowned, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Someone touched you?”

Spencer nodded. “It wasn’t hard. It was just… unwelcome.”

“That’s it,” you said, scooting back in your seat as if about to go confront the man yourself. “Where is he? I just wanna talk. Maybe throw an appletini in his face.”

Spencer caught your hand quickly, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s okay. Derek handled it.”

You looked at Derek, who gave you a look that said handled might be a mild way of putting it.

“I used my words,” Derek said innocently. “Mostly.”

The table burst into laughter, and the tension slowly unraveled.

But you leaned in close to Spencer, lowering your voice just enough so it was only for him. “Are you okay, baby?”

His eyes met yours instantly, the tension still clinging to the corners of his mouth but softening under your gaze. You could see how hard he was trying to seem fine for everyone else’s sake—keeping his posture stiff, his voice level—but here, with you so close, it cracked a little.

Spencer nodded quickly, that earnest little head bob that told you he was trying to be brave. “I am,” he said, almost like a question he was answering for himself as much as for you. Then, more gently, “Can we go soon?”

“We can leave whenever you want, my love,” you said without hesitation, your hand sliding to rest on his thigh under the table—a quiet, grounding touch, warm and solid.

Unlike the man at the bar, whose shove had left a static buzz of tension under Spencer’s skin, your touch had the opposite effect. His muscles eased almost instantly under your palm like a string had been loosened somewhere deep in his chest.

He exhaled. Really exhaled. Not one of those shallow, polite breaths he gave when people asked how he was—but a real, whole-body sigh.

Spencer reached down to place his hand over yours on his thigh, holding it there like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave him a small smile, one that said always and pressed your thumb against his leg in a slow, gentle circle.

The rest of the table carried on around you—Derek recounting the confrontation to Penelope with far more dramatic flair than necessary, JJ laughing into her drink, Emily shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this night was real—but all you could focus on was Spencer.

His hand in yours. His heartbeat slowing. The way his body leaned subtly closer to you now, like he knew he was safe again.

And soon, the two of you would be walking out of this place together, hand in hand, far from anyone who’d ever make him feel small.

—

You wanted to make tonight special for your man.

Spencer deserves so much. The world and more.

But tonight, you’ll start with a room—his room—lit soft and made sacred with intention.

So you get a little cheesy with it. Romantic. Old-school. The kind of thing people roll their eyes at in movies but secretly dream of. You plan.

You sneak into his apartment while he’s at work—not really sneaking, of course; you have a key, gifted in a quiet moment weeks ago when he pressed it into your hand like he was asking a question he couldn’t voice.

You let yourself in and begin.

First, the bed. His iron-framed, slightly squeaky, endearingly old-fashioned bed that he once admitted, reminded him of something he saw in a museum as a kid. You wind strands of fairy lights around the bars—golden and warm, gentle on the eyes, soft enough to keep the room dreamy but clear. You test them a few times, adjusting one crooked hook, unplugging, and replugging until they fall just right.

Next, come the flower petals—not just roses. You went for color. Texture. Variety.

Soft pinks, fiery oranges, cool lavender, pale yellows. A little chaotic. A little wild. Like your love for him. You scatter them across the sheets like confetti at a celebration. Because it is one.

You set out the unscented candles on his nightstand—small, discreet, and safe. You almost got the kind that crackles like a fire, but you remembered his sensitivity to noise as much as scent.

You want to indulge him, not overwhelm him.

On the foot of the bed, you place the box of condoms and a bottle of lube—both neatly arranged, unassuming, and respectful, but there. Like a promise, not a demand.

It’s not about seduction, not in the usual sense. It’s about care.

It’s about telling him without words, You are safe here. You are wanted. You are adored.

And it’s about readiness. His and yours.

So you sit on the edge of the bed when it’s all finished, looking around the room, heart full and nervous, because love like this—good love—always comes with a bit of fear.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the man you love to walk through the door.

…

Spencer trudged up the steps to his apartment, every muscle in his body heavy with the weight of the day. His satchel strap bit into his shoulder, and the knot in his neck hadn’t loosened since 2:17 p.m. when the case had turned from frustrating to tragic. By the time he reached his front door, he was fully prepared to collapse, microwave something vaguely edible, and not speak to another human being until at least tomorrow.

But then—

He opened the door and paused.

Your shoes. Neatly placed by his coat rack.

You wore the same pair when you went to that used bookstore downtown and got caught in the rain on the walk back. They were the ones with the faint scuff mark near the toe where you tripped trying to race him to the car.

Spencer’s breath caught, and without even realizing it, his hand relaxed on the strap of his satchel.

“Y/N?” he called out, his voice already softer. Hopeful.

“In here, lover,” you sang back, your voice floating out from his bedroom, warm and amused and full of something deliciously mischievous.

Spencer blinked, confused for half a second by the nickname—it wasn’t your usual one. Then he laughed under his breath, his lips twitching into a smile that pushed away the rest of the day’s gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.

He slipped off his shoes, his heart pounding faster now—not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

He had no idea what was waiting for him. Only that you were here. And that was always enough.

He dropped his satchel carefully by the door, toes brushing his shoes into their usual corner, both out of habit and because he knew you liked when things were neat. And something about tonight—something about your voice and the way it lilted with that playful energy—told him this wasn’t a night for messes.

He padded down the hallway slowly, each step easing him further out of his work mindset.

You called him lover.

Lover.

His ears were still warm from it.

The bedroom door was open, but dimly lit from within, and when Spencer stepped into the doorway—his hand grazing the frame like he needed to steady himself—his breath left him in a stunned, hushed exhale.

“Y/N…” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. It was a reverent acknowledgment.

The fairy lights cast golden halos over everything—the iron of the bedframe, the petals scattered in a riot of color over his sheets, your silhouette seated calmly in the middle of it all, serene and radiant and waiting for him.

The room looked like something out of a book he hadn’t read yet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly. Like something dreamed about.

You looked at him with a grin that betrayed your nerves and your excitement all at once. “Hi,” you said, your voice gentler now. “Rough day?”

Spencer’s hand dragged slowly down his chest like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He nodded, blinking at you like you were a mirage. “It… was. But this—” he gestured to the lights, the petals, you— “This is…”

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head fast, walking toward you now like he remembered how to move. “No. No, it’s—perfect.”

You reached for him, and he came willingly, kneeling on the bed beside you, hands cautious as they cupped your face.

“I didn’t want to rush,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the slight furrow between his brows. “But I wanted you to know I’m still ready. If you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and he swallowed hard, his forehead leaning against yours like he needed the contact to hold himself together.

“I’ve never felt more ready for anything,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with awe.

But still, Spencer was nervous.

No, nervous didn’t quite cover it—he was trembling with a complex blend of anticipation, reverence, and a lingering thread of panic that tugged at him even as he stood in front of you, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as you helped him out of his shirt, your touch so gentle, so patient, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Every movement of yours said we’re okay. You’re safe. I want this with you.

And he did want it. He’d said yes with more certainty than he’d ever given anything outside of a statistical theorem. But the reality of it—being here, with you, about to cross that line—was almost too much. He didn’t know where to look. His gaze darted from your eyes to the sheets to the petals and back again, never quite settling.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. Not out of fear but because he wanted so badly to get it right. To be everything you deserved.

You smiled gently, stepping close and running your fingers along his jaw. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone like silk. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know.”

He swallowed hard and gave a jerky little nod. “I know. I just—I’m trying to be respectful. And grounded. And not... combust.”

You giggled, your fingers trailing down to the hem of your own shirt. “Well, if you combust, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t combust,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

And then—without flourish, without teasing—you pulled your shirt up and over your head and tossed it to the floor.

And Spencer—

Spencer stopped functioning.

Whatever careful control he’d been trying to maintain, whatever self-soothing technique he was cycling through in his mind—it all evaporated.

His jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes widened like a Victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time.

You had never seen anyone look more stunned.

And then he said it. Barely above a whisper. Like it was a scientific observation, a sacred discovery, and a prayer, all at once:

“…Boobs.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Yes, Spence. Boobs.”

He blinked, still staring. “Those are… incredible.”

You stepped closer, chest brushing against his, watching as his entire body stiffened, overwhelmed in the most delightful way. “You can touch them, you know.”

“I can?” he asked, eyes snapping to yours with something just shy of awe.

With your guidance, you nodded slowly, and his hands lifted, tentative but eager, warm palms grazing over your skin like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

And that was it.

That was when all of Spencer Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge, IQ points, and graduate degrees—just left the building.

His brain?

Off.

His mouth?

Open.

His dick?

Throbbing.

His hands cupped you with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts or first editions.

And you? You were beaming.

Because seeing Spencer lose his carefully composed mind over you—over something as simple and as yours as your bare chest—was everything you’d hoped for and more.

His hands, once tentative, were now resting firmly on your chest. Spencer had gone quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him—he was a man who could live inside silence with ease—but this was different. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide as he watched his own hands explore you, gently, like you were something fragile and sacred.

He looked up at you with wonder written all over his face, his cheeks flushed, curls hanging slightly over his forehead. “You’re so soft,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid saying it too loud would break the moment.

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest at the way he marveled at you like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew technically, but—” his eyes flicked back down, thumbs brushing slowly over your skin, “—this is better than any description I’ve ever read.”

That made you laugh, and the sound of it seemed to ground him, his shoulders relaxing just enough that you could see him starting to come back to himself. Not the nervous, overthinking version—your Spencer. The one who trusted you. The one who wanted this.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I think I’m in love with your entire body,” he murmured, dazed and breathless. Then blinked. “And yes. I’m okay.”

You leaned forward and kissed him soft and slow, letting your fingers trail down his spine, pressing gently at the small of his back. He gasped a little when your hips shifted, brushing against him where he was already hard and twitching in his boxers.

He whimpered. You felt it rather than heard it—low in his throat, vibrating through his chest.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You moved slowly, tugging his pants and underwear down with care, and he hissed through his teeth when the cool air met his skin. He was already flushed, already leaking at the tip, and so sensitive that when you brushed your hand along him lightly, his whole body arched.

“God,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck. “I—I might not last long. I’m sorry.”

You smiled and turned your face to kiss his temple. “Spence. I want you to feel good. That’s the whole point.”

He nodded, clinging to you, one arm wrapping around your waist as if he needed to anchor himself. You made sure everything was slow. Gentle. The kind of slow that said there’s no rush, that said we have all the time in the world, that said I want you to feel safe.

Every touch was measured—not tentative, not clinical, but intentional. Like music played on vinyl, every movement had its own warm, human hum.

When you reached for the condom, he caught your wrist—not firmly, not to stop you, but just enough to pause you.

“C-can I… can I do it?” he asked, voice so quiet it cracked in the middle. “I—I read about it. I practiced.”

Your heart nearly burst.

You nodded immediately, smiling, letting the packet rest in his palm. “Of course, baby. I love that you did research.”

Spencer exhaled and nodded like you’d given him permission to breathe for the first time in ten minutes. His fingers worked the foil carefully, a little clumsy but deliberate. You saw the concentration on his face, the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he rolled it down himself with both hands, going slow and steady like it was an experiment he’d studied and was now conducting in real-time.

When he finished, he looked up at you, a little pink from embarrassment, a little proud. “I, uh… I read that using both hands gives you better control and minimizes breakage. And I didn’t want to fumble if I waited till the moment—”

You leaned down and kissed him before he could spiral. “You did perfect.”

He flushed deeper, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the Nobel Prize.

Then you reached for the lube.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He watched with fascination—his eyes dark and wide—as you popped the cap and squeezed a small amount onto your fingers.

“Okay?” you asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded slowly, lips slightly parted. “Yeah… yes. Please.”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your slicked hand around him, and he gasped.

Not just a sharp intake of breath, not just a quiet sound—a whole-body gasp. His hips twitched off the bed, his fingers dug into the sheets like he was trying to stay grounded, and his head tipped back into the pillow with a groan that echoed in the quiet room.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

You stroked him once, slow and careful, and his whole body shuddered.

You leaned close to his ear, voice low and teasing but full of love. “Too much?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head furiously. “Not too much. Just… a lot. I’m trying not to—”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “You don’t have to try so hard. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He let go.

Of the nerves. Of the pressure. Of the shame.

He let himself be exactly who he was—soft, flushed, wide-eyed, and open—yours.

And when you finally guided him inside you—after his hands had gripped the sheets, after you’d whispered to each other that you were ready—he gasped so hard you worried for a moment he’d stopped breathing.

His hands found your waist. His head tipped back. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh my God.” Spencer squeaked more than said.

You stilled, letting him adjust, letting both of you adjust. You were warm and tight and Spencer was entirely overwhelmed. You leaned forward to kiss him, your hair brushing his cheek, and he kissed you back like he had nothing else to hold onto.

“Is it okay?” you whispered.

“Better,” he gasped. “So much better.”

You moved gently at first—carefully, deliberately—just shifting your hips enough to feel him deeper, to let your bodies adjust to each other, to the newness of it all. Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glossy as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands gripped your hips—not possessively, but like he was grounding himself. His fingers trembled where they rested against your skin, his thumbs brushing mindless, reverent circles, like he was trying to memorize your shape through touch alone.

You leaned down slightly, brushing your nose against his. “Still okay?” you whispered, watching every little flicker in his expression.

His breath left him in a soft, unsteady sigh. “Yes,” he managed, the word barely audible like it had to travel through his entire body before it reached his mouth. “Yes, but I—God, you feel—”

He trailed off, not because he didn’t want to finish the sentence, but because he couldn’t. Because Spencer Reid—man of thousands of words, probably fluent in countless languages, master of articulation—had gone completely, blissfully, speechless.

You pressed your lips to his jaw, then his cheekbone, and then the corner of his mouth, letting your own breath warm his skin as you began to move again.

Slow. So slow it didn’t even feel like movement at first—just heat, friction, pressure, and presence.

You watched him like it was your full-time job, like nothing else mattered. The way his mouth trembled with every shallow thrust. The way his eyes kept trying to stay on you, but fluttered shut when the sensation overwhelmed him. The way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something far more profound than pleasure.

His entire body was taut with restraint like he was terrified to let go.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes again, wide and fragile and desperate all at once. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

You smiled softly, brushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “Don’t worry about that, baby. We can go again later. Or not. But you don’t need to prove anything, Spence. Just let me take care of you.”

That undid him more than anything. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands dragged up your sides, shaking slightly. He nodded—almost frantically—but his voice was quiet. “Okay. Okay.”

You picked up the pace just slightly, just enough to build tension, just enough to draw a longer moan from his chest. It was low and raw like he hadn’t meant to let it out, but you kissed him before he could shrink away from the sound.

“You sound so good, baby,” you whispered.

That almost did it.

His head tilted back, jaw slack, brows furrowed like the pleasure hurt in the best way. His legs shifted beneath you, trying to find stability in a moment where he felt anything but stable.

And then he said your name.

Not just said it—moaned it.

Like it had been carved into the moment. Like it was the only word he knew.

Your bounces were deliberate, and your thighs were sore. His chest was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. And when your hands slid up his ribs, he reached for you—pulling you closer, needing the anchor of your body against his.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent and murmuring soft encouragements, each one laced with love. And he whimpered your name again, his hands tightening on your back.

“I—I’m close,” he whispered as if confessing a secret. “I—I don’t want to, but I—I can’t stop—”

You kissed the hinge of his jaw, your voice breathless but tender. “Don’t stop. Let go, Spence. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

With one last, desperate gasp—your name caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer—he came. Hard. His whole body curling into you as if the force of it broke something open inside him.

You didn’t move right away. You let him ride it out, breathing him in, one hand combing gently through his hair as his arms wrapped around you, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally blinked up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

You smiled, cupping his face like he was made of something precious. “I know, baby.”

“I… I love you.”

You kissed him, slow and full and deep. “I love you too.”

You collapsed beside him afterward, pressing your forehead to his, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Spencer was panting softly, blinking up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered.

You kissed him once, twice, as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “It’s not always like that,” you said honestly. “But with you? I hoped it would be.”

He turned his head to look at you, his expression open and unguarded, his smile small and unbelievably tender.

“I think I’m gonna love you even more now,” he whispered.

You laughed, soft and full, your chest aching with how much you adored him. “Good. Because I already do.”

Then—just as your breathing began to slow, your heartbeat settling into that warm, post-release haze of intimacy—Spencer suddenly shot up.

Not all the way, not jarringly, but enough that his arms unwrapped from around your back, and he was propping himself on one elbow, brows furrowed in frantic realization. His eyes, still glassy and dazed from everything you'd just shared, snapped open with a kind of panic so sincere it was almost endearing.

“You didn’t finish,” he said, voice high and tight, like he’d just remembered he'd left the oven on.

You blinked, a little startled, then broke into a laugh so warm and affectionate it made your chest ache. “Spence—”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

“No—I mean—you didn’t,” he said again, the urgency in his tone almost comical as he began searching your face, your body, trying to confirm with his eyes what he already knew. “I—I wasn’t paying attention like I should have—I was too in my own head—”

“Baby,” you cut in, reaching up to smooth your hand over his hair, which had gone wild in the most adorable way. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he blurted, his hand already sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t imagine not finishing what he started. “I need to. Please let me—can I?”

You blinked again, caught somewhere between touched and incredibly turned on by how serious he was, how devoted.

“Spencer,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “you just lost your virginity about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, and you gave me the most incredible experience of my life,” he said without missing a beat. “And it would be a travesty if I didn’t do the same for you.”

You bit your lip, utterly undone by the sheer passion in his voice, the way his brow pinched like this was the most urgent mission he’d ever undertaken.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added, now trailing kisses along your shoulder, his hand dipping lower with increasing confidence, “but I’m not sleeping until you finish, too.”

You sighed, already melting beneath his touch. “You really are the sweetest man alive.”

“Statistically speaking,” he mumbled against your skin, “I hope to be the most attentive man alive.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, affection coloring your voice even as your body already started to respond to his touch. “Okay, but Spence—”

The rest of your sentence dissolved into a shaky moan as his fingers, always so long and graceful and careful, pushed gently inside of you with the kind of curious reverence only he could carry. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t practiced—it was Spencer. Learning you. Exploring you. Honoring you.

“Yes?” he asked innocently, blinking up at you like he hadn’t just curled his finger in a way that sent heat shooting up your spine.

You tried to compose yourself, your hands fisting lightly in the sheets. “I don’t always finish—Jesus—even with proper stimulation. Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

Rather than looking disappointed, Spencer tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with interest like you’d just given him an unsolved puzzle. “I read that some women can’t,” he said calmly, his voice low and thoughtful, still curling his finger slowly, watching your body respond with studious awe. “There are a variety of contributing factors—psychological, physiological, environmental. In fact, studies show that up to ten to fifteen percent of women may experience lifelong anorgasmia, meaning they’ve never had an orgasm, while others may experience situational or acquired anorgasmia due to stress, trauma, or hormonal imbalances.”

You were trying to stay focused, truly, but it was hard when he was speaking in that careful, clinical tone—that tone—while his finger was so very much not clinical.

“Some data also suggests,” he continued, utterly unbothered by your increasingly unsteady breathing, “that difficulty reaching climax can be compounded by performance anxiety or pressure, even in safe, loving relationships, which is why it’s especially important to prioritize pleasure over completion and—”

You whined. Loudly.

It tore out of you unbidden, high, and needy, and Spencer’s fingers stilled immediately. His brows lifted in alarm as he looked up at you, concern flickering in his eyes despite the obvious state of bliss you were in.

“Wait—are you okay?” he asked gently, the pads of his fingers softening their pressure but not withdrawing entirely. “Too much? Did I—”

“No, no,” you gasped, one hand flailing out to grab at his wrist again, grounding yourself. “Please don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment, scanning your face like he was recalibrating, and you managed a breathless, half-laugh, half-moan.

“Please keep telling me your nerdy shit,” you begged, tilting your hips ever so slightly toward his hand, needing more of him. “It’s working, baby.”

Spencer’s eyes widened like he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. “It is?”

You nodded emphatically, lips parted, your whole body flushed with need. “So much. Talk to me. Please.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

His mouth quirked into a crooked, bashful smile—adorably smug now that he knew what effect he was having—and he cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a keynote address.

“Well… the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings, which is actually more than the penis,” he murmured, returning his fingers to their earlier rhythm, slow and steady, curling just right, “and it's the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. Studies show that stimulation of this area often requires consistency and pressure—not necessarily penetration—and…”

You moaned again, louder this time, arching under the weight of both his fingers and his voice.

He kept going.

“…and many women experience heightened sensitivity when paired with psychological stimulation, such as auditory input or praise, which might be why you’re reacting so strongly to this right now—your mind and body are responding in tandem, which is actually ideal for maximizing the—”

You cut him off with a cry, your hand slamming down against the mattress beside you, voice breaking on his name as you got closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer's pupils blew wide, lips parted as he watched you unravel beneath him. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly now. “You’re so responsive, you’re—God, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, your voice trembling, high and thin, your body arched against the sheets as your thighs quivered around his wrist. “Please—”

Spencer's breath hitched, the seriousness in your tone lighting something molten in his chest. He didn’t stop—not even a little. His fingers kept their firm, deliberate rhythm, his knuckles glistening in the warm light, his eyes fixed on your face like he was reading your every reaction like scripture.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips parted, breath catching on every syllable. “I won’t. I promise. Just… breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

But then, as if his brain couldn’t help itself—as if the next fact physically needed to be said or he might combust—he added, almost breathless with excitement, “You know, some evolutionary biologists argue that the clitoris evolved as a mechanism to promote pair bonding, not reproduction. Which would mean that your pleasure is literally coded into our species to keep us together—emotionally, and psychologically. It’s one of the few functions that exists solely to reinforce trust and intimacy between partners, which I think is just…”

You whimpered beneath him, your body shuddering. “Spencer—oh my God—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, but with a lopsided, flushed grin. “I can’t help it. You’re letting me touch you, and my brain is like, ‘Now’s the time to dump eight thousand years of evolutionary sexual research.’”

Your laugh cracked open into another moan as his fingers curled again—just right.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” you gasped, hands clenching the sheets. “If you don’t make me come right now while quoting Darwin, I swear to God—”

“Technically it was Sarah Blaffer Hrdy who first—”

“SPENCER.”

“Right. Shutting up. But also not stopping.”

And he didn’t.

Your whole body was shaking, strung tight as a wire, teetering right on the edge—but you couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him. Because Spencer Reid, brilliant and so sweet and currently knuckle-deep inside you, was passionately info-dumping about sexual evolution and female anatomy like he was reading it straight from a journal he co-authored.

And it was the sexiest goddamn thing you’d ever heard.

“—and actually, there’s evidence in Bonobo communities that female orgasm plays a social role in maintaining alliances, which some anthropologists believe might translate to human behavior as well—oh, right there?” he asked mid-sentence, breathcatching as he felt your body clench around his fingers.

You gasped, gripping the sheets as heat coiled tighter in your belly. “Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he grew more focused, his voice dropping lower, rougher now with awe and affection. “You’re so responsive, it’s beautiful. The way your pelvic floor contracts during climax is—statistically—it’s just—God, I could write a thesis on this. You, I mean. This.”

That was it.

Something about the way he said write a thesis on this while his fingers moved in perfect rhythm, while his thumb gently pressed right there, while his wide, eager eyes stayed locked on your face like you were the most precious discovery he’d ever made—

It sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a loud, stuttering cry, your body curling in on itself as Spencer kept his touch steady through the waves of it, like he knew exactly how to help you ride it out. Your orgasm pulsed hard and fast, and he felt it—his jaw dropping, his own breath shaky with awe.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, still stroking you so gently it nearly drove you mad. “You just came while I was talking about Bonobos.”

You nodded weakly, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your lips split in a wrecked smile. “Your brain is so hot, baby.”

Spencer let out a stunned laugh, curling beside you, hand now resting on your thigh as he kissed your temple with reverence.

“I feel like I should give a TED Talk after this,” he whispered, still a little breathless.

You giggled, voice still hoarse. “You just did.”

And somewhere in Spencer’s mind, he filed this away under Data Collection: Partner’s Orgasm Most Frequently Triggered by Academic Enthusiasm.

He was absolutely taking notes.

“See?” Spencer said softly, still flushed, still basking in the wonder of what just happened like he’d accidentally discovered a new element. His fingers brushed over your thigh, gentle and aimless, as he smiled down at you with all the smug pride of a man who had just scientifically rocked your world.

“Told you data is sexy.”

You let out a breathless laugh—a mix of exhaustion and affection—and rolled your head toward him on the pillow. “You have literally never said that before.”

His grin only widened, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tucked one hand under his cheek like he was trying to play coy. “I’ve thought it. Repeatedly. Constantly. For years.”

You gave him a tired huff of a laugh, your hand lazily tracing circles on his chest. “Well… you might want to prepare some new information for next time, then. Maybe a bibliography. A few case studies. Something about… I don’t know—neurochemical bonding during prolonged foreplay?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a Christmas morning of erotically charged research prompts.

“I have articles on that,” he whispered, delighted. “I mean, obviously not for this exact context, but the neurobiological mechanisms of oxytocin release are actually—”

“Next time, baby,” you said, pulling the blanket over both of you with a giggle. “I need to regain function first.”

He chuckled, kissed your shoulder, and snuggled in close, already mentally drafting an annotated lecture for your next round.

Because if Spencer Reid had learned one thing tonight, it was this:

Your pleasure wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust and love… and, just maybe, a full-body response to the words evolutionary psychology.

God help you. You’d created a monster.

And you couldn’t wait for next time.

“Um… darling, I need to shower,” Spencer said suddenly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets, his voice soft but tinged with just enough awkward urgency to make you blink.

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing over at him with a sleepy smile, your cheek still resting against his shoulder.

He hesitated. “I… forgot to take the condom off.”

You sat up so fast the blanket fell from your shoulders. “Ew! Spencer!” you yelped, though your voice was laced with disbelief and laughter more than actual disgust.

He winced, scrunching his nose, clearly embarrassed. “I got distracted by your brain and your body and your orgasm and also your face, so—yes, I forgot.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Sometimes I forget that even though you are a very good, clean, above-average man—you are still, at the end of the day, just a man.”

“I deserve that,” he muttered, already standing and gingerly tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a child who just got scolded for forgetting to put away their science fair volcano.

“You go shower and I’ll go pee,” you called after him, swinging your legs off the bed.

“Peeing after sex is actually good for both men and women,” he called from the bathroom, his voice already returning to its usual scholarly rhythm, “because it helps prevent urinary tract infections by flushing out any bacteria that may have—”

You cut him off with a laugh, padding toward the hallway bathroom. “Save the dirty talk, please,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked grin.

He poked his head around the doorframe, shirtless, blushing, and grinning right back at you. “I’m literally talking about hygiene—”

“And somehow,” you smirked, disappearing into the bathroom, “you’re still turning me on.”

You heard him laugh through the door, the warm sound echoing through your apartment like a promise of many, many more awkwardly perfect nights to come.

—

Spencer had been shot.

The words alone were enough to send the entire team spiraling, every muscle in motion, every decision sharpened by panic laced with practiced urgency. It had happened while Spencer was protecting a victim from the unsub, and then a single, deafening shot that echoed louder than anything else that day.

The bullet hit Spencer in the leg. Not a graze. A hit.

It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, not by a mile—not chest, not head—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to people who had already seen this man bleeding and broken before, carried out on a stretcher but unable to leave the pain behind. The last time he’d been seriously injured in the field, it had left emotional (and physical) scars that never quite healed. So no, it wasn’t just a leg. It was Spencer. It was history repeating itself.

They got him to the hospital as fast as possible, local sirens blaring, uniforms parting like the Red Sea to make way for the gurney. Hotch barked orders with a clenched jaw, Rossi moved like a soldier who’d done this too many times, and JJ never let go of his hand until she physically had to.

Penelope wasn’t on the scene.

She was over two hundred miles away, back at Quantico, surrounded by her banks of monitors and softly glowing LED lights, but it might as well have been a different planet. When the call came in—that Spencer had been shot—her hands froze mid-keystroke. For a second, her entire world narrowed to the sound of Hotch’s voice crackling through her headset and the sharp, clinical way he’d said, “Reid’s been hit.”

She didn’t hear anything after that.

The room around her blurred as her fingers slowly slipped away from the keyboard, her chair spinning a fraction as she pushed back, needing space that didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to this kind of helplessness.

Because this time, she couldn’t run searches or hack into anything that would make a damn bit of difference.

All she could do was wait.

She sat in her chair like the floor had dropped out from beneath her, her fingers laced tightly in her lap—knuckles white, nails pressing into her skin. The BAU bullpen buzzed faintly behind her, voices low and moving fast, but she felt suspended in a slow-motion kind of grief that hadn’t hit its target yet.

Her screens were still lit up with the case. But she didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just stared at the wall, heart thudding in her throat.

And then she remembered you.

You weren’t there. You hadn’t been on this case—you didn’t even know.

The thought nearly made her nauseous.

“I’ll call,” she told them before Hotch could speak. “You’ll be too clinical. Y/N deserves more than that.”

He didn’t argue.

Penelope stepped away from her desk, heart hammering as she pressed your name on her phone and held it to her ear. She expected tears. Gasps. Maybe even anger.

What she got instead… was calm.

“Hey, Penelope,” you answered on the second ring, voice groggy like you’d been napping or just getting in from something mundane.

“Hi, um… okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” she said immediately, pacing the linoleum tiles, hand pressed to her chest. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Spencer’s alive.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” you said quietly, no tremor in your tone. “What happened?”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “He was—uh, he was shot. In the leg. They’re still at the hospital in Detroit. He’s stable. He was awake in the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, but they think the bullet missed the femoral artery. He’s in surgery now.”

“Okay,” you said again, the word even and deliberate. “And he's… alive. Just to confirm.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice cracking. “Yes, he is. I swear to you.”

Penelope waited, unsure what to say next.

You exhaled through the line. “Thank you for calling. Please text me the name of the hospital. I’m getting on a flight.”

Penelope nodded, even though you couldn’t see her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you everything. And if you need me to help book—”

“I’ll take care of it, thank you, Penelope. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“I will,” she promised.

And with that, the call ended, and Penelope stared down at her screen with tears in her eyes, already typing the hospital info into a message, already knowing you’d be on the next flight out.

You were a complete wreck while grabbing your stuff, arms moving too fast, heart pounding harder than your body could keep up with. Your fingers fumbled clumsily over zippers and drawers, not bothering to fold anything, not checking the weather, not even thinking about what you might need once you got there.

There.

Detroit.

Where Spencer was.

Dating Spencer had taught you many things—how to listen differently, be patient in silence, and decode the pauses between his words—but it had also taught you how to prepare. You had a go bag because of him. A real one. The kind people made fun of on TV, but the kind you knew might be the difference between being there when it mattered or showing up too late.

And you weren’t going to be late.

By the time you were out the door and in the car, you were already on the phone with the airport. You didn’t care about the airline. You didn’t care about the seat.

It was mildly irrational. Definitely not budget-friendly. But you couldn’t help it.

You weren’t dating Spencer when he was kidnapped. You hadn’t even met him yet. But you knew. You knew. Not all of it—never all of it—but you knew enough. Enough to make your stomach turn with what-ifs. Enough to know that field injuries like this weren’t just about bullets and blood loss. They were about fear. Trauma. Flashbacks. They were about the past coming back up through the cracks.

You didn’t know what state you were going to find him in.

And that’s what made your hands shake.

The flight felt like forever, even though you got lucky with timing and minimal delays. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drank anything. You hadn’t spoken to anyone except for a rushed text to Penelope saying boarding now.

It wasn’t until the plane reached altitude—until the jolt of ascent settled into the hum of flight and the flight attendant started her quiet aisle shuffle—that you felt like you could breathe.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

You leaned back into your seat, closing your eyes, the ache of your worry pulling behind your ribs like it had settled there for good. You hoped—God, you hoped—that maybe sleep would find you.

And if it did, you hoped your dreams would be filled with happy Spencer. The version of him who laughed too hard at his own obscure jokes. The one who sipped his coffee with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t hold on tight. The one who woke you up by reading to you.

Not the one bleeding in an ambulance. Not the one in a hospital gown.

Just him. Just yours.

…

JJ was sitting with Spencer, perched on the small plastic chair beside his hospital bed, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing softly as she kept the mood light, steady—talking about whatever came to mind. She was recounting something Penelope had said on the phone earlier, something about a new case file font she’d tried out just to annoy Hotch, and though Spencer’s laugh was more of a soft exhale, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was tired, yes, pale and sore and dressed in one of those thin, awful gowns—but he was okay.

The surgery had gone well. It was a clean removal with minimal damage. It would take time to recover, but physically, he’d be fine.

Still, the team wasn’t taking any chances. They were rotating in and out of the room, never leaving him alone—not just for his safety, but for his comfort. For the emotional fallout that might come later. No one said it aloud, but they all remembered what happened the last time Spencer returned from a hospital bed.

Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Derek stood up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking up every time the elevator dinged. When he spotted you—wrinkled from travel, hair messy, eyes burning with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation—he moved fast.

“Hey,” he said, walking quickly toward you.

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Derek interrupted gently, placing both hands on your shoulders as if to hold you up and reassure you simultaneously. “He’s really okay. Out of surgery, awake. JJ’s in there with him now. He’s a little loopy, but he’s fine.”

For the first time since Penelope’s call, your lungs actually filled. Not just shallow breaths or half inhalations, but real, full air. You closed your eyes briefly and nodded, a shaky sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaping your throat.

Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Derek, hugging him tight—tighter than he expected, but he didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He rubbed your back once, steady, and said, “He’s been asking about you.”

You pulled away, nodded again, and then took off, your footsteps fast and sure down the hallway as you followed Derek’s directions toward Spencer’s room.

As you pushed the door open, your fingers trembling just slightly around the handle, you couldn't help yourself. Even with your heart hammering, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting your nose, and the distant beep of monitors echoing down the hall, your instinct kicked in.

“Knock knock,” you called softly into the room, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as your chest swelled with emotion.

You said it automatically now, like muscle memory. Because you knew it bothered him.

“Why do you have to say it when you’re already doing it?” he’d asked you once, eyebrows knit in frustration, voice laced with genuine confusion.

And you had just grinned at him with all the smug delight of someone discovering the easiest way to get under a person’s skin. Ever since it has become your thing.

Now, standing in the doorway of a bright white hospital room that smelled too clean and looked too sharp, the words felt softer than usual. They were familiar, a tether to normalcy.

JJ was the first thing you saw—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes wide, already filled with a deep, quiet sympathy that made your stomach tighten all over again. She rose from her seat beside the bed, stepping back gently, making space for you without saying a word.

And then you looked at him.

Spencer.

Awake. Propped up against thin pillows in an oversized gown, his blanket drawn up to his waist. His curls were a little flattened, his face pale, but his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were fixed on you.

His expression shifted the moment your eyes met. Not relief, not even joy—fear.

Like he didn’t know what you were going to say. Like he was preparing for disappointment or maybe even anger. Like a part of him still hadn’t entirely accepted that you came. That you would always come.

You stepped inside without thinking, letting the door swing slowly shut behind you.

“Hey there, handsome,” you said with a grin, your voice all honey and lightness, doing everything in your power to wrap him in reassurance from the second you stepped inside. You needed him to see it in your face—it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

“Hi,” Spencer replied, smiling back, but the expression was small, a little hesitant like he still wasn’t sure he deserved your warmth just yet. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket, and you could see it all—every flicker of worry, every ounce of vulnerability behind those eyes.

You didn’t let it linger. You walked fully into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you, and stopped at the foot of his bed. Then, very dramatically, you planted both hands on your hips and gave him your best mock-disappointed look, brows drawn, chin tilted.

“Now, Spencer,” you began sternly, “what are we not supposed to do?”

His brows furrowed immediately in confusion, and he looked to JJ for help, who shrugged back at him like don’t look at me.

You huffed, all theatrical sigh and exaggerated disappointment, before prompting him with the first few syllables: “Not… get… sh—”

“Not get shot,” he said quickly, nodding solemnly like a child admitting to having snuck a cookie. His lips twitched upward, and the sparkle in his eyes was back, even if just faintly.

“Exactly,” you said, stepping closer now. “And what did you do, Spencer?”

“I got shot,” he said, shrugging slightly, finally getting into the silliness of your game but still watching your face like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in trouble or not.

“You got shot,” you repeated with a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” you added as you perched gently on the edge of the bed, “it’s probably for the best that it missed any major organs… or your chest… or your head…”

“Probably,” Spencer giggled, his voice light for the first time all day, the sound bubbling up like it surprised even him.

JJ let out a breath she’d been holding, smiling quietly as she excused herself from the room, giving you both the privacy you needed.

But you barely noticed. All your focus was on him—his smile, his soft laugh, the way his shoulders started to drop from around his ears, the tension finally easing under your presence.

You reached up gently, your fingers trailing over the small, scattered freckles on his cheek—the ones you always traced when you were trying to calm yourself as much as him. He leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again to meet yours.

“How’s your pain?” you asked softly, voice low and even.

“Tolerable,” he replied, pressing his lips together tightly in that way that told you it wasn’t exactly tolerable but that he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You tilted your head just a little. “Did you let them give you anything?”

“Only to put me under,” he said, shifting uncomfortably like he expected a lecture.

“Understood,” you nodded, not pushing, already moving on to keep him from feeling like he had to defend himself. “When can you bathe?”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked, genuinely scandalized, like you’d just called him unhygienic in front of a live audience.

“No…” you said carefully.

Spencer groaned, head falling back against the pillow, a dramatic whine escaping him. “Ughhh.”

“It’s not that, baby,” you assured him quickly, your hand stroking gently over his curls as you leaned closer, your smile widening. “Your curls are just a bit greasy, and I was going to offer to wash them for you…”

His groan cut off immediately.

“Oh,” he said. Quietly. Sheepishly. His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink.

“Yeah,” you grinned, lowering your voice to something teasing. “You know I like taking care of you, right?”

He blinked at you, lips twitching up. “…Even when I stink?”

You squinted at him playfully, pulling back a few inches like you had to really think about it. “Hmm… so every morning then?”

“Y/N!” Spencer gasped, completely betrayed, his mouth hanging open as if you’d just published a scientific paper slandering his good name.

“I’m just saying!” you defended, raising both hands in a mock surrender. “You’re a sweaty sleeper, babe. I didn’t invent thermoregulation.”

He narrowed his eyes at you; lower lip puffed out in an almost comically perfect pout. “You’re supposed to be comforting me in my time of need, and instead, you’re making fun of me for bodily functions I can’t control.”

“Not quite,” you grinned, settling back in closer. “If I were going to make fun of you for bodily functions you can’t control, I’d bring up how often you prematur—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Spencer’s hand darted up and cupped your cheek, and in a split second, he pulled you into a kiss—not aggressive, but firm enough to make it very clear that this was an intervention.

He kissed you like it had been years instead of days. Like the pain, the fear, the sterile room, none of it mattered anymore because you were here, and he was still breathing, and this—your lips on his, the way your breath caught slightly in surprise—was the only thing that had felt real all day.

And yes, part of it was to shut you up. But mostly, it was because he’d been aching to kiss you since the moment he walked out of your apartment and onto that case.

So he did.

And you let him.

Until finally, you pulled back just slightly, your forehead still pressed to his.

“Okay,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You’re forgiven for getting shot.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re forgiven for being the worst.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. Your lips barely moved as you mumbled against his mouth, “You need to brush your teeth.”

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, blinking in slow treachery.

“I hate you,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile.

You beamed. “That’s fair.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping his head back against the pillow like you’d wounded him more than the bullet. “Shot in the leg, emotionally abused by my girlfriend, and now I’m being accused of poor hygiene… what a week.”

You tucked yourself gently under his arm, careful of the IV and monitor wires, laying your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll still love you. Even if your breath could melt glass.”

“You’re lucky I can’t chase you right now.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all, stinky.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I really am.”

…

Once Spencer had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, his hand still loosely curled around yours atop the blanket, you waited a minute longer—just to be sure. You brushed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, letting the steady beep of the monitor reassure you that he was still right there.

When you were sure he was out, you stood up carefully, placing his hand down with the kind of tender precision you only ever used on him, and slipped quietly from the room.

You found the rest of the team just outside in the family waiting area, spread out across plastic chairs and vending machines, all looking somewhere between emotionally drained and physically wrecked. JJ was the first to notice you, sitting forward slightly when she saw the door shut behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly, and several shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ve got him. You all can go. Seriously. Get some rest. I’ll stay and fly back with him when he’s cleared for travel.”

Rossi nodded first, reassuringly touching your shoulder as he passed. Derek gave you a tired smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Emily offered you her water bottle and a “Call us if you need anything.” One by one, they all filed out, grateful and exhausted.

JJ lingered.

She stood beside you for a moment, her arms folded loosely, her expression thoughtful. She looked at the door to Spencer’s room, then back to you.

“How are you so calm?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

JJ’s gaze softened, but she looked genuinely curious. “You just… even when you first walked in there, you were joking around. Will would’ve been crying the second he saw me like that.”

You smiled a little at that, but it wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, knowing. A little sad.

You shrugged. “Spencer would only feel worse if he knew I was scared.”

JJ tilted her head, watching you carefully.

“He knows I’m worried,” you continued, your voice softening, “he knows I care. But taking his mind off the bad things for a bit… it always seems to bring him back to me.” You let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t need my fear. He needs my peace.”

JJ nodded slowly, her eyes glistening just slightly as she looked at you—not just as someone Spencer loved, but someone who understood him, down to the very thread.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, I try to be,” you replied. Then, with a tired smile, “Please go home and rest, JJ. We’re okay.”

And you meant it. Even if your hands were still shaking. Even if you knew the actual processing would hit you later. For now, Spencer was sleeping. He was safe. And you’d be the calm. For both of you.

—

You stood up abruptly from where you were hunched over your laptop, notes, and reference books spread out like an academic battlefield. Spencer looked up from where he was quietly reading across from you, a slight crease in his brow as your chair scraped back a little too fast.

“Spencer.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he was immediately attentive. “Yes?”

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and tried—tried—to channel some confidence, even as you felt your face go warm. “I think this is going to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we… break a certain barrier in our relationship due to… pressing matters.”

Spencer closed his book slowly. “Okay…” he said cautiously, clearly preparing himself for anything from an emotional confession to a breakup to a shared trauma.

“I need to poop.”

There was a beat of silence. Just a breath, just a blink.

And then Spencer burst out laughing.

You gasped in protest. “Spencer!”

He tried to hold it in; he really did, but his shoulders shook as he pressed his hand to his mouth. “Darling,” he said through chuckles, “that is a perfectly normal and healthy bodily function without which you would die. I hardly think it’s uncomfortable to know you poop. I do, too. I wish you wouldn’t find it so embarrassing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughter muffled through your fingers. “Can you just like, put your headphones in please?”

Spencer paused, then blinked. “Oh! Yes,” he said, like he’d just solved a logic problem. He reached over for his headphones with a smile so sweet it made your stomach flip, even now.

As you shuffled toward the bathroom, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of shame and dignity combined, he called after you with barely concealed amusement:

“Fan setting five!”

You groaned again—louder this time—but it was laced with affection and appreciation and the kind of mortification that only happens when you’re fully, disgustingly in love.

Behind you, Spencer chuckled softly to himself and returned to his book, utterly unfazed.

—

Healed and walking without a cane, Spencer Reid finds himself craving something beyond his lonely apartment after a long, taxing case. The case had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The images were still fresh in his mind, too vivid and raw to shake off. He had returned to the BAU with the team, but instead of heading home to his own place, something—perhaps instinct or something deeper he didn’t quite have words for—drew him elsewhere.

He needed comfort. Not in the abstract sense but in the form of something familiar, warm, grounding. And his thoughts turned to you.

Maybe it was how you listened without interruption or how your presence made his pulse slow to something bearable. Maybe it was the memory of your hands brushing through his hair the last time he confessed a hard case to you or how you didn’t try to fix things; you just made space for him to feel. Whatever the reason, he found himself heading to your apartment without really making the decision to do so—it was simply where he needed to be.

You hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, you were fast asleep due to the late hour of the night. Usually, he wasn’t someone you ever needed to prepare for. He came as he was, and you let him.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know yet—was how tightly he was holding himself together just outside your door. He hadn't texted or called ahead. Part of him wanted to, part of him worried it wasn’t fair just to show up. But the rest of him, the exhausted, rattled, overwhelmed part of him, hoped—needed—you to be there.

And so, now, he stands on the other side of your apartment door.

He hasn’t opened it with his key yet.

He hasn’t gathered the strength.

But he’s there.

Moments from walking through it.

Moments from letting everything he's been holding in finally fall apart in the one place he thinks he might be able to survive doing so—with you.

You’re typically a deep sleeper. The kind who can sleep through a thunderstorm, a neighbor’s dog barking, or even Spencer fidgeting beside you in the middle of the night when his brain just won’t let him rest. You’ve slept through him flipping through pages at 2 a.m., through him pacing quietly down the hallway while whispering to himself about theories and timelines. You’ve even managed to sleep through a bout of him reorganizing your bookshelf once—though, to be fair, you had threatened him with death afterward.

But when you are woken up, it’s never graceful. It’s never subtle. Your body feels it before your brain catches up, dragging you into the gray haze of almost consciousness with a heavy reluctance that makes every movement around you feel like a personal offense.

So, when Spencer walks through the door sometime past midnight, utterly wrung out from whatever horrors the case held, he’s doing his very best to be quiet. His best, which is, as you’ve come to know, not quite good enough.

The first offense is the keys. Instead of placing them down gently on the little wooden table, you bought specifically for this purpose—the one that lives inches from the door and makes not a sound when used properly—he goes for the hooks. Of course, he does. And the second the metal keyring clatters against the other keys already hanging there, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of cutlery in your skull.

You stir beneath the covers, brows knitting without opening your eyes.

Then it’s the lock. Not just the turn of the deadbolt, which would have been fine, but the chain. He slides the latch into place with the kind of finality that belongs more to vaults or prison cells, and your face scrunches tighter as a small, annoyed breath escapes you.

He doesn't hear it.

Next, he hangs his coat—and his satchel. Not one. Not the other. Both. They swing and tap against the wall and the hooks with a dull thud and a slight clang of hardware, as if he’s installing wind chimes instead of shedding layers.

You shift in bed, blinking against the dark, still too sleep-heavy to sit up but now fully aware that he's home.

And then—then—he kneels to untie his shoes.

He can’t just kick them off. Oh no. He has to bend, untie, straighten, and remove each shoe like he’s unwrapping a rare artifact. It takes forever. Or maybe only thirty seconds. But it feels like an eternity in your freshly awoken, vaguely grumpy haze.

You lie there, motionless except for the long exhale that slips from your lips, face buried into the pillow as your fingers curl beneath your cheek.

And from the other room, completely unaware that you’re already awake—and annoyed—you hear Spencer sigh. A quiet, heavy, weary sound. The kind of sound that has less to do with your frustration and more to do with the weight he’s brought in with him.

And just like that, your irritation flickers and begins to dissolve.

Because it’s Spencer. And if he’s doing a bad job at being quiet, it’s only because he’s holding himself together by threads.

Just as you begin to drift back toward something like rest, eyes fluttering shut again, there’s another sound—sharp, hollow, metallic.

Clang.

Your eyelids fly back open, face pressed flat into the pillow as you exhale sharply through your nose, teeth gently clenching.

That was the soap bottle. It had to be. You know that sound. It’s the specific, hollow bop of the plastic pump top smacking against the side of the sink—a sound that could only happen if someone, say, reached over a bit too carelessly and knocked it over with the back of their hand.

You know because you’ve done it yourself before, and you know because Spencer—you love him—does it every single time he washes his hands in your kitchen.

Which, naturally, is what he’s doing now. Of course, he is. Even in the dead of night, with half his mind fogged over and weighed down by a brutal case, he’s still Spencer—still meticulous, still compulsive, still so anchored to his rituals that he has to scrub the case off his skin before he can do anything else.

You listen to the sound of the faucet running muted splashes as he scrubs. Then, a quiet squeak squeak squeak from the way the old tap vibrates when it’s twisted shut. Silence again—for all of two seconds.

Then you hear the cabinet door open and the soft clink of glass—he’s getting a cup, which you expect. You anticipate it. You brace for it.

But your patience wasn’t strong enough to brace for the next thing.

The dishwasher.

That damn dishwasher.

It’s old. Loud. Temperamental. You’ve both talked about replacing it at least a dozen times, but somehow, it still hangs on, groaning through each cycle like a cranky elderly relative refusing to retire. Even just opening the door sounds like someone’s dragging furniture across a hardwood floor.

So when Spencer, dear, considerate, detail-oriented Spencer, finishes his glass of water and—rather than setting it on the counter or even tucking it into the sink like a normal sleep-deprived human—opens the dishwasher to place it inside?

You groan.

Out loud this time. A soft, pained, muffled groan into your pillow.

“Are you fucking serious, Spencer?” you mutter, barely audible, eyes still closed but now tinged with the kind of sleepy irritation only reserved for people you trust enough to hate momentarily.

He still hasn’t realized you’re awake. You know, because he hasn’t apologized yet. And Spencer always apologizes when he knows he's woken you up.

So you wait. Eyes closed. Limbs heavy. Ears sharp and honed like some kind of war veteran for the next sound he might make, wondering if he’s going to open the fridge for no reason or maybe alphabetize your spice rack.

Because at this rate, you wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time Spencer finally makes it to the bedroom—after clanging through the kitchen like a one-man orchestra, after the soap bottle debacle, after summoning the ghost of your dishwasher—you’re fuming. Not in a rageful, righteous kind of way, but in the profoundly exhausted, silently seething way that only someone who was sound asleep fifteen minutes ago and is now wide awake can truly understand. Every muscle in your body aches for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, your bones practically begging to sink back into the mattress, curled up against the person responsible for your current irritation.

You’re ready to cuddle your boyfriend. Feel his arms slip around your body, press your face into the soft cotton of whatever shirt he’ll wear, and fall back asleep surrounded by warmth and familiarity. That’s what you want.

But no.

Apparently, Spencer has other plans.

You hear the gentle sound of movement as he approaches. And for a blissful moment, you think maybe he’s finally going to settle. Finally, he’s going to be still.

And then—click.

A golden halo of light floods the room, piercing against your closed eyelids.

He turned on the fucking lamp.

“Spencer!” you groan, your voice thick with the weight of sleep and disbelief. You don’t even lift your head; just bury your face deeper into the pillow like maybe if you suffocate yourself fast enough, you’ll get some peace.

You hear a sharp inhale from across the bed, followed by the scrambling guilt in his voice as he fumbles to switch the lamp back off. “Oh—I’m so sorry, my love,” he blurts out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other like a toppled stack of books. You can practically hear the wince in his voice. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You shot him a deathly glare, your eyes narrow and glittering with exhaustion-fueled fury, your cheek still pressed into the pillow.

“And you thought the lamp wouldn’t wake me up?” you snapped, voice muffled but cutting.

Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—soft, sheepish, and entirely too amused for someone who had just committed a domestic war crime.

“Angel, I’ve turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds, and you slept through it,” he said with an unapologetic shrug, pulling off his cardigan like this was a perfectly rational argument.

You only rolled your eyes, dragging the covers over your shoulder and throwing your head back down dramatically, your silent message clear: you were Done.

But Spencer wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

Now came the process of taking off his clothing items one by one—meticulous as ever—folding them neatly and placing them in a precise little pile on your dresser. Shirt, pants, socks. Each with a pause in between, as though he were entering a meditative state instead of preparing for bed at an ungodly hour.

You thought he would be done. He should have been done.

But no.

“Spence, baby, please come to bed,” you whined, voice thick and laced with misery so intense it bordered on theatrical.

“I can’t just yet, need to shower. I’ve been in the jet.”

You groaned again, long and guttural. “I don’t care!”

He froze in place, hands halfway to his waistband, and you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. That neurotic, overtired, rule-following brain of his was calculating, weighing the comfort of a hot shower against the wrath of his barely conscious girlfriend.

Finally, you sighed. “Whatever. Just—be fast. And don’t get your hair wet.”

Spencer opened his mouth like he was about to protest—something about hygiene or flight germs or possibly the sanctity of scalp cleanliness—but one look at your face told him to cut his losses.

By the time he got out of the shower, the bathroom door creaking open quietly, towel slung low on his hips, and found spare clothes in the second drawer of your dresser (the one you'd unofficially reserved for him), you had already drifted back to sleep.

He moved gently, slipping on an old T-shirt and sweats and carefully easing into bed beside you. He tried to be careful, tried to match your breathing, tried not to jostle the mattress too much. He scooted behind you, winding an arm around your body, tucking his body against yours like a perfect puzzle piece.

Even in your sleep, you instinctively nudged closer, your head coming to rest on his chest, your body curving against his. It should’ve been a perfect moment.

But then—

“Did you sanitize?”

Your voice was slurred and drowsy but suspicious. Too suspicious.

Spencer stayed quiet.

He sanitized your fucking shower like he didn’t trust you to keep it clean yourself.

“I can’t—” you sighed, pulling away. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

And just like that, your warmth disappeared, taking with it the fleeting peace Spencer had hoped to find.

Spencer let out the softest, most pitiful exhale—half sigh, half whimper—as you peeled yourself away from his hold. The sheets rustled with protest as you threw them off your legs in a dramatic flourish that would've been funny if it weren't for the sheer, bone-deep fatigue clinging to both of you. You didn’t even open your eyes all the way. You didn’t need to. Your body was moving on instinct now, led by principle and pride.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching helplessly as you dragged your sleepy form out of the bed with the kind of slow, exaggerated misery that only someone who’d just started to fall back into a good sleep could produce. Your blanket trailed behind you, caught on your foot, and when you reached down to yank it free, you muttered something under your breath that sounded like a curse aimed squarely at him.

Spencer stayed frozen, guilt draped over his shoulders like another weighted blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he finally said, his voice hushed but urgent, like he knew if he raised it even a little, you'd bolt. “Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

You were already halfway to the door. “So is you climbing into bed an unsanitized like a reckless public health risk,” you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled forward.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry I cleaned your shower, I just—you know I can’t help it.”

You sighed, hard and sharp through your nose, arms crossed tightly over your chest as though holding yourself together. “We can have this argument tomorrow,” you muttered, voice strained. “I’m too tired right now.”

Spencer nodded slowly, guilt still weighing down his features. “So come back to bed,” he pleaded, soft and hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to ask.

“No. I’m mad at you,” you huffed, your tone petulant but cracking at the edges. You turned your face slightly away from him as if even looking at him would break the last thread of your patience.

There was a beat of silence, tense and stretched. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I can just go home then… I’ll come over tomorrow.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer emotional mess of being woken up, being irritated, feeling like your effort and your space weren’t enough for the person you love—all of it slammed into you at once no warning. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him to do whatever he wanted—but instead, all that came out was a strangled, breathless sob.

Your shoulders shook as the tears slipped down, hot and fast. The kind of crying that happens when you’ve held it in too long when your chest tightens up and your throat closes, and suddenly you’re not just crying about one thing, but everything.

Spencer immediately scrambled out of bed, panic flooding his features. “Hey—hey, no, please don’t cry,” he said in a rush, crossing the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want to be here—God, please don’t cry—”

He reached for you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if you’d swat him away. “I’m such an idiot,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face, helpless. “You clean your place better than I do mine, I just—after cases, I get weird, and I didn’t want to bring the jet germs into your space, and I overthought it and—”

You just kept crying. Silent now, but still unraveling.

“I love your shower,” he said desperately. “I love you. I want to be here. Please don’t make me go.”

Your face crumpled even more. You didn’t have the energy to yell. Didn’t have the willpower to keep storming off.

“I just wanted to sleep next to you,” you whispered through the tears, voice tiny and cracked. “That’s all I wanted.”

Spencer’s heart broke right there in his chest.

“Okay,” he said immediately, wrapping his arms around you. “Okay. I’ve got you. Come here. We’ll go to bed. No more disturbances. Just sleep. You and me.”

And this time, when he guided you back to the bed, you let him.

Well—for a second.

“Wait.”

Spencer froze mid-step, one arm still around you, the other half-lifting the blanket. He held his breath like the wrong response might send you spiraling again.

“Yes, baby?” he asked, soft and cautious.

You sniffled, then let out the tiniest, soggiest giggle through your still-wobbly breath. “I need to blow my nose now.”

He blinked. Then smiled, wide and helpless, pure affection melting across his features.

“Okay,” he said, already turning to grab the tissue box from your nightstand like it was the most urgent task he’d ever been assigned. “Emergency tissue protocol engaged.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound breaking through the remnants of your tears like sunlight through clouds. “Cover your ears; I’m going into the bathroom.”

Spencer furrowed his brows, confused but obedient. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to hear me!” you called over your shoulder as you hurried toward the bathroom, tissue clutched in hand like a weapon.

He blinked after you, then shrugged, deadpan: “...I’ve had worse fluids of yours on me—”

“EW!” you yelped from inside the bathroom, your voice muffled by the door you slammed behind you. “Why would you say that?! You absolute menace!”

Spencer chuckled to himself, crawling back into bed and tucking the blankets around him with a smug grin. “I was just saying,” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well you could still hear him. “Boundaries seem a little inconsistent.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound somewhere between scandalized and exhausted. “You’re so lucky I love you,” you shouted through a noseful of tissues. “If we were six months earlier into this relationship, I’d be drafting the breakup text right now.”

Spencer smiled, stretching out in the bed with his hands folded under his head like the little shit he absolutely was. “You’d never,” he called back, sing-songy and far too comfortable. “You’re too emotionally invested.”

You flung the door open so hard it could have bounced off the stopper. “Keep talking, Doctor Reid, and I will send you home just to prove a point.”

He sat up, eyes wide, all mock innocence. “I’m silent. I’m asleep. I don’t even exist. I’m vapor.” He dove under the covers in a ridiculous display of peacekeeping, burrowing himself down to the chin and blinking up at you like a chastised golden retriever.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again. Not just a giggle this time, but an actual, warm laugh that curled in your chest.

You trudged back to bed, dramatically wiping your nose one last time before dropping the tissues in the little wastebasket by the nightstand. “You’re annoying,” you said as you climbed in.

“And yet, you let me stay.” He opened his arms wide, a smug little smile creeping in again. “Incredible.”

You glared at him but curled into his side anyway, letting your head rest on his chest with a huffy sigh.

“I cleaned your shower because I’m obsessive-compulsive and could only see in germs,” he mumbled into your hair. “Not because I think you’re dirty.”

“I know,” you whispered, already half-asleep. “But next time? Just… don’t make it sound like I live in filth.”

“I’d never.”

“You basically did.”

Spencer kissed your forehead. “You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“You’re literally falling asleep on me right now.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tightened his arms around you, and finally, you both fell asleep this time.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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science-hoes · 1 month ago

Text

Guilty Pleasure

Jack Abbot x Reader

Warnings: SMUT 18+, arm riding, biting, deepthroating fingers, language, filth, the worms in my brain told me to write this

Jack Abbot Masterlist 💕

——

Your boyfriend stared at you, mouth agape at your request. His arms were crossed over his chest, forearms flexing as he unconsciously clenched and unclenched his fists. The low glow of the lamp in his bedroom was the only reason he could see that you were actually serious. “You…what?“ He questioned.

Usually, you knew better than to avoid Jack’s gaze. But after a 12 hour shift, finally in the comfort of his home in the early morning, you unashamedly stared at your guilty pleasure. Freckled muscles threatening to bust through the fabric of his well-fitted black t-shirt. But who could blame you?

Every shift, you had to stare at those arms. Fuck, they stared at you. They were so big, they could have their own zip code. And they distracted you. The way Jack worked diligently with his hands on a patient, tendons of his forearms rolling with each flexion. The way his arms corded with bulging veins after helping move a patient or heavy equipment. The way his beefy hands guided yours during a procedure, making yours look dainty and frail. It sure made it difficult to concentrate during the pre-shift huddle, the way your boyfriend loved to move his hands as he spoke, flashing those gorgeous arms in all their glory.

“I want to bite your arms.” You repeated for him.

Jack looked down to his arms, trying to figure out what the fuck you were seeing. “You know, I’m into whatever you want, love. But cannibalism?” He teased, flicking his whiskey eyes up to you, craning his neck like a turtle, that silly move he does when he’s questioning someone.

You rolled your eyes, closing the distance between you. You unwound his arms and massaged one of his aching wrists. “Oh, please. I don’t want Kuru.” You joked.

Jack shook his head, but smiled nonetheless. “Good girl. You’ll ace that board exam if they ever ask about spongiform encephalopathies.” He continued to mock.

You jabbed him in the sides with wiggling fingers, and he laughed. “Don’t change the subject. I want your arms.” You redirected.

Jack just continued to stare at you with bewildered amusement. “Why do you like my arms?” He questioned.

You shrugged, manhandling the arm you held, examining it like an ancient artifact. Your hands dwarfed in comparison to his engorged muscles. “They’re so sexy. They’re so…big.”

He huffed a laugh. “So? Your boobs are big, and I don’t wanna…” He trailed off as he recalled the previous night and how long he spent suckling at your breasts. “Oh, I guess I get it.” He conceded.

You smirked, kneading your fingertips into his bicep. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Jack was about to come up with another witty response, but you pushed him back toward the bed, making quick work of removing his black t-shirt. The dominance that he allowed you to hold in that moment made him chuckle. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, letting you stand in between them. His fingers slid under your scrub top, ghosting over the skin of your waist.

“You want something, doll?” His voice was graveled with sleep but there was a twinkle of excitement in his eyes.

You pulled your scrub top over your head, tossing it over to where his shirt ended up. “Can I ride your arms?” You asked.

Jack’s lip twitched, the foreign request sending a chill through his body. “What?”

You pulled the drawstring of your scrub pants and let them pool at your ankles, stepping out of them. “Can I ride your arms?” You repeated, firmly this time.

He still wouldn’t let up, and his lip began to deepen at the sides, dimples morphing onto his face. “I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

You narrowed your eyes, but they were no match for his steadfast stare that bore through you with desire. “Can I drag my pussy across your fucking massive arms?” You gritted through clenched teeth, blushing at the vulgar words leaving your mouth.

A low rumble left his chest as he began to lean back on the bed. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He praised. “All yours, kid. Have at it.”

You crawled onto the bed, perching beside him on your knees, and lowering your head to his arm. You pressed a single, innocent kiss against the freckles of his bicep, and you could’ve sworn those freckles kissed you back as his muscles pulsed underneath your chapped lips. Your mouth began to open more as you moved along his bicep, trailblazing down to his forearm, tongue dragging in tow.

Jack studied the way you worshiped his limb, curiosity peaking when your teeth began to graze against his flesh with your kisses. The first sensation of your hardened enamel sent a jolt of electricity through his entire arm causing his shoulder to spasm. You flicked your eyes up to him and smirked.

“You like that, huh?” You purred against his skin.

The muscles in his neck strained as he swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, kid.” He muttered, reaching a hand to his crotch to palm away some new pressure. “But it ain’t bad.”

You smirked and continued your expedition. The sun-worn skin against your tongue and teeth stretched just slightly as you licked a stripe down his forearm, from elbow crease to wrist. A shudder escaped his nose, and he bit the inside of his cheek to maintain his composure. As you worked your way up again with sloppy kisses, you opened your eyes just enough to see the indent of the long and short head bicep muscles. You dragged your tongue to massage the just-noticeable valley, mouth watering far too much. Your drool dripped down his upper arm, down to his elbow.

“Jesus Christ.” Jack mumbled, eyes riveted on your mouth. “Getting what you need, baby girl?”

His voice was sweet but too condescending. In retaliation, you bit down hard on the chunk of muscle, digging your teeth into his flesh. Not enough to break skin, but enough to satisfy your primal appetite. Jack let out a startled but aroused groan at the sensation. The muscles flexed in your jaws, writhing under your tongue. You sucked on the skin, a last attempt to leave a mark, before releasing his arm from your mouth.

Teeth marks indented in his bicep, claiming it as yours as the area surrounding it began to swell into a warm magenta. You admired your work and pressed a soothing kiss against your mark.

“You like marking me up?” Jack mumbled through dazed eyes. “Want people to know I belong to someone?”

You smirked before taking another chomp at his muscles, this time on the forearm. You sucked greedily at the cephalic vein that was permanently visible through his skin, always taunting you when he wore short sleeves. Your tongue lapped at the skin that grew saltier by the second with sweat, indulging in the savory taste.

“If you leave too many bruises, people will ask questions.” He warned, still palming himself through his scrub bottoms. “And I promise, I will mark you tenfold what you leave on me.”

You just hummed in acknowledgement to his threat before releasing the patch of skin, secretly hoping that he would hold true to that promise. The blotch grew darker as it adjusted to open air again, and you smiled with content. But then something caught your eye. The way his fingers twitched slightly, curling down to his palm as his arm rested on the bed. Those fingers spent a lot of time in your pussy, but not enough time in your mouth. That needed to be fixed.

You delicately grasped his wrist, lifting his hand. His fingers brushed against your cupid’s bow, tracing the outline. You met his eyes, and without breaking contact, you swallowed his meaty index finger. Jack let out a vulgar groan as he felt the smooth back of your throat against his fingerprint. You held him there for a moment until your gag reflex forced you to withdraw.

“Oh, fuuuuck.” He hissed, brow furrowed in bliss. “You know, you’re gonna-“

You cut him off by shoving his index and middle finger down your throat this time, somehow going deeper than before. His voice cracked as your pharynx constricted around his fingers. A wet gag forced them out of your mouth again, freeing your airway. A strand of beaded saliva connected your mouth to his hand as he reluctantly pulled away.

Jack wanted to fuck you senseless in that moment. Being such a good girl for him, taking his fingers so deep, face flushed and eyes watering. But he knew what you wanted, what you had asked so nicely for. So he extended his right arm away from his upper body.

“Wanna take a ride, baby doll?” His face was smug, mouth pulling to one side to show off his adorable grin.

You smirked in response. “What’s that saying? Save a horse, ride an ER cowboy?” You teased.

Jack chuckled, stretching his arm further to you. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”

You hovered above his forearm, the heat of his skin matching the radiation from your pussy. Your thighs trembled as you lowered closer and closer and closer.

Until Jack let out an unexpected groan as your juices melted against his skin. “So wet for me?” He sputtered. “Just for my arms, baby girl?”

You were a little embarrassed at his questioning, but you couldn’t help the euphoria speeding through your neurons. Every vein against your clit was electric. You placed a balancing hand on his broad chest, stabilizing yourself to slide up and down his arm.

“If you answer me, I’ll make it even better. I promise.” The look in his eyes was unrecognizable. Almost possessed.

You couldn’t look away from his powerful gaze, mainly because you knew if you did, he would force your jaw with his hand to meet his eyes. “Just for your arms.” You finally whispered.

“I can’t hear you.” He nearly growled.

You whimpered as you slid against him. “Just for your arms.” You verified, much louder this time.

He smiled with satisfaction. “That’s my girl.” He cooed.

Then he flexed his forearm under you, rippling the muscles and veins against your pussy. Just like he was pumping his arm before giving blood. Your eyes rolled back as you continued to grind against him.

“Oh, fuck, Jack.” You moaned.

Your vaginal lips smeared across the unholy marks you had left just a few minutes before. Jack placed his free hand on your thigh, guiding you ever so gently.

“Yeah? That feel good, baby doll?” He whispered.

He began to slide his arm in the opposite direction of your thrusts, enhancing the friction. The muscles and veins that nearly popped out of his skin were teasing your clit in a way that drove you mad. You whimpered as you dug your hips deeper, chasing your orgasm with every lewd squelch of your pussy.

“Feels so good.” You panted.

The familiar warmness in your belly began to creep lower and lower as you rode. Your thighs shook violently as you struggled to maintain balance as your climax neared. Jack chuckled and placed a strong hand on your shoulder to stabilize you.

“Oh, you’re so close, sweet girl. Take a break. I’ll get you there.” He said, voice laced with fake pity.

You finally stopped moving your hips, legs shaking as you came to a halt. And just like he promised, Jack continued move his arm underneath you, faster than he had before. You scratched at his chest with the hand that rested there as he set a bruising pace. Your clit swelled at the rapid brush of his worn, leathered skin, and it became too much. Your thighs clenched around his arm like a vice as you rocked into your orgasm, screaming his name as you did.

“There you go. Keep coming for me.” Jack coached you on.

Your pussy throbbed against him, slathering your juices on his freckled skin. When you finally collapsed on top of him, freeing his arm for the first time, he held it up to inspect it. Your slick honey dribbling over the veins down to his elbow, crossing over the bruise and bite mark you had left on his forearm.

He chuckled to himself. “Look at that mess you made.” He mumbled against your head. “All for my arms, huh?”

You hummed in agreement, still dazed by your release. “Told you they’re hot.” You breathed against his chest.

Jack wrapped his clean arm around you securely as you reeled from your high. He admired the way your juices glistened on his skin in the low light of the bedroom, how they glossed over his freckles.

“Why didn’t you just ask me sooner?” He questioned.

You shrugged, face still buried in his chest. “I was worried you’d be too…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Too…?”

You smirked slightly. “Too old fashioned.”

“Old fashioned.” Jack repeated, a smile on his lips. “What makes you think that?”

You rubbed circles onto his chest with your thumb, feeling pulled closer and closer to sleep. “I dunno.” You mumbled.

“Because I’m old?” He deadpanned.

You giggled and looked up to him. “You said it, not me.”

Jack chuckled, the warm vibrations rumbling through his chest and to your ear pressed against it. He lifted a finger underneath your chin to maintain your gaze and leaned down to kiss you gently. “After we get some sleep, you're gonna be apologizing for that little ‘old-fashioned’ comment for hours.”

—

A/N: I’m sorry this was shorter than my usual fics but I needed to have this written so the worms would stop talking to me 🐛

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #jack abbot #Jack abbot smut #Jack abbot x reader #Shawn hatosy #Jack Abbott

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y2kstarr · 17 days ago

Text

— ᥫ᭡ say so . . . chris and matt sturniolo

where . . . Chris and Matt both spot you at an influencer party they'd gone to, and now they need to see who can bag you for the night. But what happens when, to their surprise, you want them both?

contains . . . smut, build-up to the smut, threesome (absolutely ZERO incest), Eiffel Tower position, oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, dirty talk, degrading and praising, heavy chratt bickering

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #5

It was one of those nights in L.A. — every room lit by ring lights and camera flashes, every corner filled with people who lived for the scroll, swipe, and algorithm.

The lights at the party were dim and dreamlike, flickering between pink and gold. The pool out back shimmered beneath strings of fairy lights, dotted with floating roses that looked like someone’s aesthetic choice purely for Instagram. Voices blended into an intoxicating hum of flirtation, clout-chasing, and alcohol-fueled egos.

Having already downed a few drinks and chatted up multiple people, Matt and Chris had been scanning the party for some real fun to get their hands on.

That was when they spotted you.

You were standing by the glass railing, drink in hand, watching the crowd like a cat in a room full of mice. You looked like you didn’t belong — but in the best way. Like the party was orbiting you, not the other way around. Eyes that held secrets. A smile that could break careers. Legs for days.

Matt nudged Chris with his elbow, low and sharp. “There. The one by the railing.”

Chris followed his gaze, and his eyes instantly lit with that telltale look — like a kid eyeing a locked candy store. “Yeah,” he said slowly, almost reverently. “She’s… wow.”

“I’m going over.”

“You? I don’t think so. You’ll scare her off with your fake-deep ‘I do yoga and listen to The Weeknd on vinyl’ bullshit.”

“At least I don’t wear the same cologne as every crypto bro in this zip code.” Matt adjusted his shirt, the top three buttons undone, chest lightly glistening under the party lights. “Let’s see who she actually wants.”

Chris scoffed, fixing his hat on his head before smirking and following his brother, the both of them approaching like wolves in heat wearing designer sneakers.

Chris got to you first, his hand landing gently on the railing beside yours as he leaned in close, just enough for you to catch his cologne — clean, spicy, intentional. “So tell me something,” he said with a smooth, tilted grin, “are you always the most interesting person in the room, or is tonight special?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Is that your opener?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

Before you could answer, Matt appeared on your other side like a scene change. He handed you a drink—something pale pink and artfully garnished. “She already has a drink,” Chris muttered even as you took the glass from him.

“This one actually tastes good,” Matt said with a wink. “Trust me.”

You took a sip out of sheer curiosity. He wasn’t wrong.

You raised an eyebrow as you took the drink away from your lips, looking between the both of them, curious as to what exactly had pulled them both over to you. “And you two are…?”

“Brothers,” they said at the same time. Then immediately glared at each other.

“Twins?” you asked.

“Triplets,” Chris corrected.

“Our brother, Nick, bailed on us to hang out with a girl in an outfit made entirely of glitter,” Matt added.

Ah, Tara, you thought, snickering and shaking your head as you took another drink, not noticing how they both looked over you and gave challenging glares once more.

Chris tried the classic charm offensive — eye contact that lingered too long, compliments that felt tailored just for you. “You’ve got this vibe,” he said, watching you closely, “like you know you’re hot, but you’re not annoying about it. It's refreshing.”

Matt countered by leaning into humor and empathy. “Ignore him. He probably says that to any girl who orders oat milk at Starbucks.”

Chris rolled his eyes before scoffing. “You fuckin' order oat milk at Starbucks, dumbass.”

You laughed, warm and unfiltered. They both visibly lit up like they’d won something. And now the game was far from over.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

They pulled out every trick in the book throughout the night.

Chris took you to the dance floor, guiding you with one hand on the small of your back, showing off the rhythm he usually showed off in tiktok videos. “I could do this all night,” he murmured in your ear as the beat dropped. You felt his confidence like static against your skin, making your laugh and just feel yourself as you swayed your body to the music with him.

Matt waited for his moment and found it when you took a break, lounging on a cushioned daybed near the pool. He sat beside you, just close enough to graze your leg. “You know,” he said, voice lower now, more serious, “most of the people here only care about how many followers you have. But I was watching the way you look at people. You see through them. That’s rare.”

Chris walked out to join the two of you, more drinks in his hands as he gave you a toothy grin, adding onto what Matt had said. "Yeah, it's like you're out of this damn world,"

You tilted your head at them both, scoffing softly. “You guys rehearsed these lines or something?”

“Absolutely not,” they both said at the same time.

Which made you laugh again. Damn them. They were too good at this.

As you all drank the shots of expensive tequila Chris had got, he told a story about them that had you nearly spitting out your drink laughing, Matt unable to not snicker along with it as well, the environment warm and thick.

By now, the tension between them towards you was crackling like the edge of a storm.

“So,” Matt said, tapping his glass, glancing over it at you as if he wasn't losing his mind hoping that you'd pick him, “who’s winning?”

You looked at both of them, smile teasing.

Chris leaned in, smug. “Come on, we both know you’ve already picked.”

You bit your lip, leaned back into the cushions, stretched your legs like a queen waiting for her court to bow. “Actually…”

Their eyes locked on you, anticipation tight in their jaws.

“…I was thinking maybe I don’t have to choose.”

Silence. Then a synchronized blink.

Chris was the first to speak. “You’re joking.”

Matt tilted his head. “Wait. Are you serious?”

You just smiled, sultry and slow. “Why pick one when I can have both?”

Their smugness melted into something else—surprise, intrigue, hunger.

“Damn...” Chris said finally, breaking into a crooked grin. “I like you.”

Matt laughed, a little breathless. “Dangerous.”

You smirked at their reactions before you stood, glancing over your shoulder to look down at both of them, raising an eyebrow. “Are you coming, or do I need to find someone else to entertain me?”

They scrambled up like excited puppies, speechless, for once outmatched.

And you? You walked ahead, knowing they’d follow.

Because they were players. But tonight? You were the game.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The bass thudded through the marble floors of the house like a heartbeat too fast from too much tequila and attention, thankfully making noise to cover up the obscene sounds coming from the bathroom you, Chris, and Matt snuck in to finally have some fun.

"Fuuuuck—" Chris groaned out as his grip tightened around the makeshift ponytail he'd made for your hair in his hand, looking down and watching the way you took his cock in your mouth like it was meant to be there.

Your nails dug into his thighs as you gripped them to hold yourself steady, your eyes glossy and fluttering a bit as you looked up at him, being met with that smirking grin on his lips.

"Look like such a pretty fuckin' slut for us, huh Matt?" Chris cooed to you, reminding your of the deliciously thick cock that was Matt's, sliding in and out of your sopping wet pussy from behind.

"Shit— Yeah she does.." He breathily responded, but his eyes stayed trained on how his cock disappeared into your cunt before he'd pull back and repeat, your warm, gooey walls making him bite his bottom lip hard, especially as you clenched around him each time Chris got a little rough with your mouth.

You moaned around Chris's cock as you felt Matt's hands on you, one gripping your hip tightly and the other sliding up your arched back underneath your scrunched up dress around your waist, your tits freed from your earlier make out sesh with Chris as Matt had been busy getting off your panties.

"Goddamn baby, you're just loving this, aren't you?" Chris groaned, his free hand holding his shirt up to his torso so that he had a clearer view of you. He chuckled at your slurred "mhmm" around his cock, your responses muffled by your full mouth.

Chris couldn't help as he gripped your hair harder, thrusting his cock a bit more into your mouth, making small gags and noises spill from you as you let him fuck your mouth, his groans mixing into the noises that filled this dimly lit bathroom.

"Fuckin' hell— y' gonna make me cum, baby—" Chris panted, earning a chuckle from Matt for not holding out as long as he was, but Chris ignored him as you gripped his thighs harder, his other hand nearly tearing his shirt with how hard he was holding it. His breathing became shaky, his legs trembling a bit as his hips sputtered against your mouth.

"I'm gonna— Gonna cum— Holy fuuuuck—" Chris gasped out, groaning loudly as you felt his cock twitch against your tongue before pumping his thick, warm cum down your throat, making tears fall down your already mascara stained cheeks, but you held out, especially with his hand keeping your head in place.

"Told you I'd last longer," Matt snickered, though groaning at the way your pussy clenched around his cock due to you swallowing Chris's sperm, missing the way Chris flipped him off.

"You try fuckin' her mouth next time, then we'll see if you're tough shit," Chris snipped back, looking down at you as he pulled his cock from your mouth, smirking at how your tongue licked up the rest of his residing cum on your lips, before helping you stand up just a bit.

"Fuck— Next time? You hear that, ma?" Matt breathily asked, watching the way you put your hands on Chris's chest to keep you upright before turning your head to look back at him, your pink, glossy lips parted as you face already looked fucked out, making him groan. "You wanna see us again?"

You nodded before moaning as Matt started thrusting harder, deeper into your cunt, suddenly feeling as Chris grasped your jaw and turned your face back to him, his lips brushing against yours.

"Good, cause I don't think I'll ever get enough of you," He purred low, earning a slurred giggle from you before your lips met in a messy, passionate kiss, your nails digging into his shirt as Matt hit that perfect spot within you, your moan swallowed into the kiss.

"Jesus, ma— This pussy's fuckin' amazing— Gonna get me addicted to this shit—" Matt groaned, his body leaning forward to press his chest against your back, in turn, making your chest press against Chris's as you continued to make out.

Your eyes rolled back as Chris's tongue slipped into your mouth, tangling with your tongue as you felt like you were getting drunk off of Matt's dick. God, this was fucking heaven.

One of your shaky hands reached back to meet Matt's that still held your hip, gripping it in an attempt to tell him you were close.

"Y' gonna cum, mama? Yeah? This dick that fuckin' good?" Matt cooed, chuckling as Chris pulled from the kiss to glare at him before delving back in to kiss you harder, your moans and whines spilling into his mouth and in between breaths, his hands palming at your tits.

As that burning ecstasy built in your abdomen, you felt as Matt kissed at your shoulder and neck, biting and kissing over the hickies both of them had made during the make out sesh earlier. The sensation of everything felt like too much, Chris's hands kneading your tits, Matt's dick pounding your sweet cunt, both of their mouths on you.

"'M gonna cum ma— Cum with me— Fuck, please cum with me—"

It hardly took much of Matt's begging to make that pleasure snap within you, your back arching hard, your legs shaking, your hands gripping Chris's shirt like a life line, your lips parting from his to let out a loud, gorgeous moan, especially as you felt Matt's hips stutter before pumping your pussy full of his cum, thick spurts painting you gummy walls.

After a few more moments of Matt riding out your highs, he stilled, all three of you panting in near unison, spent and blissed out. Matt chuckled breathlessly at your face, loving the way you looked completely fucked out now.

"Was that good for you, ma?" He asked, earning a nod and a slurred "mhmm" from you before he leaned in to kiss you, soft and deep, before parting, feeling as Chris pressed his lips to your ear, whispering sultrily into it.

"So, who was better?"

You huffed as you rolled your eyes, your voice a bit strained and tired as you answered back. "Both of you were fucking good.."

"Yeah, but I was better, right?" Chris asked like a puppy looking for validation to boost his ego.

"C'mon dude, she was moaning all over my dick," Matt protested.

"Yeah? Well, she was cryin' all over mine."

"That was cause of me."

"Like hell it was! Did you see the way she was drooling on my dick??"

You huffed as they bickered, too tired to tell them to knock it off, just resting your head on Chris's chest and closing your eyes.

Oh you were definitely going to do this again.

☆ : this one's also not proofread, so i'm really sorry if it's bad, i'm so tired chat 😭 I fuckin started my bloodbath this morning and i'm in pain- BUT IM PULLING THROUGH THE BEST I CAN FOR YALL- hope y'all enjoy, mwah <33

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brokenbarnes · 4 months ago

Text

Haunted Eyes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Based on the Episode "The Power Broker" from the Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Zemo is offering the Winter Soldier to Selby for payment, but the reader plays his handler. Hurt/comfort type shyt

Warnings: canon level violence, slight panic attack, mentions of ptsd

A/N: Holy shit guys I haven't written (and posted it) in over four years. I hope you enjoy it, hopefully my writing as improved since high school!

You were unhappy with the idea from the start.

Your best friend, closest confidant, one you’ve watched grow into a new version of himself; forced to play the part of the man he used to be. Could you even consider the Asset a part of Bucky? Would it be rude not to? There’s been many long conversations about who he is now, how he defines himself in this modern era.

Zemo’s plan was awful enough that it could just work. Bucky back under the invisible muzzle of his former self, playing a part to appease a buyer who just couldn’t resist.

If that wasn’t awful enough, Zemo had a role for you as well. His field Handler, his orderly, his master. Someone he would obey every and any command from.

The thought of it made you sick. Your stomach rolled as you zipped up your disguise, provided by Zemo conveniently on the flight to Madripoor. A tactical Kevlar jacket, form fitting dark slacks and heavy combat boots.

Looking in the mirror, you fixed your posture to reflect one with authority. Shoulders back, chin lifted, hands on your hips. You could possibly make this work, if you could see it through.

Bucky didn’t say a word to you at the club. Neon lights, hazy blue smoke, the odor of too many bodies rubbing close together. The Asset is not supposed to speak unless spoken to, therefore his coldness shouldn’t have been a surprise to you.

“Ready to comply, Soldat?” Zemo smirked at him in Russian as Bucky followed you and Sam through the crowd.

You didn’t flinch, but you felt you heart tear in two at the empty look in his eye. How did it come back so easily? The Bucky you woke up to everyday had a warm look in his deep blue eyes, crows feet crinkling when he smiled at you. This was not your Bucky.

As a shady looking man placed his hand on Zemo’s shoulder, you ordered Bucky to attack. He did so without a question, reminding you of the fraction of the man you saw on the DC bridge almost a decade ago. He put men down without blinking, clearing the room as people gasped.

Selby’s lounge was tinted with green neon and a faint smell of cigarette smoke. Your stomach turned at the atmosphere. Zemo lounged in a modern looking chair, Bucky positioned himself between the two, Sam opposite. You stood near Bucky, posture stiff, arms behind your back, face rigid as steel. Bucky was the same.

Selby reminded you of a snake, draped over her disgusting couch, wrapped in expensive materials and reeking of designer alcohol. She eyed your soldier with a hungry gaze, a different emotion burned in your chest.

She greeted Zemo not as a welcomed friend, but as an adversary she couldn’t wait to see what the next move was. You read her well enough to know she was skeptical of Zemo, the rumors of him locked away were supposed to be true. So how was he in Madripoor?

One look at Sam’s face showed you he did not trust Zemo, not one bit. Apparently Bucky did somewhat, or didn’t care about trusting him, just using him to get to the next step. Bucky’s past wasn’t based on trust, it was based on obedience.

And fear.

Zemo remained relaxed in his chair, glancing over at Bucky who stood so stiffly in the corner. His eyes were emotionless, muscles slack. You knew if you placed a muzzle over his mouth, it would be like nothing had changed at all since he came into your life. All the progress he was working towards with you and Dr. Raynor would be gone just like that.

“In exchange for information of the serum, I offer you the Winter Soldier,” he smiled in his sinister way. “Along with the code words to control him of course.”

Selby sat up straighter on her snake skin couch, like a cobra raising it’s head before it attacks. She was interested.

“He will do anything you want,” Zemo mused.

You met Sam’s eye across the room, worried, curious, concerned. Bucky slipped back into the role of someone he never wanted to be ever again. Maybe just a little bit too easily.

“Anything?” She leaned forward, puffing her chest out slightly, eyes locked on Bucky. Not his eyes, anywhere but his eyes in fact. His chest, his shoulders, new and improved arm, thighs, his feet. But she did not look in his eyes.

“Handler?” Zemo’s cold, calculating eyes turned to you. “Care to demonstrate?”

The words were bitter on your tongue, but Zemo’s warning replayed through your head. You cannot break character if you want to live, you have to sell it.

“Ready to comply, Soldat?” You tried to not stumble over the Russian, the language you learned so many years ago. The language that haunted his nightmares, waking up mumbling in a Slavic tongue engrained in his consciousness. Speaking the language for the both of you meant something had gone terribly wrong.

The awful blank stare in eyes remained, but his jaw clenched as he nodded. “Yes, Handler.”

“Kneel, Asset,” you hated the tone of your voice. One you hadn’t used in a long time, one that was never meant for Bucky.

He dropped to his knees at your feet, eyes still staring straight ahead. You tried not to wince as his knees slammed into the hardwood floor without even a moment of hesitation from him.

From the sheath on your thigh, you lifted a knife to his neck. He didn’t blink as the blade pressed into his skin.

“The Asset is completely compliant to your every need,” your voice was brittle, like glass. It appeared strong but one push was all it would take to bring it all down. “He will fight, kill, destroy anyone you ask him to.”

Selby’s hungry eyes asked for more.

“The asset does not think for itself,” you continued. “Anything you ask it to do will happen automatically. Completely submissive for its handler.”

You swallowed hard, turning your attention down to the man at your feet. “Asset, lean forward.”

You watched as Bucky leaned forward, digging the blade into the soft skin of his throat. You fought to keep your expression neutral as a tiny bead of blood trickled over his Adams apple.

“He will do anything without regards for himself.”

Selby smiled, clearly thrilled with her new deal, turned to Zemo and gave up the name of the doctor working on the serum.

“Stand, Asset,” you said, just loud enough to be heard by the one who mattered most.

Bucky returned to his standing position, posture military perfect, eyes staring straight head. A small stream of blood drying over the stubbly skin of his throat.

You were grateful for the tactical jacket when the shooting started. Selby’s lifeless body stared up at you like a snake skin, a hole blown through her sternum.

Although the cover was blown, Selby dead from a mysterious assassin and a whole nightclub full of dangerous people below; you were grateful you were no longer Bucky’s handler. The mask he had donned was gone, the awful, haunted look in his eyes had vanished but left a trace.

Later...

Finding Sharon Carter in Madripoor was not on your bingo card for this mission, but you were grateful for the temporary shelter of her apartment. Bucky lost his Asset attire, Sam no longer looked like a pimp, you were able to borrow some of Sharon’s sensible shoes.

Your adrenaline crashed at Sharon’s apartment, after running for your life from Selby’s night club and a bounty placed on your heads. All of the energy you felt when playing the Handler drained out of you, it was all you had to try and listen to Sharon discuss her situation.

You pulled your feet beneath you on her fancy leather couch, resting your head in your palm against the arm rest. Your mind replaying the image of Bucky leaning into the knife in your hand.

Bucky sat on the other end of the couch, avoiding your eye contact, hands laced together in his lap.

You wished he would catch your eye, lift the corner of his mouth in a subtle smile, reach over and nudge your foot with his. But when he thought nobody was watching, his head hung low, staring down into his lap, bouncing his knee in the way you know meant anxiety was making his skin crawl.

Sharon was hosting a party in the gallery below her luxury apartment, full of questionably authentic art pieces and shady customers.

Although the customers were having fun, the four of you observed, on edge. Despite the open bar, nobody from your party was drinking, silently observing the life Sharon had built for herself.

Bucky noticed as you slipped away, seemingly uncomfortable in your own skin. He silently followed you from a distance, watching you take the elevator up to Sharon’s apartment. He waited and took the next car up.

By the time you reached Sharon’s apartment, your chest was tight and it felt like you were breathing through a straw. No matter how deep of a breath you tried to take, it was never enough air.

You stumbled your way into her bathroom, turning on the sink and watching cold water flow over your wrists. Bracing your forearms against the porcelain, you dropped your head, pressing your eyes into the damp skin.

Tears burned in your eyes, squeezing your eyelids together you tried to contain the guilt building inside.

The scary thing about Bucky was that he could sneak up on you like nobodies business, avoiding squeaky floor boards and balancing his weight just perfectly. He was still like a ghost in many ways, as much as he tried to erase it.

So when he knocked gently on the bathroom door, it startled you, moving you to quickly wipe your eyes.

“Y/N?” His voice was gentle as he called through the door.

You froze, trying to steady your breathing although you knew his super soldier hearing picked up on it through the door.

“Y/N, Honey, let me in,” he murmured, leaning his temple against the door, hand on the doorknob.

“I’m okay,” but your voice was shaking.

“Y/N.”

You sighed, wiping your eyes once last time before opening the door. Your super soldier was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his black long-sleeve shirt. Usually you’d admire how the material stretched across his broad chest, but your eyes were flooded with tears.

You let him in without another word, he shut the door behind him. Sitting down on the lip of the modern-looking tub, you ran your hands through your hair, trying to calm down.

He didn’t speak, his favorite tactic, which drove you crazy. Forcing you to fill the silence like an interrogation technique.

“Bucky, I…” you swallowed hard, guilt stirring in your gut as you looked at him. You blinked quickly before trying again. “Bucky, I don’t ever want to do that again.”

“Do what, Doll?”

“Be your handler,” you spoke the world like it was a slur, a bad taste in your mouth. “Make you… Make you…”

He tilted his head at you, observant eyes watching your every move.

“Honey, you didn’t make me do anything.”

You stood up, standing in front of him as he leaned against the sink.

He had wiped the blood away and the serum had healed the thin skin over his throat, you swore you could still see where your knife had nicked him. You reached out and gently touched the spot under his chin where you had pressed the unyielding steel.

“I hurt you,” you shook your head, chin quivering.

“I’m okay,” he shook his head. Your touch was warm against his skin, he reminds himself that he enjoys this feeling.

“I don’t want to be another person in your life that’s hurt you,” tears spilled over your cheeks now, dripping under the neckline of your borrowed shirt.

He closed his flesh hand around yours, the one that was still tracing the healed line on his skin. His clear eyes met yours, blurry with tears and guilt.

“You are not my handler,” he spoke quietly, but firmly. “I know the difference. You were playing the part, not that it ended up mattering anyway. You didn’t hurt me, Y/N.”

You looked down at your shoes and tried to focus on your breathing. Why was he being so nice to you? You became another figure of those that had hurt him, had turned him into a shell of a human.

“C’mere,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you against him. You let your head fall against his shoulder, listening to the metal hum under your ear, a sound that has always brought you comfort.

“There is never a good time to be playing the Winter Soldier,” he spoke softly, just for your ears only. “But if I had to choose anyone to be my handler, I’d choose you any day.”

“Don’t,” you wiped your eyes on the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Nah, I’m serious,” he took a deep breath, which reminded you to copy him. Something you do all the time for him. “You’re the one that’s pulling me out of all this. You know all the dark secrets of my mind.”

“Dark secrets?” You wrinkled your nose, feeling your muscles relax a touch.

“Mhm,” his warm hand felt good on your skin, brushing the tender skin of the underside of your arm. “I trust you.”

Trust was a hard thing for Bucky, you could count on one metal hand the amount of people he trusts. But if Bucky could still trust you after playing the antagonist of his nightmares…

And you knew what those nightmares were like for him, leaving him shaking, sweating, reeling for a grasp on reality. Out of all the handlers he had in his lifetime, you hoped you were the one that showed him the most kindness.

“I don’t want you feeling all mixed up now,” he squeezed you quickly before letting go. “There’s only room for one crazy person in this relationship.”

You wiped your eyes, sneaking a glance in the mirror over his shoulder. He blocked your reflection with his strong back, leaning in to kiss you.

You’re forgiven, he told you, pressing his body into yours.

And that’s all you needed.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #captain america #captain america brave new world

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alinathinkstoomuch · 18 days ago

Text

BRIEF RELIEF

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: you asked for stress relief and aaron just happened to deliver it in the supply room...right as someone walked by, based on this request. warnings: smut, semi-public setting, fingering, lil hair pulling and mouth covering shenanigans, r wears make up & works in fashion, established relationship. word count: 3k

✧ masterlist

There were plenty of ways you loved to de-stress. Spa days with cucumber water and a fluffy white robe. Shopping sprees that required a second set of hands (and possibly a second credit card). Journaling with pastel gel pens while sipping overpriced matcha in your favorite café. Picking out a new signature scent just because it was Tuesday. Clearing out your shoe closet—though, admittedly, that one sometimes caused more stress than it relieved. Choosing which pair of Manolo Blahniks to part with? Torture in heel form.

But unfortunately, none of those luxuries were on today’s schedule.

Not when you were in the middle of organising the fashion show of the season. Between pointing frantic models towards the nearest powder brush, stitching a hem with dental floss, yanking what felt like a dozen bobby pins out of a hairstyle that screamed ‘wrong era’, and making sure the outfits went out in the exact right order, there was absolutely no time for candles, journaling or topping up your perfume.

At one point, you actually had to stop and check the bottoms of your feet because you were sure they were on fire. They weren’t, obviously, but the pain? Very real. Your back felt like you’d accidentally signed up for a double reformer class, and your sweat had officially taken over the job of your setting spray which had definitely given up hours ago. Still, you smiled. You gave compliments. You kept everyone moving. Because this was your world, even if it felt like it was spinning a little too fast and a little too loud.

Just as you managed to get model number seven into her stilettos without poking your own eye out with a safety pin, that devastating, ooey-gooey voice made you pause. And maybe melt a little.

“Is it always like this back here?”

You turned and there he was, leaning casually just inside the curtain like he hadn’t somehow managed to press pause on time simply by being there.

“Only on days that end in y,” you replied, dabbing beneath your eyes in what you hoped was a graceful attempt to salvage creased concealer.

His response was a smile. One of those smiles, the kind that made everything tangled inside you slip apart until it all returned to what it once was.

“You look…busy.”

“Just another day in the office, honey,” you sighed, ushering model seven out with a gentle pat on the shoulder. Your eyes landed on the matcha in Aaron’s hand, and your entire soul lit up. “Is that—?”

“It is,” he confirmed lightly, holding it out to you. “Didn’t know if you’d had a break.”

You all but snatched it from him—elegantly, of course—and took three solid gulps like it had replaced oxygen for the next five minutes.

“I like the dress,” he added, as if he hadn’t just lobbed a verbal grenade directly at your nervous system.

You barely remembered putting the thing on, adamant that someone must’ve zipped you into it while you were too busy sticking down the inner corners of your false lashes. But the way he was looking at you, equal parts appreciative and enthralled, made you feel like you were walking the runway instead of running around behind it.

“You mean the one with lipstick smudges and tear stains?”

“I mean the one that makes half the room forget how to speak.”

Smooth. Painfully smooth.

So smooth, in fact, that the words didn’t just land—they slid. Skimmed right over the surface of your skin and trailed somewhere lower, somewhere warmer, somewhere that made your knees question their loyalty.

You had to look away. Just for a second. Like maybe if you stared hard enough at a rack of colour-coded gowns, your mind would weasel its way out of the gutter, one currently overflowing with thoughts of Aaron’s hands.

Veiny, firm, steady hands.

“There you are!” Bella, your assistant, huffed as she appeared beside you. “We need blush-toned satin fabric. Like, now. Someone moved the roll and the hem on model eight’s dress is a tragedy waiting to happen.”

You blinked, cleared your throat, and nodded like you hadn’t just been fantasising about Aaron Hotchner’s hands and fingers five seconds ago. “Fabric. Right. Top shelf, back storage.”

“Ugh,” Bella groaned. “I can’t reach it without climbing something I’ll definitely fall off of, again.”

“I’ve got it,” you said quickly, cutting her off as you turned, matcha in hand and your doting boyfriend following behind like the good man he was.

Your heels echoed down the hallway as you power-walked towards the storage cupboard, nearly tripping over your own two feet because apparently gravity had also had enough of today.

“Have you had a chance to sit down at all?” Aaron’s voice followed just as you pushed open a heavy door leading to the storage room.

“Does collapsing onto a chair for thirty seconds while I glued rhinestones to a hair clip count?”

He stepped in behind you, letting the door shut softly as you placed your matcha on the nearest shelf. You were halfway up on your toes, reaching for the top row where the blush-toned roll of fabric lived, when your elbow nudged the cup just enough.

The lid popped off and the matcha went everywhere.

“No, no, no,” you gasped, scrambling to save the now green-streaked shelf. “This was my one source of peace today!”

Aaron was instantly beside you, grabbing a roll of paper towels from a lower shelf you hadn’t even noticed, moving in to blot the spill like it was nothing.

“It’s okay, we’ll clean it up.”

You stepped back, letting him take over before the rising lump in your throat turned into actual tears. “I’m gonna be sticky for hours,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “And I’m pretty sure this is the wrong fabric anyway, and I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon in a sauna, and I haven’t eaten since… yesterday? And I miss my dog and—”

He paused mid-wipe, then reached out and rested a hand on your back. “Hey, what can I do?”

You genuinely tried to brainstorm options, real ones. Sensible ones. But all rational thought flew out the window as your shoulders slumped, your hands landed on your hips, and the words fell from your perfectly glossed lips like a prayer.

“Make out with me.”

His brows lifted, and he let out a half amused laugh, before going back to wiping up the spilled matcha—matcha that, to your horror, was currently getting more attention from his hands than you were.

Now that was a real crisis.

“Really, sweetheart? You sure you’ve got time in that jam-packed schedule for a make out session?”

“Yes,” you nodded, dead serious, like one of those dashboard figurines with the bobbly heads. “I only need, like…a five-minute heavy make out sesh to bring my stress levels back to something resembling normal.”

He shook his head, and you were graced with a side profile so pretty it felt rude. You caught the corners of his mouth twitching, the hint of a smirk creeping in at your suggestion.

“I’m serious,” you added, your voice coming out breathier than intended. “Please. I think I might combust and die if your tongue isn’t down my throat in the next ten seconds.”

“Oh, so it’s life or death now?”

You gave him your best wide-eyed pout, the one that had gotten you out of trouble and into trouble more times than either of you could count.

“Critically urgent,” you declared, every syllable dripping with need.

You were already picturing it, how his mouth would feel pressed to yours, his tongue working miracles on the tangle of stress knotted inside you. You didn’t need a massage, a nap, or even a new perfume. All you needed was for him to toss those matcha-soaked paper towels in the bin and put that incredibly distracting mouth exactly where it belonged.

And when he finally moved?

You had to physically stop yourself from squealing and jumping up and down like you’d just been handed a custom pink Prada bag straight from Milan. Instead, you stood perfectly still, well, as still as someone could stand while their fingers fidgeted with the sides of a couture dress and their pulse did laps.

When the tissues were safely tossed, you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face, slow and easy like butter on warm toast. The second he was close enough, your hands slid up around his neck, fingertips now preoccupied with the collar of his shirt.

“Hi,” you breathed, bouncing just slightly on your toes because self-restraint could only go so far.

“Are you sure this will make you feel better?” he asked, his hands finding their rightful place on your waist.

“Absolutely. This is exactly what I need. Now come on, wanna taste you.”

And really, how was he supposed to not react to that? When words like that came from lips he’d committed to memory, every curve, every sigh, every glossed-over comeback in that luscious tone he could never get out of his head.

He pulled you in close, snug enough that the silk of your dress whispered against his suit. Then his mouth was on yours. He kissed you slowly, like he was sampling you. Savouring every bit of tension he could draw out. Like he was trying to decode the flavour of your stress before licking it clean. And yep, there it was. That delayed lighting cue. Oh, and the wrong heels on model four. And ah, yes, the soundtrack that didn’t flow quite the way you wanted it to.

You couldn’t help yourself as your teeth gently tugged and sucked at his bottom lip, just enough to make his hands tighten at your hips.

There it was.

His tell. That tiny break in composure he didn’t even know he gave. He always did it—always—when he couldn't quite keep a lid on it. And you banked on it, because yes, the kiss was technically dissolving your stress, but it was also stirring up something else entirely. Something far less manageable.

“Baby,” you whispered against his mouth as you took a step back, letting him follow you until your spine hit the shelving behind you. “This isn’t enough.”

He pulled back just a fraction, his breath still fanning across your face. “No?”

You shook your head, lips parted, pupils blown. “I need more, please. I’m so worked up, it won’t even take three minutes.”

“Honey, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re supposed to be getting the fabric for Bella, remember?”

“No, I don’t think I do.” You grabbed the hand resting on your hip and started guiding it down, lower and lower, until his fingers hovered right at the hem of your dress. You didn’t dare break eye contact, hoping he could see the desperation plain as day. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and you watched the twitch of his Adam’s apple like it was begging to be bitten. Still, he didn’t stop you. Not once.

You slipped his hand beneath your dress. “Just feel me,” you whined. “Three minutes. That’s all I need. Well—three minutes and your fingers.”

That did it.

His hand moved on its own now, trailing up the inside of your thigh before slipping beneath your underwear.

“Jesus,” he muttered, half in disbelief. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Told you,” you managed with a grin, though it disappeared the second his fingers brushed along your folds, dragging through the slickness before settling on your clit. Your whole body jolted, one hand gripped his bicep, the other clutched the edge of the shelf.

“Okay,” you gasped. “That’s definitely helping.”

Aaron watched as your head fell back against the unit, the silk of your dress moulding perfectly to your rising and falling chest. He hadn't meant to move like that—not really. But the second you’d dragged his hand, every rational thought he’d clung to vanished. Just like that. Gone.

Because how the hell was he supposed to resist you?

Flushed. Breathless. Desperate. And somehow, still managing to look like you’d walked straight off the cover of a fashion magazine. So he gave in a little more, slipping a finger inside you. You moaned, high and needy, one leg instinctively hooking up onto the table behind him. The motion dragged him closer, deeper, like you couldn’t bear even a molecule of space between you.

“Aaron,” you whimpered, hips rolling against his hand, your fingers digging into his shoulder. “More. Please.”

He kissed your throat, just below your jaw. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“I don’t care—fuck,” you stammered, just as he slipped a second finger in. Your back jerked against the shelves hard enough to make them rattle and tip what remained of the lukewarm matcha onto the floor. Not that you noticed. Not even a little.

Then, he heard it.

A shuffle. A footstep. The door shifting…maybe closing? Maybe nothing at all.

Aaron stilled, breath catching mid-kiss as he tilted his head towards the sound. Your leg was still hooked over the edge of the table, the shiny material of your dress bunched high around his wrist, your body trembling under his hand.

His brain should’ve been sounding alarms, but instead? He was calculating.

You were covered enough that it could pass as something innocent. If someone walked in right now, he could probably get away with pretending he was straightening your dress. He could spin something. Say you’d gotten tangled in the hem. Maybe say you tripped. Something. Anything.

God. What the hell was wrong with him?

You had him out here—him, Aaron Hotchner—planning contingencies for how to keep your orgasm discreet in case someone walked in. All while his fingers were still buried inside you.

“Please,” you mewled, squirming under his touch. “Don’t stop, please, I’m so close.”

“I think someone might be coming,” he murmured, his fingers curling deep inside you, dragging out another gasp.

“Yeah, me, just—fuck— right there.”

And that’s when you heard it too. Fast footsteps, clipped heels and then a voice unmistakably belonging to your assistant.

“Did you guys get lost? Where is the fabric?”

Bella. Of course.

But instead of panicking, your eyes snapped shut because right then, Aaron’s thumb dragged a lazy circle over your clit.

“Tell her,” he whispered calmly, fingers still not stopping. “Tell her you’ll be a minute.”

“A-Aaron—” you half-whimpered, half-hissed, toes curling inside your heels.

“She’ll leave faster if you answer. Go on, be convincing.”

You shook your head helplessly, pressure swirling hot and fast in your stomach. “C-can’t… right now.”

“Hellooo? You guys are scaring me a little bit.”

Aaron pulled back, just enough for his eyes to sweep over you. And he saw it, the flutter of your lashes, the way your teeth pinned your bottom lip, the flushed glow painting your skin. This whole ordeal, the possibility of getting caught, was turning you on like nothing he’d ever seen before.

It would take Bella exactly six steps, maybe less, to hear your failed attempts to keep quiet, to hear the lewd, obscene noises between your thighs as your wetness coated his fingers and wrist.

“Fuck, Aar—I’m gonn—”

His hand flew up to cover your mouth just in time.

“We’ll be out in a minute,” he called, casually, like this wasn’t the most indecent thing he’d ever done in a supply room. Like he wasn’t knuckle-deep inside you, fingers coaxing every last drop of your orgasm.

“Oh. Oh! Oh my God—I’m so sorry!” Bella’s voice rang out from the other side of the door. “Take your time, seriously! Fabric can wait. Don’t come out here… you know, not decent!”

The moment the sound of her heels clicked away, your body sagged against the shelf, every limb loose. You felt like you’d just been wrung out, soft, floaty, and about ten pounds lighter.

Aaron withdrew his fingers and adjusted your underwear with the kind of care that made you reconsider whether chivalry was actually extinct, your legs very nearly giving out all over again. But before he could move away completely, you caught his wrist, bringing his slick-coated fingers to your mouth and took them in, sucking them clean with a witty swirl of your tongue.

Aaron’s jaw flexed. “That’s not helping.”

You let his fingers go with a wet pop.

“Gosh, silly me. You’ve been so generous,” you cooed, your other hand drifting south, feeling exactly what all of this had done to him. “It would be rude not to return the favour…especially when you know how pretty I look on my knees.”

He swallowed whatever response he was about to give, then reached up to fix the strap of your dress where it had slipped, a gesture so surprisingly tender it felt like he was putting you back together, piece by piece. Then, he grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging it enough to guide your face up to meet his.

“Behave,” he warned, his other hand wrapping around your wrist, stopping your palming ministrations. “Unless you want me to take you home right now and have you miss the end of the show you’ve poured three months of your life into.”

“Boo. You’re no fun, Hotchner,” you pouted, stepping past him to finally snag the blush-toned fabric Bella had been losing her mind over.

“No fun?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Honey, my hand was up your dress not even a minutes ago. You’re lucky I didn’t use your lace panties to keep you quiet.”

You spun back to face him, dropping the fabric onto the table with a disappointed look. “You’re kidding, right? Why didn’t you?”

He let out a low laugh before bringing a hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing under your eye. “My dirty girl, why don’t you focus on finishing the show first, then we can discuss gag options at home, hm?”

You tilted your head into his touch, lips parting around a sigh that was equal parts amused and turned on. “I suppose I can last a couple more hours.”

He smiled before placing a kiss on your lips.

“That’s my girl.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @mggslover

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#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds #ssa aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner smut #mine🌟

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jaewritesfic · 10 months ago

Text

Everlasting Trio Nobody Knows AU DP x DC Part 4

Part 3

(Tim POV! This is a long one 😅)

Tim almost has it. He's so close to cracking this file he can fucking taste it. He's been fighting this thing for two weeks. It's the most incomprehensible and infuriating code he's ever faced off against, which is fitting considering who gave it to them.

The engineer. THEIR engineer. The engineer they didn't ask for and Tim still isn't sure how they got, and the single biggest mystery in Tim's fucking life right now.

See, a significant amount of Bat gadgets at this point are Tim's brainchildren. He imagines them, he designs them, he workshops and tests them.

A few months ago, he'd had a pouch on his utility belt full of experimental pellets meant for slowing down fleeing vehicles. They were designed to break when run over and the compound inside would expand into durable, sticky foam that would ensnare tires.

He'd tested them in the cave.

He had not been prepared to take one hit to that side and have to frantically divest himself of that pouch before he became Gotham's latest foam based cryptid.

His family had laughed themselves silly at him even as he broke off in pursuit of the drug runners he'd been fighting.

When Tim had doubled back expecting a mess to clean up and pellets to rework? It had been gone. All of it. The foam, the pellets, the pouch of his utility belt.

A serious problem, because who knows who got their hands on that?

Then it had shown back up.

That is to say, Gordon had called them because he found a pouch with a note labeled ‘for Red Robin’ sitting on the stand of the Bat Signal and didn't dare touch it.

After making sure it wasn't a bomb or some kind of biological weapon, Tim had opened the pouch - his own belt pouch - and found pellets. New pellets. Different pellets.

The note just read, “As funny as that was to watch, I fixed them for you. No more premature sploogage on the job. :3 P.S. here's a recipe for solution to dissolve future intentional discharges.”

They'd been right, too. The new pellets were tested (in case THEY were a bomb or biological weapon) and they'd been just strong enough to safely transport but still break when under the pressure of tires. Even the foam was more effective, and the spray Tim synthesized from that stupid recipe had worked like a dream.

What. The fuck.

This person not only improved his design and came up with a dissolution agent from scratch in days, they'd been watching without him knowing and made off with the original pellets without anyone noticing.

This was either a rogue in the making or someone they wanted on their side, and either way they needed to be found.

So Tim had done the obvious.

He'd put together a lockbox of money for the product they'd been given, loaded it with no less than ten (10) bat trackers and a note thanking their mysterious benefactor and requesting to meet up. He'd exploded a foam pellet on a rooftop and left the box on it in the hopes they'd notice and find it, then hung around far enough to not be seen and close enough to beat feet as soon as the trackers started moving.

They did not start moving. They all went offline simultaneously.

Tim has never moved so fast in his life, and yet by the time he got to the rooftop there was a pile of foam and nothing else. Not even a trace of whoever took the lockbox.

The next day, there was a ping of one (1) tracker that led them to a note thanking him for the money, refusing to meet, and asking if they'd considered certain improvements to their grapples with schematics for said designs.

Thus started the most bizarre and infuriating chase through notes, money, helpful designs and disappearing trackers Tim has ever been a part of.

Last time, the engineer had left them a USB stick and a note claiming that since they really wanted to know about him so bad, they could have the information on the USB if they could crack the encryption on the zip file inside.

Obviously they screened heavily for viruses or backdoors, but long story short Tim has been trying to crack the fucking thing for two weeks and refuses to let Oracle help. It's personal. It's a matter of pride.

He could swear the code itself has actively been sabotaging his attempts to hack it, which is, you know. Impossible.

Ping!

Tim blinks, looking over at the map on another monitor of the Bat computer.

“Motherfucker-”

He taps into Duke’s comms. This is the first time this has ever happened during the day shift, he wasn't expecting it.

“Signal! I need you on the roof of the warehouse on the corner of Fifth and Everest - a tracker just came online.”

Another thing that infuriates Tim. You can't just turn Bat trackers on and off. They're activated, and then they either stay active or they're destroyed. They can't be turned off and then reactivated.

And fucking yet.

Duke groans, but his own tracker starts making its way in that direction.

“Dude. He's gonna be long gone by the time I get there. He always is.”

“He can't run from me forever,” Tim insists. “I'm almost in this damn file, and I am going to find him and dangle him off a roof from his ankles for giving us this runaround, so help me God.”

“Uh huh,” Duke deadpans. “Sure you are. I'm almost there, and- oh look! A note. What a surprise!”

Tim hears Duke touch down on the rooftop, eyes on the code on his screen while his brother clears his throat and reads aloud.

“Ahem- ‘Good morning, sunshine!’ - guess that's me - ‘I hear some bats and birds have been murdering tires at an alarming rate with the way they drive their bikes-’”

Tim freezes. He's not listening anymore.

“Signal.”

“‘- and that just can't be good for business. Nobody wants a bald tire ruining a chase. So boy do I have the thing for you-”

“Signal!”

“What?”

“I got it.”

“Huh? Got what?”

“I cracked his file. I got it.”

Tim is staring, wide eyed and full of a mixture of elation and trepidation at the contents of the zip file. It's a single text file titled, ‘Wow! You did it!’

“Oh, shit? Well? What's in it?”

Tim swallows, mouse hovering over the file. He takes a deep breath, then double clicks.

The file opens.

Tim blinks.

“Red Robin? What's in it?”

Tim scrolls slowly down, disbelief and horror dawning across his face. “Oh my God.”

“What? Come on, man, talk to me.”

Tim scrolls further.

“Oh. My God.”

“Red? Red Robin, you're scaring me, man.”

Tim puts his face in his hands. Voice muffled, he responds.

“Duke.”

“...Red? You okay?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It's the entire Bee Movie script.”

Silence reigns for a solid five seconds before Duke breaks and descends into raucous, hysterical laughter.

Even muffled by his own hands, Tim's scream of rage scares the bats in the cave into a tizzy.

Part 5

Masterpost

#dp x dc #danny phantom #tim drake #red robin #duke thomas #signal dc #tim isnt just pissed about the bee movie script #hes pissed because there could be information hidden in it #so he knows hes going to have to READ the ENTIRE BEE MOVIE SCRIPT and read it closely #spoiler alert #there are no clues #its really just the bee movie script #danny accidentally got a job as an engineer for the bats #and is cackling away while he drives them nuts

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likeumeanit9497 · 2 months ago

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made for me | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: it's been three years since they've seen one another, two and a half since they last spoke to one another. but on this night, time seems to stand still as they meet once again.

warnings: SMUT; angst; unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); handjob; mentions of alcohol; dirty talk; 18+

notes: hey party people...i...have been trying to work on this singular one shot for months. i've been so busy with school (yes, my program goes over the summer how lucky am i!!!!) and have had absolutely no motivation to write more than like a paragraph or two in one sitting. i miss writing and the tumblr community sooo badly literally every single day, but unfortunately i just have to accept the fact that i don't have the free time i had this time last year. so long story short i'm still here and will still be writing whenever i have the time (and inspiration) to, but pls be patient with me if i disappear for months again (and again). i love you all and appreciate the support u all have given me for over a year (WHAT?!?!?) i hope u enjoy this little angsty fic <3333

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

You winced as the tequila burned your throat down to your stomach. Bringing a lime to your lips and sucking desperately, you shut your eyes so that all you could focus on was the sound of blaring music coming from the speakers littered throughout the house. You were at a party, which is not unlike you on a Saturday night. In fact, you couldn’t even remember a weekend that you hadn’t spent stumbling through crowds of people in a strange house — their figures so blurred you couldn’t even see the faces of the men you let take you home at the end of the night.

It was still early, this shot being only your second of the night, but you had a feeling that it would be far from your last. The past week had been especially stressful — you had told your friends that it was your busy work schedule or that finals were coming up, but you knew what the true reason for the stagnant pit in your stomach was. Matt — your best friend since first grade, your first love, and the one who you thought would be your forever — had been rumoured to be back in Boston for the first time since you saw him last, three years ago.

You dropped the lime and leaned against the countertop — hoping that your body language wouldn’t give away your despair but rather lead your friends to believe that the shot was sitting wrong. When he left three years ago, deep-seeded love combined with youthful naivety blinded you to the severity of your distance. You were so certain that no matter what, you and he would be okay and that the love that felt so powerful at the time would never fade.

Only one of those things proved to be true — and after only six months of him living across the country, one gut-wrenching phone call put an end to what you thought would be your forever. You had no idea that, upon picking up that call, you would shatter the years of what was, but it was as though your mouth formed the words without the help of your mind, and once they were spoken aloud, you both dissolved into tears of acceptance. Not because it was what either of you wanted, but because it was what you believed both of you needed.

That was two and a half years ago, and you hadn’t seen him since. He had been busy with his career in LA, and at times you allowed yourself to search him up — watching his YouTube videos with his brothers — just to allow your chest a moment to ache for what once was. Because the truth was, no matter how much you drank or how often you moaned out the name of another man, his face was what haunted your dreams each night. And now, he was allegedly back home — living, breathing within the same time zone; the same zip code as you.

You shuddered, pushing away the thoughts you had been attempting to drink away as you lifted yourself off the counter. Reaching for the bottle of tequila, you were sure you felt eyes on you. And as you began pouring the clear liquid into a shot glass, you nearly lost your grip as your eyes lifted to find the culprit. Because no more than 10 feet in front of you — as though he had been summoned by your disparaging thoughts just moments before — stood Matt.

It was disorienting seeing him in this environment — at 18 years old you and he cared very little for the house parties of your peers. Yet there he stood, a figure so familiar yet somehow completely different. Arms once completely bare now covered in tattoos crossed against his chest while his eyes — the same crystal blue from your dreams — burned your skin as they travelled across it. The room had grown deadly silent; whether that was truly the work of those around you or simply the fact that the blood roaring in your ears muted their chatter, you weren’t sure. But in that moment, you and he were the only ones in that room.

Not a word had been spoken between you two, yet your frantic, searching eyes seemed to have a conversation of their own. After what could have been hours, Matt’s eyes dragged themselves from you before he began heading in the direction of the stairs. Your stomach dropped at the sickeningly familiar tug, as if an invisible string tied you to him and refused to let go. Fingers white against the counter top, you forced your feet to stay in place as your eyes followed his back — a back that now seemed like a canvas of power; each stride of his revealing coiled energy beneath his black t-shirt — waiting for some sort of signal, an invitation for you to come to him.

As he reached the first stair, the signal came in the form of a brief pause and a final look over his shoulder. Your mind had no say at that point — it had long ago surrendered to him — and you began following him in a daze; throwing a brief regard to your friends over your shoulder as you did. Only once he recognized the determined look in your eyes as you headed in his direction did he continue up the stairs, trusting that you were in fact just behind him.

Once you reached the top of the stairs you found him at the end of the short hallway, peeking his head in the door of what you only assumed was a bedroom before taking one last glance at you as his frame slipped past the open door. The upper level of the house was obscenely quiet, and you could hear your heart pounding as you reached the doorway he had just walked through.

The door clicked behind you, and suddenly you were both alone. No more loud music, no more people, just the two of you and the gravity of three years hanging between you. He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed — not defensively, it seemed, just unsure of what to do with his hands now that you were there in front of him. For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing. Quiet, but shallow, the kind of breathing that gave away how much restraint was barely holding both of you together.

Closer now, you took a moment to really look at him. He hadn’t changed much. The boyish narrowness you remembered was gone — replaced by the quiet strength of a man who had grown into himself — but the essence of him that you had somehow memorized without realizing was still very much there. But more than anything, the way he looked at you — longingly, desperately, lovingly — that was exactly the same.

“You really came back,” Your voice came out more breathless than you wanted it to. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he was gracious enough to not react with pity. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and took one small step closer to you. “Why did it take you so long?” You added at nearly a whisper, terrified to hear his answer. “You know why, Y/n.” His voice sent shock waves down your spine. Deeper, the voice of a man, yet still achingly recognizable to the voice of that young boy you met on the first day of school all those years ago.

Your eyes fell in shame from the weight of his reply, knowing that you were the reason he had chosen to stay far away from his home town — his friends, his family — for three years. When you spoke again, your voice had somehow managed to drop even quieter, “Then what made you come back now?” The silence permeated the empty room so immensely that your ears began to ring from the density of it. With your eyes still on the floor, you felt more than saw him move one step closer to you. “The same reason I stayed away for so long.”

His words left his mouth like a confession, and they draped themselves across your skin like a python — the weight of them satisfying but also jarring; threatening to wrap themselves tight around you until your walls cave in. Your eyes flashed back up to his, and upon noticing the question marks swirling within them, he clarified with earth-shattering honesty. “You. It’s always been you.”

The silence after his statement was charged — thick with everything you hadn’t said since that last phone call, with every memory you both buried under the weight of growing up — and growing apart. “I hurt you,” You finally replied, voice thick with emotion as tears began welling in your eyes. Through the blur of your tears, his face seemed to morph into that of his younger self as he fought against his instinct to comfort you. “You did,” He replied, his own words laced with pain, “But I never blamed you for it, not once Y/n.”

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, so you just looked at him — studying the faint lines beside his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the shadow of a beard that 18 year old Matt could only dream of growing. “Why not?” You asked, true disbelief trapped in the crack of your voice. Instead of answering your question, he pulled on a weak smile. “You cut your hair.” Subconsciously, you ran your fingers through your shoulder-length hair; about five inches shorter than it was the last time Matt was standing in front of you. “It’s been a long time.” Your reply almost sounded bitter, and you instantly wished you could take it back because how could you possibly blame him for the unilateral decision you made years before?

If he took offence to your tone, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took another step towards you, closing the ice-cold gap between you even more. “I just mean,” You began, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment as you pulled your trembling lower lip between your teeth, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” There was the air of hesitation between you now, just for a moment, as he struggled to find the words. “I tried to stay away, because it seemed like that’s what you needed,” His words were spoken in the soothing cadence he always used to comfort you all those years ago. “I didn’t want to make it harder than it already was, for both of us.”

It was you who took the next step forward, making it so that you were only inches apart. “Then why are you here nowMatt? And how could you possibly not blame me for what happened between us?” You repeated your question from before, hoping that he wouldn’t ignore it once again. Looking up into his eyes, you recognized the weight of his gaze and the pain buried within it. “Because,” He began, clearing his throat before continuing, “Because I have never been able to stop missing you, and every day without you has felt like a living nightmare. I thought if I stayed away, we would both heal. But instead, I forced myself to endure years of a torture that I knew would never go away unless I saw you again.”

A tear fell from your eye as you watched his face through his confession, each word resonating so deeply within you that it felt like looking into a mirror. “I regretted it the moment I did it, you know.” You replied softly, feeling the years of regret boil over within you, “I was weak.” He shook his head firmly before gently brushing your hair from your face; his familiar touch sending a welcomed shiver down your spine. “You were young. We both were.” His tone was firm, an attempt at freeing you of the guilt that had been slowly eating you alive. You nodded sadly, recognizing his words as truth. “Maybe,” You began, closing the gap so that your chest was pressed against his front, “But I really did love you with everything I had, and I really don’t think I ever stopped.”

Something glimmered in his eyes, then. The same glimmer that had appeared that day on the playground when you had asked him to be your best friend, the day in ninth grade when you had told him that he had been your first crush, and the day in junior year when you had told him you loved him for the very first time. That glimmer had given you so much pride each time you had been the reason for its existence. Another tear fell in relief, as you had long ago accepted that you would never again be witness to it.

His hand slipped from your hair down to your cheek, where he swiped away your salty tears before resuming his movements down your shoulder, down your back, before finally resting in familiarity against your hip. You felt the electricity from his fingertips permeate your skin — shooting throughout your body at the revival of your intimacy. Your hand traveled up to his neck where you toyed with the ends of his hair — slightly longer than it was the last time you had ran your hands through it.

“Did you stop loving me?” You whispered, your lips mere inches from his own. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, pulling you against him even closer than before. “Never.” Was his reply before pulling your lips into his with the slow burn of long-suppressed hunger. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like a rediscovery of one another’s mouths after too long apart. Not yet frantic, as you had imagined it would be; just aching.

His tongue brushed against yours with a deep, searching kiss that made your knees weaken. You clutched his shirt, pulling him closer and grounding yourself in his taste, his smell, the gruff sound he made when you moaned against his open mouth. The kiss deepened as his hands slid around your waist, carefully walking you backwards until you were pressed in between him and the wall. When his mouth dropped to the sensitive place on your neck, just below your jaw, that only he knew existed, everything felt too hot, too necessary. You wanted to drink him in — every groan, every sharp scrape of his stubble against your skin, every part of him that you hadn’t touched in years.

You tugged his shirt up, hands dancing across familiar warm skin and foreign muscle. You pressed your palms against his chest, where you felt the rapid thud of his heart below; matching your own. His lips found yours again, and the kiss was deeper — darker. His mouth opened hungrily against yours before strong teeth bit down on your lower lip. A claiming, yes — but not possession. His hands roamed slowly, deliberately. Skimming under your shirt, teasing the bare skin just above the hem of your jeans. A muffled gasp fell from your lips when his fingers travelled higher, delicately brushing the curve of your tit over your bra. You felt his lips curl into a smile against your swollen lips. “Your boobs got bigger.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach from being reacquainted with Matt’s goofy side. “Shut up,” You replied with a giggle before taking his mouth in yours again; not wanting to lose the familiar taste of him on your tongue. With a soft hum, his hand traveled behind your thigh, lifting it until it wrapped around his waist; your hips instinctively grinding into his. You released a gritty moan into his open mouth, and he swallowed the vibrations like it fuelled him.

He pulled at the hem of your shirt, undressing you as though he was afraid you might disappear behind the wall of fabric if he moved too fast — each button, each inch of new skin exposed was met with a soft breath of relief. Once you were in nothing but your bra and thong, Matt lifted you up and carried you to the bed; lowering you gently atop the soft comforter before pausing to look at you as though he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” He murmured, lowering himself on top of you, kissing your sternum while reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a practiced flick. Discarding the material, you watched as his lips traveled to the underside of your tit, then higher, before taking your pebbled nipple into his warm mouth; circling his tongue until you whined.

“God, I missed you,” He mumbled against your skin as he began fumbling with his belt buckle. Your body responded to his words as though lit on fire by them, and once he was in just his boxers, you grabbed the back of his head and pulled him closer to you before whispering, “I have dreamt of having you in this way since the last time I saw you.”

He kissed you again then, rougher than before — raw tongue and teeth and years of longing poured into it. Moans slipped between you two as your almost-naked bodies pressed against one another, reconnecting like old friends into a familiar mould. One of his hands slid down your body slowly, between your legs, and as his fingers ran delicately against the warm, damp material of your thong, he groaned. “Still so ready for me,” He uttered against your lips, slipping his fingers under the lacy material and pressing two inside of you just deep enough to make you gasp for air, “Say my name,” He pleaded, his words laced with a longing you had never quite heard from him before, “I need to hear it.”

“Matt,” You moaned, breathless as he began slowly pumping his fingers up into your spongey core.

“Again.” He demanded, picking up his speed slightly — giving you some relief, but not quite enough.

“M-Matt, please,” You begged, your words punctuated by sharp breaths.

He didn’t tease you for long. After hearing the desperation in your tone he pulled his slippery fingers from your core before kissing down your stomach, leaving a trail of your juices along your left leg as he pulled your thong down to your ankles. Now completely exposed, you spread your legs to give him full access to your glistening core — wordlessly begging him to bring you the relief only he can. His mouth traveled from your trembling stomach down to the crest just above your core, hovering there for a moment with his eyes fluttered shut. “Tell me what you want.” He breathed, his voice soft but laced with gruff undertones; giving away just how bad he needed you too. “You,” You replied without hesitation, comfortable in telling the man on his knees in front of you exactly what you needed, “Your mouth. Please, Matt.”

The honesty was all it took, because as soon as the words left your mouth you released a moan at the feeling of his warm tongue against your clit. His tongue moved with slow precision — as though he remembered exactly how to undo you. You threw your head back with a cry, hips bucking against the strong suction of his mouth, but he held you down — savouring every second as if it were something sacred. Through hooded eyes you looked down between your legs, watching Matt’s practiced routine in awe. His eyes, glazed over in sheer satisfaction, locked onto your own as he absorbed every sound, every expression you made in response to the pleasure he was granting you.

Your mouth dropped open in pleasure, fingers knotted in the sheets below you, as he used his powerful tongue to break down your walls. He slipped his thumb inside of you, leaving it there, unmoving, knowing that the slightly-full sensation made your head spin. He used his free hand to push gently against your lower stomach, knowing that the pressure intensified your orgasms tenfold. You moaned on each breath now, your heavy eyes refused to stay open. And once your hands flew to his hair, pressing him firmly against your pulsing core, he responded to the wordless confirmation of your impending orgasm by finally pumping his thumb in and out of you while simultaneously twirling his tongue feverishly against your swollen bundle of nerves.

You violently came undone against his tongue, trembling, moaning his name as if it were the only word you’d ever known. Back arched, you held tightly onto his wavy hair, unsure whether you were pulling him away or closer as the pleasure tore through you in overwhelming waves. Still, he continued to push you through the high, flitting his tongue expertly against your clit as you trembled below him. “Matt!” You cried out, your body so hot with intense pleasure that your skin grew splotchy and red — something it hadn’t done from an orgasm in years.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the pleasure slipped from your fingers. As your loud cries turned to gentle moans of satisfaction, Matt’s deliberate licks transformed into sloppy kisses as he drank up your juices — memorizing the taste of what had just hours before been a memory. When he finally moved up your trembling body, you immediately dragged him into another kiss — reigniting your desperation at the taste of yourself on his lips.

Hooking your legs around his waist, you tugged gently at the elastic on his boxers. You were both flushed and panting, bare skin against skin, yet still it didn’t feel like enough. Matt seemed to feel the same, because without you having to say a word he covered your hand with his own — helping you slide his boxers down. With his mouth on yours hungrily, you couldn’t see his cock, though as soon as you heard the firm slap of it making contact with his stomach, your hand wrapped around it with ease. A grunt escaped his lips and you swallowed it hungrily — relishing the relief that you were able to grant him — as you began pumping his length in just the way he liked it; soft at the base, tighter and with more pressure at the tip.

“No more waiting,” He breathed against your gasping mouth, “I need to feel you.”

With a soft moan, you began guiding his cock to your core. Not with your hand, as that was proven unnecessary, but by the widening of your legs — the damp warmth emanating from your centre enough to act as a gravitational pull to bring his length right to the slippery crest of your opening. Wrapping his strong arm around your waist, he sank into you slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation; the crushing weight of it all. The heat, the stretch, the sensation of home was enough to bring tears of relief to your eyes — mirrored in his anguished face before you.

He pressed his forehead against yours, locking eyes with you as his hips rolled against you as though he couldn’t look away for fear of missing a single second. Your bodies moved as one, slow at first. Then deeper, harder, a shattering rhythm that came to you as easily as breathing. Yet, neither of you rushed. Every movement, every hushed sound, every messy kiss was a memory revived. Your moans were not just out of pleasure, they were the release of years spent missing him.

He placed a hand under your lower back and you moaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his cock hit that spongey spot that made your body tremble. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, and your chest as the room filled with the wet harmony of two bodies that know one another so well. Everything you never said was finally being spoken in the sound of your arousal as it coated his front; and everything he never said was finally being spoken in the sound of his pelvis spreading the sticky fluid against your inner thighs upon each methodical thrust.

“Made for me.”

His head nestled against your shoulder, where the rumble of his groans burned through your skin. The familiar phrase caused your stomach to do a flip. Those three words had been spoken by Matt thousands of times over the years — both in and out of the bedroom — that the fact that they had fallen from his lips thoughtlessly, as though they had been sitting there waiting to be spoken aloud for years, in a tone of sheer desperation, was enough to tear away any last shred of sanity you had.

You smiled through a breathless gasp, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging at the strands until his mouth met yours again. His kiss was messy, open-mouthed and wet; the kind that said he needed you in every way. He lifted your right leg higher to angle deeper into you, causing your breath to catch in your throat. “More,” You pleaded against his swollen lips, “Right there.” You felt his mouth curl into a smile bordering on arrogance, “I know.” Was all he replied with, proving that each of his movements were calculated, as though the years of exploring your body had burned into his memory and he had every intention of giving you exactly what you craved.

He held you there, driving his cock at just the right pace, into just the right spot. Your mouth dropped open, unable to kiss him back as the pleasure building deep within you doubled, and then tripled. “Oh my god, M-Matt—” Your head fell back against his left palm, and he cradled it gently as your toes curled around his waist. “That’s it,” He murmured, dropping his mouth to your exposed neck and deepening his thrusts, “Let go, I’ve got you baby.”

You shuddered, the pressure of your impending orgasm laying heavy against your helpless frame. He thrust into you again — this time deeper, slower. You could tell that his control was fraying, the cords of his muscles tight beneath your hands as you felt him struggle to keep from falling apart himself. Using all of your restraint, you held your own orgasm back as you spoke, “Cum with me,” You whispered, the strain evident in your thin voice, “I want to feel you fill me up.”

You felt his mouth drop open against your damp neck, his body trembling above you as his struggle was intensified by your filthy words. Using all his strength, he lifted himself from the crook of your shoulder to gaze down at you with his dark, hooded eyes. Him before you like this — undone, trembling with need, his body worshipping yours with every movement — was almost more impactful than the physical pleasure itself.

“I love y— Fuck,” He dropped his forehead against yours once again, “I love you.” He whispered, voice scratchy with tension as your heart melted. “I l-love you.” You parroted just as he sank into you one final time, releasing a guttural moan as he buried himself to the hilt as he came, his breath catching in your ear and spurring your own mind-bending release.

Warm ropes of his cum painted your walls as they flexed maniacally around his pulsing length, driving you both to the edge of insanity as your bodies took complete control. And as you moaned, cursed, and cried out one another’s names, it wasn’t just release. It was relief. The kind that settles deep in your chest when something you thought was gone forever finds its way back. It was a homecoming.

Once both of your bodies stilled, you stayed completely still; breathing one another in at last. Time passed, and as your heart rates returned to normal, the sound of the party still very much alive below you returned to you consciousness. Still, neither of you made an attempt at moving, instead you let the weight of what had just happened settle into your veins. Not just the satisfaction, not just the pleasure, but the rediscovery. The ache that had shaped who you and him had become over three years now filled by each other’s presence.

Even once Matt eventually shifted above you, the post-sex lull was evident in the way he delicately pulled himself from your raw core, using his discarded boxers to clean you up before tucking you against his chest — his lips peppering indulgent kisses against your hair as you ran an idle finger along his forearm.

“What happens now?” He asked, his words soft against your hair but laced with an undertone of fear of what your response may be. You look up at his gorgeous face that, while slightly older, you knew you had memorized, offering him a soft smile. His eyes focused on your lips as his hand subconsciously reached for your cheek; his expression one of a man hungry for another innocent taste of your lips. You relaxed into his hand, granting him the kiss —deep, tender, and laced with words unspoken — before replying in a whisper. “Now we stop pretending we ever stopped loving each other.”

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

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