#i just want to draw and write and draw and write and draw and write

[nereidprinc3ss]

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart. 

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static. 

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months. 

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good. 

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way. 

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not. 

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

This is the right thing. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses. 

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair. 

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared. 

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making. 

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth. 

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes. 

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32. 

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts. 

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying. 

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. 

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him. 

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint. 

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone. 

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand. 

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he��s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes. 

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily. 

“So you’ve told me.” 

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink. 

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days. 

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things. 

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend. 

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks. 

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no. 

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin. 

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.  

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t. 

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone. 

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?” 

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it. 

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence. 

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing. 

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing. 

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh. 

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow. 

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn. 

More buzzing silence. 

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton. 

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back. 

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered. 

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey. 

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?” 

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face. 

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon. 

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be. 

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers. 

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can. 

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains. 

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably. 

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming. 

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice. 

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat. 

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed. 

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble. 

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear. 

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity. 

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much. 

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen. 

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right. 

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased. 

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in. 

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun. 

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die. 

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood. 

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that. 

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper. 

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you. 

-

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well. 

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch. 

-

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room. 

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him. 

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp. 

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief. 

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too. 

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state. 

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt. 

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you. 

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines. 

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

-

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth. 

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries. 

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection. 

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand. 

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad. 

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag. 

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet. 

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall. 

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!” 

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders. 

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again. 

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper. 

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway. 

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent. 

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says. 

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. 

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into. 

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival. 

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in. 

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant. 

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity. 

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release. 

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin. 

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds. 

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment. 

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want. 

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him. 

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you. 

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want. 

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry. 

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait. 

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again. 

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it. 

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end. 

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck. 

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer. 

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision. 

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name. 

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would. 

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best. 

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you. 

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life. 

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay. 

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids. 

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you. 

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room. 

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet. 

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles. 

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face. 

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction. 

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression. 

That only pisses you off worse. 

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox. 

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are. 

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke. 

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it. 

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied. 

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross. 

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him. 

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff. 

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart? 

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across. 

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him. 

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please.��That’s what I want. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you. 

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works. 

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar. 

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could. 

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know. 

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters. 

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls. 

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery. 

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love. 

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield. 

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV. 

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window. 

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck. 

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you. 

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ. 

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this. 

He loves me. 

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong. 

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails. 

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much. 

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic. 

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined. 

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell. 

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner. 

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart. 

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal. 

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole. 

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below. 

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers. 

You tap lightly at his door. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect. 

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens. 

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth. 

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled. 

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on. 

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine. 

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for. 

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. 

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting. 

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV. 

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me. 

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things. 

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin. 

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation. 

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention. 

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle. 

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking. 

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you. 

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink. 

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all. 

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you. 

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums. 

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go. 

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home. 

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards. 

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to. 

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter. 

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that. 

Fuck. 

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him. 

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood. 

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them. 

Which means you need to backtrack. 

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face. 

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between. 

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat. 

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way. 

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way. 

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted. 

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach. 

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears. 

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is. 

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years. 

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again. 

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave. 

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself. 

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision. 

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders. 

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable. 

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out. 

-

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs. 

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything. 

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you. 

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next. 

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. 

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight. 

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process. 

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast. 

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor. 

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you. 

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you. 

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins. 

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself. 

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen. 

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water. 

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen. 

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while. 

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat. 

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying. 

You watch it wash over him. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic. 

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air. 

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. 

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room. 

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them. 

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I��miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!

[moonstruckme]

hi!! 🤍

was wondering if you’d do james x reader where they’re like showering together after a long day 😓 nothing like sexual, just fluff and all where theyre just existing with each other, you know?

i love your writing btw, thankyou!! 💗💗

Lovely, you have no idea how you sent this at just the right time for me. This is exactly the sort of thing I was in the mood to write just before it popped into my inbox, thank you <3

cw: nonsexual nudity

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 489 words

Your bathroom is heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and lavender. Steam curls up by the ceiling and drips as condensation down your mirror. In front of you, the gorgeous topography of James’ back muscles shifts as he scrubs his hands through his hair, head hung forward so the water falls down over his face.

“You’re hogging all the heat,” you say. 

He laughs through his nose, turning and flipping his hair over in the process. Droplets of warm water splatter on your chest. You let him grab your hands with playful roughness, hauling you up against his front. 

“Come here, then,” he says, as though he hasn’t just manhandled you where he wants you. The eucalyptus smell is even better up close. 

“You rinse your hair like an idiot.” 

“Do I really?” 

“Mhm. It’s like you’re waterboarding yourself.” 

“That’s on you, lovie.” James turns you both, putting your back to the stream. “You shouldn’t have fallen in love with an idiot. No getting out now.” 

You don’t deny it, taking your turn to wash the shampoo from your hair. You shut your eyes as you do it, but you sense, somehow, when James’ hands are about to join your own. They don’t surprise you. His fingers are thicker than yours, starting at the base of your skull with nice, broad circular motions. 

James takes his time. He works his way from the back of your scalp from the front, starting on the outsides and moving inwards, his fingertips pressing down with just the right amount of pressure. You let your head weigh heavy in his hands. Soon, you allow your own hands to fall, relinquishing yourself to James’ ministrations. The sound of water streaming from your hair to slap on the porcelain of the tub is a strangely soothing din. 

Eventually, his hands slip from your hairline, sudsy fingers splaying on either side of your face. You open your eyes. 

James smiles. Sweet brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hi,” he says. 

“Hi,” you say back, your mouth curving in kind. 

His thumbs push over your temples. He lays a lingering kiss on your lips, reverent. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” you murmur. “And also…” 

“Hm?” he asks, kissing you again. 

“Mm?” 

James’ smile worsens. You think that if you’re in love with an idiot, he’s something worse; he finds you funny when you’re not being anything at all. 

“And also…” he prompts. 

“And also,” you sigh, “I’m gonna fall asleep.” 

He chuckles (further evidence against him), pulling you out of the stream for a hug. You wrap your arms loosely around his waist and enjoy the slipperiness of his shoulder against your cheek. 

“That’s okay,” says James, palm drawing up your spine. “It’s been a long one, yeah? I think you’re due some rest.” 

“I’ve still got to condition your hair, though.” 

“Right, well.” He mushes his nose into your cheek. “After that, of course.” 

[ziggy-stardust-drinks-napalm]

spotify

perpetually messy

blue

yeah, i chose it. i think it fits me.

in a relationship hell yeah

friendly, adventurous, anxious

auburn, a little more red in the summer

i dont have a car

thrift stores, anywhere at the mall

grunge

tumblr

idk what it's called, not queen but not twin

2 brothers, one older, one younger

a big city. theres a lot of stuff to do.

i dont have snap 😭😭

i dont use makeup

7, i have ocd and freak the fuck out if i dont get a shower

stranger things, idk i usually just watch movies

9

im not admitting this

sneakers. i havent worn a shoe other than my converse in years

not often, i work out but dont usually use equipment since i cant drive

getting slushies and snacks and then walking around or finding somewhere thatll let us up on the roof and chill, or teaching them how to skateboard

37 bucks and some coins

white with high mushrooms on them

1

no, im tryna get one soon though

depends on what you count as a friend

i didnt realize venting to someone without asking wasnt ok since i was younger and vented to this person on a constant without asking, still feel bad about it

anything woodsy. pine trees mostly, palo santo too.

pat, alejo, andres

taj, max, tina

FINN WOLFHARDD but pauly shores up there too

melissa mccarthy

finn wolfhard

between talladega nights, a beautiful mind, prayers for bobby, and it (2017)

horror, especially stephen king i love stephen king. misery.

brains.

im the juice guy

at least like 8 i dont really remember

been a son (nirvana), as we go up we go down (guided by voices), tourette's (nirvana), pigs (cypress hill), noid (tyler the creator), dont push (sublime), paranoia (C.C.T.V.), freaks (pat and the pissers), ziggy stardust (david bowie), abduction (callejera)

yeah

oily

being stuck in a situation

maybe 3? idk i wanna foster older kids so i guess they would come and go so it would prolly add up

i dont rlly do my hair, its like shaggy shortish, kinda mullety but not rlly so i dont have to do it. if i rlly want i can tiny it in a tiny pony.

normal i guess

this one friend

on my hair :)))

'LMFAO WHAT THE HELL'

9

orange hippie van or pickup truck

eh i dont rlly mind. if ur not pressuring other people into it its your funeral. i cant rlly give a lecture on how bad it is, im more likely than not to become an addict and ive seen what that shit does to people so im not gonna say anyone who does it is inherently a bad person bc if it

no

i wanna play guitar in a band

neither, urban. if i had to choose, suburbs. ive watched too many horror movies and couldnt stand being that far away from help if smth happened

yes

only rlly faint ones on my face. on my back and shoulders fs

depends on the kind of picture

4000

yeah

yeah

mcdonalds

idk tbh

during summer, boxers and a tshirt. during winter, sweatpants or flannel pants and a hoodie

nope

drawing, anything music related, guitar, reading, exploring, baking, writing poems sometimes, researching random topics that ill prolly never need

YES

guitar :))))))

apes of state

both but leaning towards coffee

dunkin

yeah

RM

maybe??? idrk

green i think

yeah

CLOSED IM NOT PSYCHO

yeah

people in big groups walking rlly slow in a hall so you cant get around them and youre js stuck

my friend raisel

mango or cookies and cream

regular all the way

rainbow

nirvana shirt :)

the shit on the incesticide album cover

outgoing if im w a friend, shy if im alone

YES

some of them

yes, morning

.

.

burger

"the laundromat will miss your quarters. nickles, dimes, the dust in corners. save it up to buy yourself a bigger coat and smaller chest." and "she shouldve stayed away from friends. she shouldve had more time to spend. she shoudlve died when she was born. she shoulve worn the crown of thorns. she shouldve been a son."

summer

night

dark chocolate

september

gemini

no clue

Unusual Asks

Spotify, SoundCloud, or Pandora? 

is your room messy or clean?

what color are your eyes?

do you like your name? why?

what is your relationship status? 

describe your personality in 3 words or less

what color hair do you have?

what kind of car do you drive? color?

where do you shop?

how would you describe your style?

favorite social media account

what size bed do you have? 

any siblings?

if you can live anywhere in the world where would it be? why?

favorite snapchat filter? 

favorite makeup brand(s)

how many times a week do you shower?

favorite tv show?

shoe size?

how tall are you?

sandals or sneakers? 

do you go to the gym? 

describe your dream date

how much money do you have in your wallet at the moment?

what color socks are you wearing? 

how many pillows do you sleep with?

do you have a job? what do you do? 

how many friends do you have? 

whats the worst thing you have ever done? 

whats your favorite candle scent? 

3 favorite boy names

3 favorite girl names

favorite actor? 

favorite actress? 

who is your celebrity crush?

favorite movie? 

do you read a lot? whats your favorite book? 

money or brains? 

do you have a nickname? what is it? 

how many times have you been to the hospital?

top 10 favorite songs

do you take any medications daily? 

what is your skin type? (oily, dry, etc)

what is your biggest fear? 

how many kids do you want? 

whats your go to hair style?

what type of house do you live in? (big, small, etc) 

who is your role model? 

what was the last compliment you received?

what was the last text you sent?

how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real?

what is your dream car? 

opinion on smoking?

do you go to college? 

what is your dream job? 

would you rather live in rural areas or the suburbs? 

do you take shampoo and conditioner bottles from hotels? 

do you have freckles? 

do you smile for pictures?

how many pictures do you have on your phone? 

have you ever peed in the woods? 

do you still watch cartoons? 

do you prefer chicken nuggets from Wendy’s or McDonalds?

Favorite dipping sauce? 

what do you wear to bed? 

have you ever won a spelling bee?

 what are your hobbies?

can you draw? 

do you play an instrument?

what was the last concert you saw? 

tea or coffee?

Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts?

do you want to get married?

what is your crush’s first and last initial?

are you going to change your last name when you get married? 

what color looks best on you? 

do you miss anyone right now? 

do you sleep with your door open or closed?

do you believe in ghosts?

what is your biggest pet peeve? 

last person you called`

favorite ice cream flavor? 

regular oreos or golden oreos? 

chocolate or rainbow sprinkles? 

what shirt are you wearing? 

what is your phone background?

are you outgoing or shy?

do you like it when people play with your hair?

do you like your neighbors? 

do you wash your face? at night? in the morning?

have you ever been high? 

have you ever been drunk? 

last thing you ate? 

favorite lyrics right now

summer or winter? 

day or night? 

dark, milk, or white chocolate? 

favorite month? 

what is your zodiac sign

 who was the last person you cried in front of? 

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello! I love your writing, specifically the soft-only-for-their-love villain ones! I was wondering if you’d write another one like that? Maybe a villain x civilian one? No worries if not! Thanks !!

"Do you think I wouldn't love all of you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You hide so much of your nature, with me," the civilian said. "Do you think I wouldn't love the rest of you?"

The villain slowly eased their jacket off, watching the civilian where they sat by the big window, framed by the city lights outside. The words rested heavily in the silence of their home, untouched by the roar of traffic and life so close beyond the sound-proofed walls.

"You're upset I didn't take you with me tonight," the villain said.

"Am I?"

"Well, you're still up and you're starting this conversation the moment I walk through the door, so..."

"You're deflecting. Avoiding the question."

It had been a gala night. Another gala night.

The villain kicked their shoes off next, before padding their way over to the civilian. They caressed a thumb along the line of the civilian's jaw, guiding their face away from ghostly reflections in the glass, to them. They kissed the civilian in greeting. Just the once. Sweet. The civilian craned into them like a flower to light.

"I think," the villain murmured, leaning their foreheads together, "that you would be crazy to love the rest of me."

"So you won't give me the chance?"

"And more importantly I think the rest of me wouldn't love you in the way that you deserve to be loved, darling."

The civilian's jaw clenched, stubborn, with the damning desire of so many in love to look. Glance back. Unlock the door. Turn around. Open their eyes. An endless litany of people who should have known better than to see but still intended to.

The villain sighed and kissed their forehead.

"For starters," the villain said, "no one else would dare even have this conversation with me. Do you want to be that scared of me?"

"Should I be?"

"No, not you." The villain paused. "Maybe. Probably. I don't know."

"I'm not."

"Good."

"Is it?" The civilian's head tipped. Their fingers slid deftly to unravel the villain's fine clothes with practiced ease, finding warm skin. Something human beneath the silk. "Because if you're so bad that I can't even go to a work event with you, then that doesn't stop you being a monster. It just makes you a monster on a self-imposed leash. Leashes slip."

"Yes."

"So?"

"So, I'm selfish, and I want to keep you anyway. On the off chance that mine doesn't."

"And if I leave?" The civilian pressed a kiss to the villain's chest.

"Do you want to?"

"I think I'd rather know your true nature now, than if I ever did."

"You know my true nature," the villain said, "in the way that you know water when it quenches your thirst and rain when it waters your garden, but haven't been crushed by the tons of the ocean. Haven't drowned."

"I like the ocean."

The villain huffed a laugh at that, closing their eyes. They nuzzled against the civilian's hair. "I like the ocean too. But not for you. Not where it gets dark and cold and humans can't survive."

"They have cool fish down there. Like in the Mariana trench."

"Sure. But you don't make love to the Mariana trench."

"Name of my next romance novel."

The villain snorted. They were quiet together for a moment, the possibility of an argument simmering down, though the question of it remained.

"I like the beach," the villain said. "I like the shallows where the water is pretty and blue and I can see the sky, even bluer. There are birds and ice cream and nothing to do except adore you."

The civilian swallowed. "You have an idealised view of beaches. You ever been in winter when it's raining? Dire."

The villain laughed quietly. "I'll take the most dire beach you have."

"There's garbage."

"Well, I'm very good at taking out the trash."

It was the civilian's turn to snort.

"Also bribery," the villain said. They settled on the large window sill, drawing the civilian onto their chest, into their arms. "I smuggled you back cake."

"Bribery! Oh, gosh darn it," the civilian said. "I'm shocked and appalled. I never thought you'd sink so low."

"It's chocolate."

"It gets worse."

"Is it working?"

"I suppose you did bring the best bit of the party back to me. Luckily for you, I'm very susceptible to bribery. Did you kill anyone?"

The villain tensed a fraction at the question.

"Oh, everyone."

The civilian paused at that, glancing around to see if the villain was joking. They coudn't quite tell. The villain pressed another kiss to their head, relaxing.

"It's late," they said. "Can you love the bits of me I can give you in the morning? Like the chocolate cake, I do promise it's the best part of me."

"You're selfish. I'm greedy. I think I'd like all of you, one day."

"But not today."

"Not today." The civilian stifled a yawn.. "So long as the bit of you today carries me to bed."

The villain laughed again, soft, and shifted to scoop them up.

In the darkness, as the civilian slept, the villain watched them. They stroked their hair back from their fragile, lovely skull. Brushed their fingers along perfectly unmarred bones.

"I know you'd love all of me, darling," they said. "That's the scary bit."

In their sleep, the civilian turned over, and snuggled guilelessly into the villain's chest.

[rkivefae]

(repost from old acc, it's been a few years since I've been on here)

Okay, so my friend has doodled in my chemistry notebook when I let them borrow it, then I began thinking,,

Steddie high school au

Eddie draws continuously in chemistry class and he has certain things he draws with inspiration from that class and doesn’t want to contaminate it with other classes so he hides the notebook, poorly, in hope that when he comes back, it'll still be there.

Steve comes to his seat, in the back of the class and notices it immediately. His first thought is that someone lost it so he grabs it in hopes of seeing a name but instead sees crazy drawings. Ranging from small sketches of supposed knights to fantasy creatures that Steve never would have thought of seeing.

"If found, leave where it is OR ELSE" It read in thick sharpie letters on the front page.

He felt bad for being nosy and going through it but he couldn't help himself as he continued looking through it. After some heavy overthinking, he decides to draw something back. He wasn't the most talented but he was better than most in his art classes, so hopefully they didn’t laugh too much at his attempt.

He decides to draw a jester, tried his best to shade in all perfectly and portion everything properly. To say the least, he was impressed with his final product because this is better than anything he’s ever done in is classes. Next to it he writes, as if the character was saying it, “You should put this in better places.”

He didn’t even focus in class, AT ALL.

But when he came back to the class, he found the notebook again. Took one look at it and tried to fight back the desire to just crack it open and see if they wrote back. His fingers itched to have the glosses cover turned open. just a peak. He tried to reason and at first he held back. Trying to focus in class but that ended terribly, so he grabbed the notebook after about 5 minutes of spacing out on the teacher and eyeing it.

When he opened the page, there it was. A reply.

It was a king, you could tell by the crown he wore but fangs were prominent in the grinning feature. Black curled hair that fell onto his shoulder that was covered by a dark suit. A hand stretched out with a sword towards the Jester, “There is a trespasser? And a fool? State thy business!”

Steve fucking giggled. Giggled! Of all things he could’ve done, he giggled! King Steve Harrington since freshman year, had all the ladies wooing at him and guys wanting to be him just giggled because the owner of the notebook drewsomething for him.

Steve would never get focus back into that class since he replied. Always waiting for the notebook and it became his priority. He didn’t understand how he was still passing that class with how much he began lacking!

They talked about simple silly things at first before Eddie began picking it up more, talking more about who he was but never stated a name, not yet. They weren’t ready for that.

Steve even helped Eddie decide on what to use as his Hellfire club signature look that was going to be fought to be published as an official club on school record!

But when the last page came along at the ending of the school year, Eddie spoke about it. Said, “It’s the end of the year, the last of this book. Could I finally ask your name?”

Steve’s whole world stopped spinning. He couldn’t even begin to explain the thoughts racing through his head.

When they know, would they stop being friends with him? No one truly liked Steve Harrington, he became popular by default of being a pretty boy and on the basketball team. Most talked about how his group of people were assholes and that he might as well be, too. He wasn’t oblivious, he knew what most people thought. He was a boy of a rich family that was spoiled. That wasn’t a lie, but his life wasn’t pretty, thanks to his father and mother. But could anyone really understand that? Walking through the door of his home in fear of what he’ll walk in and see, what would happen to him if he breathed wrong in the presence of his father?

What if when he says his name and they don’t want nothing to do with him? What if when he says his name, he loses the only honest friendship he has? What if they share the things he told them in the notebook to everyone else withproof as a way to ruin his life because they didn’t like him? Maybe they weren’t like that but Steve couldn’t take that risk. No one with this chance would not take it, right? Tommy would take it. The rest of the boys on the team would take it. Carol would take it and laugh about it. He couldn’t expect different from other people, right?

Steve’s breathing quickened as his chest tightened, tears welling up and he gripped his chest. He rushed out of class with an unsteady balance, the teacher yelling behind him and he didn’t return for that period, the notebook left open and unsigned.

He couldn’t.

That moment was talked about everywhere, how he rushed out of class and didn’t return. No one bothered to question why, just whispered how panicked he was. Poor Steve, they said mockingly in the halls but never to his face.

Eddie knew.

It didn’t take long to piece it all together, the incident, the opened notebook, the fact that it was all too much of a coincidence and the things he said just made sense for it to be Steve Harrington.

He didn’t want to believe it at first, laughing that it was just dumb and there was no way that Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington was talking to Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson with passion. But then again, they both didn’t know who each other was.

When Steve talked about dumb moments with his ‘friends’ and how he felt bad for the people they ‘hung’ around, the games he lost and how he beat himself up, even the moments that Steve told him how he hated the social ranking - it all should have made sense. At first, Eddie thought that the person writing back was like him, a freak with nerdy interest. Which, in a different font, Steve was.

However, as the next few years flied by, Eddie just watched Steve from afar. From sucking faces with Nancy Wheeler in the hallway, picking her up and twirling her around, smiling bright because he was happy to the moments that it looked like Steve was seconds away from turning over and dying. The bruises that cascaded over certain parts of his body being a brushed off topic and the fear that was in his eyes when he turned the corner. Like he knew things he shouldn’t.

There was raw fear, hatred, anger and even disgust that Eddie was able to recognize. Part of him wondered where the happiness went and the other was tired of him staying afar, wanting to talk to him because Steve Harrington was more than just a pretty boy from what he knew and the look on his eyes only said more.

Eddie never got to, Steve rushed past every day, ready to get the day over and he couldn’t talk to him. Soon, Steve graduated and Eddie was held-back again and he took that as a sign. A strong one. To just get over it. He was never going to know Steve Harrington and it was stupid for him to even think so. Plus, if he did, it was stupid! The town freak with the most loved boy in town? Not a good duo. So, he stayed afar for good.

Until he didn’t.

Steve Harrington waltzed in with an arguing Dustin Henderson, the club all watching the two before Steve Harrington scoffed. “I’m serious, I’m not playing your nerdy campaign just because you’re missing a person! I don’t understand it,” He said, pushing a bag towards Dustin’s chest. “You know I’m not smart enough to understand that.”

Before Dustin could reply, Eddie took that as his chance to finally greet them. He climbed out of his chair rather loudly, catching both of their attention before walking up to Steve, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning forward.

“Well, Well, if it isn’t the missing Jester.” He said, a cocky tone laced within it

It took only a few seconds before Steve’s eyes widened when it clicked.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

[smilesatdawnmain]

It's done everybody. The Outfit Challenge! This was so much fun, and I totally had to pause at the end because I hurt my wrist a little. I'm good, I'm fine. Just gotta be slow when I draw/write.

BUT! I wanted to post all of them together. As Savage said, a little "Competition" might be fun. So with everything laid out, who do you think held the best outfit?

(I'd totally do a poll, but that is too many names XD So please, put your vote in the comments~!) I

[starlightseraph]

yesterday (6 may) was a bit of a milestone birthday for me. i’m feeling very weird. on the one hand, i once didn't think i'd make it to 9, or any age between that and 16, but look at me now. that's something to celebrate. on the other, growing up is scary. i'm still very young, but not too young. i'm ≥ 18, ≤ 25. so between 18 and 25, inclusive. it's strange. i remember being 3 like it was yesterday. i remember running on the playground when i was 6, drawing when i was 9, writing when i was 12, being sick when i was 15. i feel exactly the same now as i did at all of those ages, even as a toddler. obviously the ways i think about things have changed and my sense of personal responsibility is much greater. i have lots of issues and fears and pains both emotional and physical that i didn't have then. but that little girl was recognisably me. always. i am her. fundamentally, i'm just the same as ever.

anyways, happy birthday to me, i made it. my number one priority now is maintaining my whimsy and trying to never feel like an adult. being responsible is cool, but i don’t want to let myself become an automaton living the same monotonous existence every day for decades. a calm and predictable life is fine, good even, but may that magic in smelling flowers, tasting a good meal, laughing with my family, or watching a hummingbird zip by never leave me. may i always be just as passionate about the things i love, just as eager to do fun and silly things just because they're fun and silly, and may i always keep my soft heart and never let it harden or become cold, no matter what it's bruised with.

ok, that's my speech. love for humanity and existence, joy in what's beautiful, sorrow and compassion in the face of what's painful. keep loving and caring about people and things, always. try to help, always. it matters.

hope and determination and love and joy and whimsy, always.

[freelancelobotomy]

౨ৎ˚₊𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 [𝐒.𝐑]

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

𐙚⋆.˚Summary: Spencer is smitten for the T.A. at Penelope’s art class. And he just might have a chance with her.  ⋆˙⟡♡WC: 2.3k

⊹܀˙CW: Suggestive language, Derek is half neked (for plot reasons of course), Spencer wants y/n so baddddd, Reader is described to have hips (the pic is to show the maxi skirt that I imagined), Reader has long hair.

♪‧₊˚A/N: hiiiiii I love this song + it came on my shuffle yesterday and it gave me an idea so yk I had to get to WORK. I hope u like. If this gets over 100 notes ill write Gravity pt 3. Okay bye bye

Spencer had agreed to take both Derek and Penelope to Penelope’s art class that night since her car wouldn’t start and Derek’s had gotten towed for being parked on the street too long while they were in Florida for a case. Derek wasn’t taking the class with Penelope—he was the model for it.

“It’s a life drawing class,” she had explained, giddily. “They saw Derek pick me up last week and the professor asked him to model for us today. And to bring baby oil.”

The art room was bright and beautifully decorated, with an abundance of ferns and vines and all sorts of greenery adorned onto the walls.

The professor had smiled as the three of them approached the stool that Derek was supposed to perch on during class.

“Penelope! Derek! Happy that you could make it. You can change in the supply closet on the left,” Professor Andi had gasped. “Did you bring some oil? I have linseed oil from my oil painting class earlier today that you can use if you didn’t.”

“I got some, don’t worry, Doc,” Derek had said with a wink before making his way to the supply closet and shutting the door behind him.

“Who is this? Are you here for the class?” Professor Andi had beamed.

“Oh… no. I’m Spencer. I was just dropping off—”

You had walked into the room, your hips swishing in your maxi skirt as you balanced a tower of sketchbooks in your arms.

“Y/N! Hi!” Penelope had smiled. “Do you need help?”

Spencer’s legs had started moving on their own toward you, taking four of the sketchbooks from your stack.

You had smiled politely at the tall man. “Thank you.” The both of you placed the sketchbooks on the table..

“You’re welcome,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face. Beautiful, he had thought, a warmth spreading through him. The first thing he had truly noticed were your lips—the way they curved into a smile as you spoke, their delicate movements as you formed each word. You wrapped Penelope in a hug.

“Oh,” you sighed, a faint blush gracing your cheeks. “How rude of me. I’m Y/N. Professor Andi’s TA. You must be Derek,” you had said, offering your hand.

Spencer, despite a fleeting thought about germs, had found himself wanting to hold it. Your touch was light, and your nails were a pretty pale pink. What would it feel like to have those hands explore…?

Spencer had cleared his throat, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I’m not Derek. I’m, uh… Doctor Spencer Reid—well, just Spencer. Please.” He had fumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets to resist the urge to reach for you again. “I’m Penelope and Derek’s ride.”

“My mistake, Spencer,” you had said, your eyes meeting his with a playful tilt of your head. “Will you be joining us today?”

Did you know the effect you had? It had felt almost cruel. He glanced at Penelope, who was practically begging with her eyes.

A subtle smile had played on his lips. “Looks like I will be,” he nodded, his attention already drawn back to you.

“Great! Come with me. Let’s get you a sketchbook,” you grinned, gesturing for him to follow, and he had found himself eagerly complying.

Your backside was just as pretty as your face. He watched you switch on the light in the supply room, the movement causing a soft sway of your hips that he couldn’t tear his gaze from.

You crouched down to the floor, rummaging through bins of pencils. The way your brow had furrowed in concentration was endearing.

“Have you ever taken art class before? Or just been creating independently?” you asked him, your voice a melodic murmur that had sent a shiver down his spine. Gravity had pulled your hair toward your face, showcasing the delicate slope of your neck—a sight that made his breath catch. He wanted to reach out, to feel the softness of those strands against his fingers.

“Neither. This is all sort of new to me,” he admitted, his chuckle betraying a hint of nervousness—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. Especially not to someone who already held his attention so tightly.

“I see,” you said, picking up a large sketchbook and a brand new case of pencils and blending stubs. “Well, what do you like to do in your free time?” Your eyes met his for a fleeting moment, his stomach fluttering.

He had taken the supplies from you, his fingers brushing against yours—a brief touch that sent a jolt of electricity through him. He wished the exchange could have lasted longer, wanted to linger in that delicate contact. He spent too long just looking at you, memorizing the curve of your smile, the way your eyes sparkled. Words, he had reminded himself. He needed to say something meaningful, something that would capture your attention as completely as you had captured his.

“I like reading,” he managed, his voice slightly rougher than intended.

You waltzed past him to re-enter the art room, your perfume drifting toward his senses. Hmm… Fresh. Pear maybe? The scent was intoxicating—a promise of sweetness that he desperately wanted to explore. He would’ve followed that fragrance anywhere, even into the deepest ocean.

“Me too. Um… what’s your favorite book?” you asked.

He paused. You wanted to talk to him. The realization sent a thrill through him. What timeline was he in right now? This had felt like a dream.

“I enjoy everything that I read,” he replied. He had known it was a terrible answer, a deflection, but his mind was still reeling from your nearness.

“Okay, but there’s got to be a standout,” you chuckled, raising a brow. Cute. The simple gesture had made him swallow hard.

“Well, recently I’ve been re-reading Orwellian literature, so something of that nature. As of the moment I’ve been particularly enjoying 1984.” He wanted to impress you with his intellect, hoping to find some common ground, some way to bridge the distance between you.

“Ooh,” you sighed, “That’s a good one. Mine right now is probably…” You trailed off, thinking as you opened a fresh kneaded eraser for him. “Lord of the Flies,” you had decided. “Works that ask the question if evil is ingrained into our morality are some of my favorites. I find them the most stimulating,” you said, your eyes holding a captivating intensity.

It hadn’t been suggestive in the slightest the way you had said it, yet it had stirred something within him—a deep need to know you. To know where you came from and the places you'd been. He had managed a curt nod, his usual eloquence deserting him as he had found a seat next to Penelope, his gaze still drawn to your every movement.

After Professor Andi gave a quick review (or introduction, for Spencer) of value and shape, Derek had stepped out of the supply closet, glistening like a glazed donut. The women in the class had turned to each other, giddy and excited. He had taken his place on the stool in the middle of the circle of chairs. Derek smiled at Spencer and Penelope before striking a pose.

Spencer didn’t give a shit, though. He had been staring at you as you peeled a clementine at your desk, the delicate way your fingers manipulated the fruit utterly mesmerizing. You popped a slice into your mouth before wiping the residue from your hands and taking your sketchbook in hand. He imagined the sweetness lingering on your lips—a dangerous thought that made his chest ache. He’s never wanted someone so badly before.

Professor Andi had put on her Bossa Nova playlist. How fitting. Your hoop earrings, the faint flush on your cheeks—you had looked like how Bossa Nova sounded: pleasant and dreamy, an ethereal vision that he had felt he could only admire from afar.

You had begun sketching furiously, a small pout forming on your lips in concentration, your brow furrowed. The intensity of your focus had been incredibly alluring. He had found himself wanting to be the subject of that fierce gaze, to have you study him with such intent. He envied the loose leaf paper of your sketchbook and your 6B pencil that had the privilege of feeling your touch uninterrupted.

“Why haven’t you started yet?” Penelope whispered—not so subtly. It snapped Spencer from his haze, the spell you had cast momentarily broken.

“Huh—what?”

“Your page. It’s empty. Why?”

“Just thinking of how to approach this, is all,” he lied, his mind still replaying the way your hair had fallen across your neck. Penelope had narrowed her eyes but had chosen to let it go.

He had desperately wanted to impress you, to create something worthy of your attention. The thought of your opinion consumed him.

Spencer had somehow managed to find the control to start drawing a half-naked, oiled-up Derek, but his values had gotten a little muddy. He had needed to block out the highlights like Professor Andi had said in her brief lecture. But his kneaded eraser was stiff and wouldn’t warm up in his hands, no matter how long he had pressed it between his palms.

“Do you need help?” 

“Uh, yeah, my eraser won’t soften.”

“Y/N,” Penelope said, calling you over with a smile. You peered up from your sketchbook and smiled as you got up to approach her.

“How can I help?” you asked, bending over slightly with your palms on your thighs to be within earshot of Penelope.

“Spence needs help getting his kneaded eraser to knead,” she whispered, biting back a smile.

“No problem,” you smiled, dragging a stool next to him and sitting down. You had leaned in close to get a glance at the eraser. Pears, he had thought.

“Is it hard?” you asked. Ironic, he had thought.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to.”

“You’re totally fine. It happens to me all the time. Here. I’ll help,” you had said, taking his hands into yours. “See this part of your thumb?”

Your long, delicate fingers had softly rubbed the joint below the pad of his thumb. Spencer had nodded, his mouth suddenly dry.

“You’re going to press it against this joint,” you had said, your fingertips now tracing the second joint of his index finger. “And rub the eraser between your fingers to warm it up.” You had placed the square, unkneaded eraser in the described position and guided Spencer’s hands to repeat that motion over and over until his fingerprint had appeared in the softened eraser. Spencer had hoped you wouldn’t notice how badly his hands were shaking as you held them.

“Okay, good job,” you had said, a soft warmth in your voice. Jesus. “Now stretch it with two hands like putty, then roll it into a ball.”

Your molasses gaze had flickered over his fingers, briefly meeting his. He had your complete attention in that moment and he literally had no idea what to do with himself. He had rolled the now-soft eraser into a ball.

“Perfect. Now you can use it.” You smiled at him—a genuine, captivating smile that had sent a jolt through him—before moving your stool away.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little rough. You nodded politely before returning to your sketchbook.

Spencer had made the decision that he was going to try his absolute hardest to impress you. He had known it was probably stupid, but it hadn’t seemed impossible, and he had thought he had a good shot at making it work.

By the end of the class, everyone had given their sketches to Derek for him to keep. Spencer had handed his to Derek. Derek’s brows had risen.

“You did this?”

“Yeah,” Spencer croaked dryly, his mind elsewhere. He had been watching you through the mirror near the door. You had ripped out two pages and then gotten up from your seat.

“It looks good, actually. Nice work, pretty boy,” Derek had said, clapping him hard on the shoulder.

“Hi Derek, nice to meet you,” you said nicely, smiling. You had handed him your portrait, which—of course—had put everyone else’s to shame, Spencer’s included. You made polite small talk with Penelope until they had eventually needed to leave.

Spencer lingered in the doorway. Ask for her number. Stop being awkward and aloof for five seconds of your life and ask her. But what if you never called him? Should he ask you to coffee instead? Or lunch? You seemed like a brunch type of girl—

“Doctor,” you whispered.

Spencer had turned around, his heart leaping. “I have something for you,” you had said, walking toward him.

“For me?” he asked, a hopeful tremor in his voice.

You handed him something—it was a portrait. Of him.

“I did it after I finished Derek’s.”

It was beautiful. He looked beautiful. The delicate lines of the shadows sketched by your hands, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips… it had been him, and it had been wonderful. And it had been by you. You had observed his face and felt the need to put pencil to paper.

“Would you like, um—Y/N… Do you want to get coffee with me sometime next week?” he stammered, the question tumbling out in a rush. A slow, knowing smile had crept onto your lips, and you had nodded. Unbelievable.

“Yeah, I’d love to, Spencer,” you chuckled breathily, the sound like a melody to his ears.

“Really? Could I… get your number?” he had asked, his gaze fixed on yours.

“Flip it over,” you said, brushing past him, your scent lingering in the air again.

He had followed your directions. Your number had been scribbled on the back of the portrait. “Bye, Spencer.”

He watched you get into your car as Penelope and Derek laughed about something.

Your car had pulled out of the driveway, and you had honked the horn.

Penelope had smirked at Spencer. “Someone made a friend.”

“I saw her helping you ‘knead your eraser.’ I can tell she likes you.”

“You think?” Spencer had asked, biting back a grin.

He sure had hoped so—because he was already obsessed with you.

borders from: @muffiinss

I love jeff buckley

[strang3lov3]

Sunscreen

“Because,” Roman says, maneuvering you around, “I will fucking kill you if you burn. So c’mere, because I don’t wanna deal with the hassle of murdering you…” He rubs the lotion on your shoulders and chest, massaging your skin as he works his way down your arms. “Disposing of your body…all that fuckin’ bullshit.”

Tags - stepdaddy!roman, one shot, smut, unprotected piv, oral sex (f!receiving), you have to guess what daddy draws on your pussy with his tongue or you don't get to cum, edging, orgasm denial, cum eating, stupidly sweet, baby reader/romey flashbacks, romey is sooo dad and so protective, pool day turned stormy and cozy, sunscreen shenanigans, shut up and don't look at me. A/N - listen, kittens. I know I’ve been long teasing the noncon. The shit hitting the fan. But some of you want some domestic and silly moments between stepdaddy and reader, and…well. Mommy’s fucking heartbroken over Joel’s death in tlou. As you’ve probably seen. So I hope it’s not an issue that I wanted to write and give you this fuckin sweet and stupid and sexy one off.

You smile when you dip your toe into the water. Warmth. It’s probably 90°F, thanks to Roman turning on the pool heater a few days ago. You set down your colorfully-striped towel on a lounge chair and walk on the hot concrete of the patio, humming at the warmth of the sunlight on your shoulders and the blooming flowers and succulents planted along the edges. 

You sit at the edge of the pool, on this sort of diving board made of stone, with your feet dangling into the water. You lightly kick, watching the water droplets splash and land, those pretty concentric circles expanding outward. 

The glass patio door slides open, and out comes Roman in a teal t-shirt and pink swim shorts, a bottle of sunscreen in hand with his sunglasses on. He pulls off his shirt and joins you at the edge of the pool, squirting a bit of the lotion into his hand to rub on your back. You whine his name as you wiggle, but Roman holds you. “Nuh-uh, sit still.”

“Why?” you complain. 

“Because,” Roman says, maneuvering you around, “I will fucking kill you if you burn. So c’mere, because I don’t wanna deal with the hassle of murdering you…” He rubs the lotion on your shoulders and chest, massaging your skin as he works his way down your arms. “Disposing of your body…all that fuckin’ bullshit.”

You giggle at that. It’s a quiet, intimate moment, just being taken care of by Roman. It almost makes you bashful. He’s seen every inch of your body and tasted your orgasms, but the way he paints sunscreen on your cheeks and forehead makes you feel so, so tender, so suddenly and absurdly precious - like something to be handled with care, and not just devoured. Roman used to eat you. Roman’s  choosing to protect from something as mundane as sunburn. 

You really like that. Being protected by him. 

Roman does himself next, then spins around so you can get his back. You slide your palms over the vast expanse of his skin, rubbing in the lotion, taking in every little detail on him. The way his hair climbs up the back of his neck, the random freckles and moles. Still too intimate. Before rubbing the lotion into his skin the rest of the way, you use your fingertip to draw a dick, snickering the whole time. 

Roman rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s - that’s really nice, sweetheart. Asshole.”

“I think I’m funny,” you reply, erasing your drawing. 

“Uh-huh, I’ll show you something funny.” Roman looks over his shoulder, waiting for you to finish. When you’re done and wiping the excess sunscreen off your hands onto your thighs, Roman spins around and wraps his arms beneath your knees and around your back. He grunts loudly as he stands up, smiling so big at the panic in your eyes. 

“Roman, wait - Roman–”

“Nope. Bye!” 

Roman throws you off the edge, listening to you scream and watching you splash in the water below. When you come up for air, you flip him off, an indignant little pout on your lips. He laughs at that, then cannonballs in, splashing water all over you, which doesn’t matter much when you’re already soaked. 

You spend some time swimming, not doing much talking with Roman. He does the same, and you watch his elegant body move and glide under the water, little droplets rolling down his sharp jaw when he comes up. You like his hair all slicked back and wet like this, and how bright his eyes are in the sun. He walks up the steps of the pool, grabbing two inflatable loungers. He tosses them in the water - a pink one for you, and an orange one for himself. 

On your stomach, you lie on your lounger. Roman lies on his, on his back. He holds a hand back and above his head, wiggling his fingers for you to take hold of them. You do, holding his warm, pruned hand as you just…float. The scent of the chlorine and the Hawaiian tropic sunscreen, the plastic of the pool floaties and the lycra from your bikini. There are some birds chirping in a nest they made in Roman’s gutters.

Roman likes this. Likes the water. He always did, but you - not so much. It took you some time. 

He had the pool installed when you were maybe fourteen or fifteen, somewhere around there. Roman noticed you’d kind of just wade in the shallow end on the rare occasion that you’d actually get in the pool, never going further than that or jumping off the rock into the deep end. 

“Hey, loser. What’s the deal, you scared of swimming or something?” he’d asked one day, finally. 

You shrugged in the water. “I don’t know how,” you mumbled. 

“You don’t know how?” Roman asked. “Really?”

Nope. Your mom never signed you up for lessons when you were little, which Roman thought was unacceptable. “I mean, fuck. I’ll teach you,” he offered. “Or I could, if you want. It’ll be super easy, so c’mon. And then we can play Marco Polo or some shit like that, right?” 

You shook your head and tucked your knees against your chest, waiting for him to leave you alone. “I really don’t want to.” 

“Well, you kinda have to,” Roman replied, mocking your mumbly tone. He was like that too, at that age. All curled up in himself and insecure and crabby. He grabbed your hands under the water and tugged you toward the deeper water. 

“Noooo.”

“Yeeesss,” Roman teased. “You, sweet child of mine, can learn the easy way, or you can learn the hard way.” 

“Which is which?”

“Mmm, well - easy way, you come with me and quit fuckin’ pouting, because it’s a beautiful day and we’re having fun and I love you. Hard way, I throw you into the deep end.” You planted your feet firmly on the floor of the pool, and pulled your hand from Roman’s grip. “Welp, hard way it is. It was nice knowin’ ya, kid.” 

You squealed and yelled at Roman to put you down, begging for the easy way. He wasn’t actually gonna throw you in the water, either. His own dad did that to him before he could swim and it traumatized poor Roman. 

Roman brought you to the middle of the pool, holding you close as he taught you to swim from one side of the pool to the other. He taught you to kick, to tread water, to hold your breath. He helped you float on your back, his fingers guiding you beneath your spine. 

Roman couldn’t keep you out of the pool after that day. He had the water heater installed special just for you, so he could keep his pool open a little longer in the fall. 

You’re thinking about Roman as you hold his hand, watching him bask in the sun. What a special day this is, and how it makes you feel like a kid again. All those days just like this one, you’re lucky to have another. Sometimes you wish you didn’t grow up. Or, since you had to - because everyone has to - that you could have had a redo, where it was only you and Roman. Nobody else.

Roman slides off of his lounger and swims to the end of the pool. He steps out and towels off quickly, stopping inside and returning ten minutes later with some sandwiches and snacks, fruit and whatnot. You hang out by the edge of the pool, eating and chatting with Roman as his legs dangle in the water. He peels a clementine for you and passes you the slices. 

He’s so, so fucking beautiful. The sun makes his cheeks rosy, makes his freckles pop. You love how his hair blows in the gentle breeze, tickling the tops of his ears. He scrunches his face when a butterfly lands on his perfect nose, watching its colorful wings move. “These fuckin’ things are kinda creepy, huh?” 

“How so?” 

“Mm,” he hums. “‘Cause they like, grab you.” Roman reaches for your wrist, gently pinching, mimicking the tickly little legs. “Like that.” He sniffles then, one eye shut as he wiggles his mouth and nose.

“You can’t touch it,” you remind him. “The–”

“The oils on my fingers, I know. Oh, Iiiii fuckin’ know,” Roman murmurs, waiting patiently for it to fly away. “Wouldn’t wanna fuck with the poor guy. I’m sure he’s got flowers to pollinate and whatever.”

“Yeah,” you answer. You were the one who taught him that in the first place, about the oils on his hands being harmful to butterflies. God, all those years ago. Maybe when he taught you to swim. 

Roman tilts his head back, looking at the sun. He turns his face quickly and sneezes loudly, scaring the butterfly off. 

“You’re such a dick, Roman.” 

“What?” he blinks. “Not my fault I had to sneeze. What, am I supposed to not sneeze?” 

“Correct.” 

Some time later, Roman’s cleaned up and he’s back in the pool, lounging with you. You’re napping together, pinkies interlocked as your floatie bounces against his. It’s peaceful and warm and perfect until it’s not, until the sky goes gray, and then even darker than that. A gust of wind wakes Roman up first, and he notices things are about to get a little ugly. 

“Hey, you. Wake the fuck up.” He flicks your thigh, rousing you from your nap. “Wakey, c’mon. We should get out of the pool. I don’t want you in the water when it gets nasty.” 

Roman gets off of his inflatable and pushes yours to the end of the pool, which tickles you. He gives you so much shit for never doing anything yourself, but when he’s around he does it all for you. He takes your hand and helps you out of the pool, wrapping one of his fancy, oversized towels around your shoulders. He puts the inflatables away, then sits down on a cushioned, swiveling chair that also rocks. 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, staring at Roman’s feet while you contemplate something. Whatever. He’s done worse to you, in his bed and in yours and on the kitchen table and in the shower. So you just go for it, and sit on his lap.

The corner of Roman’s lip curls up in a crooked grin. “Oh yeah? Is that how it is?”

“Mmmhmno.”

“Nope. Tell me, honey, what’s, uh–what’s all this about?” Roman smiles, gesturing to you on his lap. 

“Uhhmmm…I just fell.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Roman tugs you closer against him, wrapping his arms around you. One around your shoulder, the other draped across your hip with his hand resting on your ass. “Quite the spill ya took there. Yeah, you totally ate shit. God, look at you, with your broken nose, broken arm, dislocated…whatever the fuck. Shoulder” Roman inhales sharply, then clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “What am I gonna do with you?” He marks each syllable of the question with a squeeze on your hip. 

He looks up at you, then pushes some of your hair out of your face and behind your ear. Roman likes the way that makes you all bashful and embarrassed, how you bury your face into the cushion of his chair because you can’t look at him. He’s soft, but you are too. 

An obnoxious alert on his phone startles you both. Roman checks it and furrows his eyebrows. “Well, shit.”

“What, Rome?”

“We’re under a warning,” Roman mumbles, opening up his weather app. It takes a second for the radar to load, and then he looks at the ugly mass of red and yellow and orange on the map. “That’s not fuckin’ good. Oh well.” 

You shrug and look ahead at the approaching front. All those swirling, dark clouds. The air tinted yellow. On Roman’s lap, you watch the storm roll in, the rain dotting the pool and darkening the concrete patio. There’s a dull but changing roar of the wind, and it makes the water ripple and blows Roman’s hair back and away from his forehead. His eyes are looking closer to the color of the sky, which is something. You’ve never seen someone with eyes like his. 

Roman’s looking at you too, you know. You two are good at that, at stealing glances from each other without the other noticing, your own silly dance. Roman sees a flicker of concern on your face when lightning lights up a cloud and thunder crackles loudly. 

You used to be scared of storms. Maybe you still are, a little. Which is okay. You used to be worse, more afraid - and it wasn’t bad, and it wasn’t your fault. You were maybe twelve at the oldest, and all alone at some park your mom dropped you off at. No other kids were playing there. A horrible storm rolled in and you were all alone in this big, empty playground. There was a bathroom nearby you tried to hide in, but the women’s bathroom was dirty and filled with bugs and spiders and the men’s was locked. You ended up hiding in some cubby at the playground instead, crying as you waited out the rain all by yourself. 

Roman wasn’t around for that one. He didn’t even know. He would have picked you up if you had a phone and called him, or if your mom sent him to. But that’s not what happened, no. He came home from work and you were all damp and sniffling in your room upstairs, while downstairs your mom told Roman how dramatic you were. Something about how when she was a kid she loved playing in the rain, or some bullshit like that. And maybe it was true - but she wasn’t alone and scared at a park. It’s a lot different to play in the rain in your backyard than to be stuck in a storm out in the middle of nowhere. 

He was so fucking angry for you, and he was sad when it’d storm at any point after that because you were that fucking terrified. Inconsolable. Some dark clouds would roll in and you’d fixate on them with laser focus, brows knit in worry with a pout on your little face like those clouds were out to get you. And of course Roman understood why, but it still made him sad. Made him want to fix it. 

So he did. 

It was storming - about to storm, actually. You were standing in front of the glass, chewing on your lip as you wished so very hard those terrible clouds would go the other way. Roman unlocked the patio door you were standing in front of and slid it open. “You can’t open that,” you’d told him immediately, panicked. “It’s about to storm.” 

“Oh, is it?” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Hm. Well,” Roman said, “It’s my door, and I’ll open it when I want. Punk.” 

Roman put his hand flat on the middle of your back and gently, firmly pushed you out onto the patio, ignoring your whines and your arguing. You really did squirm, too. So fucking freaked as Roman forced you into the same thing that traumatized you before. “You cant - it’s gonna rain,” you cried. “It’s - I already see the thunder. Roman, I need to go inside, let me inside.” 

“You hear thunder, genius. You see lightning.” 

The joke didn’t land, of course. “I want to go inside, Roman. Please.” 

Holy fuck, that tremble in your voice punched him in the gut, and it broke Roman’s heart to ignore you. He held the door shut despite the way you clawed at the glass, leaving your little handprints all over it. When the rain began to pour, you started to sob and buried yourself into his chest, making horrible, panicked noises that wrecked him as you grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. 

“Hey, hey. Look, sweetheart. Don’t - quit…oh, shit,” he’d murmured to you. “Go on and look. Look.” Roman said your name and wrestled you with an awkward, one-handed maneuver to pull you away from his body and spin you around. You backed up against him, anxiously watching the storm. It was a bad one, too. The rain came down in thick, slanted sheets. Wind howled, sirens blared. Hail pinged off the patio furniture with those sharp, hollow clinks. He held you and the door simultaneously, and it took a good seven minutes or so for you to realize the storm couldn’t hurt you, and that Roman was there and everything was okay. Your clothes were dry.

“See?” Roman said. “It’s not scary, honey, it’s just some fuckin’ rain - I mean - it’s rain. Just rain,” he corrected, then cleared his throat. “I didn’t say the F word.” 

“Uh, yes you did, Roman,” you argued immediately.

Smartass fucking kid. “Yeah? What F word did I say?” Roman asked, poking you in the side. 

You giggled, then whispered, “Fuck.” 

“Ha, see? You said the F word. Who’s in trouble now?”

“You are!”  

“Nuh uh, not me,” Roman said. “You’re not even supposed to know that word. Who’d you learn that shit from, huh?”

You shrugged, “You.” 

Roman stared down at you, stunned into silence for a beat, then sighed helplessly and kissed the top of your head. “Uh huh, alright,” he conceded. “Maybe.”

It gets bad quickly. Roman pats your thigh twice, “C’mon, inside,” he says. You slide off of his lap and open the door, with Roman following closely behind you. You sit down with him on the living room floor, right in front of a large window to continue watching the storm. It’s neat how different it sounds in here, the pounding of the rain. Roman turns on the TV to check the weather and god, when’s the last time he did that, used cable? 

There’s some more lightning, followed by more thunder. Roman looks up and raises his eyebrows when the lights flicker once, then twice, before going out entirely with a quiet, dying, electronic whirr. 

There’s a beat. It should turn back on. Roman has a backup generator for a reason, after all. 

…but it never does. “Roman.”

“What-an?”

You roll your eyes. “You never got the generator fixed?”

“I never got the generator fixed,” Roman mocks in a stupid voice, sitting down next to you on the carpet. “Yeah, whatever. Fuck me, I fuckin’ forgot…dammit. Go upstairs and find your fuckin’ candles that you’re not supposed to have.” 

You giggle as you go off in search of those Bath & Body Works candles. Roman banned you - “banned you” - from burning candles forever ago, because for the life of you, you cannot fucking remember to blow them out. All the time, Roman’s walking past your dark bedroom, hearing your snores but seeing a warm, flickering glow. Sleeping with a lit fucking candle, you dumbass. 

He kinda likes it, though. When he tiptoes into your room to blow it out, he gets to kiss you on your forehead. Sometimes you make an angry face and flip over, but sometimes you sigh so sweetly, like you love him or something. He hopes.  

Back downstairs, you light the candles. Orange dreamsicle and raspberry sorbet and cupcake and mango something or other. It’s quite the combination of scents, Roman thinks, and if he’s lucky his nose will fall off by the time the power turns back on. 

And you watch the sheets of rain with him, the lightning and the hail, still wrapped up in your towel. You rest your head on his shoulder and hold his hand, his skin all dried out by the chlorine. Roman rubs his thumb over yours, not even realizing he’s doing it. 

The rain doesn’t last forever. The strongest storms seem to burn out the quickest, and all that’s left is a quiet, gentle pitter-pattering against the window, but the power’s still off. Roman uses his phone to check when it’ll be back on - the repair is not estimated until around 3:00am. It’s getting darker now, and you’re both getting a little bored. 

“Mm. Hey, you.” Roman nudges your shoulder. “Hungry? Wanna go out?”

You hum, rocking as you think. “Mmm…no. I’m not hungry yet.”

“Yeah, me neither.” 

You hate the loss of contact that comes with Roman leaving you, but you like the way his back cracks and how he groans. He’ll never admit that he’s too old to be sitting on the floor like that. 

He opens a cabinet under the TV where some board games live, and he passes them to you one at a time. There’s no guarantee that they even have all the pieces, though. Sorry! and Cards Against Humanity and Telestrations. Jenga. Twister. 

“Twister,” you giggle, tapping at the box. Roman looks behind at you and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Oh, sure. You know me, always down to try out some new positions,” he winks, earning him a laugh from you. He goes back into the cabinet where he finds this large, old cardboard book, and he wipes off some dust. “Oh my god. No shit,” he laughs, turning through the pages. 

“Whatcha looking at, Rome?”

“Uhmmm. This is–” Roman flips the book back to the front, “Klutz’s Backseat Survival Kit,” he reads. “Oh man, I totally remember this from when I was a kid. It’s just like, I don’t know...” Roman flips through the pages, stopping at one filled with license plates from all fifty states, filled out by Roman. You scoot closer to him and try to imagine that, little Roman scribbling those numbers and letters down.

As he looks through the pages, there’s some truly bizarre images, but you like them. “What the fuck is that?” you ask, pointing to something. 

“I don’t know, it was the fuckin’ 90s,” Roman shrugs. “But yeah, the idea was that you’d play with this on a car ride where you have nothing else to do.” 

“Mm.” 

“Uh huh. Yeah, I didn’t grow up with a fuckin’ TV  in my car, unlike you. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.” 

“I mean, the little car TV I had didn’t work that well.” 

Roman gives you a look. “Spoiled.” 

Apart from silly little activities, there’s some games, too. Penny hoops - you flick a penny into a little cutout like you’re shooting free throws. There’s Parcheesi, but none of the pawns are there anymore. Roman flips to a new page, looks it over, and smiles. “Give me your hand.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Reading your palm,” he answers. “God, no wonder you’re so fuckin’  stunted, you never played with shit like this! You were never bored,” he explains, then whispers again, “Spoiled.”

Roman reads the instructions about palm reading, rubbing your hand to bring blood to the surface, just like the book says. He touches each fleshy mound of skin on your knuckles, reading your traits from the small text. “Hmm…yep, you’re terrible at sports. Oh, but you do have a decent memory. Yeah, fuckin’ great.” You laugh at that. “Sense of humor - no comment. Bad manners, absolutely. Raised by wolves, you were”

Roman flips to the next page, flattening out your palm before tracing the lines there. His touch is so light and tickles you, sends a shiver through your body that he smirks at. “Actually…” Roman looks at your hand a little closer, then looks back at the page. “I can’t really fuckin’ tell what kinda lines you have going on here.” 

“Oh.” 

“Whatever. My turn.” 

You switch, holding Roman’s hand in yours. Isn’t that something? You’ve held his hand before, sure. Usually when it’s above your head and he’s pounding into you. But holding it like this, feeling the weight of it and every little twitch, his knuckles and his veins…

“If I’m correct,” you begin, reading from the page. Roman smirks as he awaits his reading, whatever snarky bullshit you’re gonna spit at him. “Yeah, I think your palm says that you kinda - you kinda suck, Roman.” 

“Oh, hmm. Bummer, but I didn’t need a palm reading to tell me that,” he quips, taking his hand back. The next page is filled with more hand games - one called Morra, which isn’t super fun. Thumb war, you know that one. You play with Roman and cheat every time, and still manage to lose. 

“Did you ever do this one?” you ask, pointing to the “crack an egg” game. You follow the directions and clap your hands over his head, then drag your fingers down his head and the back of his neck. It makes him shiver and groan; he fucking hates it. You laugh. 

“Ooh, okay. We’re doing this one. Open your hand.” Roman takes your hand and lays it flat, then puts his pointer finger right on the center of your palm. He closes your fingers around his, “Now squeeze,” he tells you. “Tight as you can. And I’m gonna count to sixty.” 

You clutch his finger tightly and he begins counting, but it starts to feel strange about twenty seconds in. “Are you even squeezing?”

“Yes!” you laugh, gripping tighter. 

“No, you’re not. C’mon, this is fucking pathetic.” 

You shake your head, giggling. “This is so uncomfortable. It feels like - like, I don’t know, weird in my wrist.”

“I don’t care, squeeze me. Like when I fuck you, huh?”

Bashful fucking girl. You smile so shy when he says that to you, and Roman just finds that interesting and so goddamn cute. 

“Okay, now open your hand just - just a little, slow. Go slow,” Roman says, wiggling his finger out. Your hand is stuck in this gripping position, muscles all tight. Roman tickles the inside of your palm and your fingers, and your fingers spread out on their own accord, and it’s such a uniquely weird and sort of horrible paralyzing sensation. 

“What the fuck,” you laugh, making a face of discomfort. “Oh, that’s so fucking weird.” 

“Right?” 

You share a smile with him, admiring his face in the low light. The beautiful glow of warm flames highlight his cheekbones and his perfect nose. “I have an idea,” you whisper. 

“Oh, great. I love when you have those.” 

You sit behind Roman, still in his bathing suit. You’re in yours too. You run your fingers down his bare back, leaving goosebumps on his skin. “Mm, sure. I could take a back massage.” 

“Nope.” You think about it for a second, something to draw. Something for him to guess. “Okay,” you say, then trace your finger on Roman’s back. A couple of zig zagging shapes is all Roman can feel. “Alright, done. What’d I draw?”

“Oooohh, okay. You drew…” Roman trails off as he thinks, and you laugh at how stumped he is. “Oh, fuck you. Do it again.” 

You draw the shape again, and Roman still can’t guess. “Lightning bolt,” you answer. 

“Ohh, topical. Nice. Daddy’s turn,” Roman says, turning you around. He’s such an asshole when he pulls the strings of your bikini, allowing the garment to drop into your lap. 

“Hey,” you mumble. 

“Hey,” Roman mocks, already drawing his picture - a smiley face, which you guess correctly. He writes words next, which you struggle with. He writes them over and over, then spells his favorite three words to sneak in. 

“That was a long one.” 

“Mhm.” 

“What was it?” 

“You tell me,” Roman says, and for a second his heart pounds. But the moment passes, and you still don’t guess them. 

“I don’t know,” you smile. 

“Well, too bad. Guess you’ll never know.”

Fucking dick. You’ll be a dick, too. You trade Roman spots and write something on his back, in nice, big, capital letters. 

Roman rolls his eyes as you spell it out. “A - N - Uh huh. Charming, sweetheart, as alw–yep, there’s the next A - aaand, there it is, L. Well, that’s very nice, honey. I’m glad one of us thinks you’re funny.” 

“I do think I’m funny,” you grin, running your hands down the expanse of Roman’s back, admiring his little freckles and moles and birthmarks in the warm candlelight. You feel brave enough to keep your hands there on his waist, and bring yourself closer to him. You kiss his shoulders and the back of his neck, and he still smells faintly of chlorine and sunscreen. 

“Ohhkay. Alright, you - fuck.” Roman sighs, melting under your touch a little - he loves the way your breasts brush against his skin. Before you can go much further he turns around and gently pushes down on the floor, back in control with a better idea in his head. 

Roman pulls the strings on either side of your bikini, and oh, how he likes that. Untying you like a gift. He tosses the bikini aside and settles between your thighs, spreading them wide. 

“What’re you doing, Rome?”

Roman kisses your inner thighs, beard tickling your skin. “Same game,” he answers. “Guess.” 

He kisses your cunt, and you’re already wet for him. Of course you are, you sensitive thing. A little of Roman’s touching gets you so bothered, often before you even realize what’s happening. 

R O M A N  is what he writes, drawing each letter over your cunt so slowly and deliberately. He’s generous enough to repeat it a few times, but he does just simply like the way this particular way of using his tongue on you makes you moan. It’s quite the edge, isn’t it? It’s not enough repeated motion to make you cum, but each letter on its own feels so lovely. 

“Roman,” you moan, sliding your fingers through his soft hair. “Roman, oh my god. Roman.”

Roman looks up, lips shiny. “Are you just moaning or is that your answer?” 

“...That’s my answer.” 

“Oh, bullshit, you didn’t fuckin’ know. Lucky guess, though.” Roman thinks for a second about what to draw next, then he smirks. “Try this one.” 

He uses his tongue to draw an oval around your slit, then two round-ish figures each on either side of your cunt. You moan and pull his hair as he draws one, then two spiral shapes. You wish he’d do those spirals forever and ever, fuck.

Roman finishes the drawing by pressing a kiss against your pussy, “Done,” he tells you. “Better figure it out or you don’t get to cum.” 

“What?” you ask, breathless.

“Yep, we’re raising the stakes, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck, Rome - that’s - it’s a…it’s a flower, right?”

Roman wipes his mouth on your inner thigh before speaking. “Ooh, so close, sweetheart. You’re getting warmer, but nope. Not a flower.”

“Fuck you, Roman, you’re lying. Yes it fucking is,” you argue. “That’s - I know you drew a flower. Make me cum.”

Roman smirks at your frustration. You tease easy, you know. No tolerance for it. He thinks you should grow some thicker skin, honestly. 

“I really didn’t,” he says softly, resting against your thigh. “What makes you think I drew a flower?”

“Because you - you…d-did the–”

“D-did the…the what, sweetheart? Petals?”

“Yeah. Petals.” 

Roman pouts mockingly. “Yeah, no. They weren’t petals, baby. Really good guess, though, honey. Fuck.” He clicks his tongue, still tasting you in his mouth. “Damn, that sucks. I really wanted to make you cum, too. God, honestly, this is harder for me than it is f–”  

“Shut the fuck up and draw it again.”

Roman smiles and dives back in, wrapping his arms around your thighs. He draws those same things - the oval, the round-ish figures, the two spiral shapes. “Done,” he mumbles, swirling his tongue around and around, just to fuck with you. Is it a little hard to concentrate, maybe, with his nose buried there? Roman licks you from bottom to top, then laps at your clit, holding your hips firmly in his hands.

“Rome, you - fuck, I don’t…”

“Still not figuring it out, huh?” he teases. “Better figure it out quick, kid ‘cause time’s running out. I got a hard, leaky cock and I’m getting very pent up over here, you know. Last chance.” 

“Pent up,” you echo, voice all breathless and angry. “Fuck you, Rom–” 

Roman does it one more time, that specific pattern. And you still don’t fucking get it. “I don’t know,” you whine. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah? Is that your final answer, hm? ‘You don’t know, fuck’ ?” he mocks.

“Fuck you.” 

“Mhm. Fuck me,” Roman says, moving up your body. He tugs his swim shorts down and pulls out his cock, then fits the head inside your entrance. He fills you in one quick, thorough thrust, bottoming out. “It was a butterfly,” Roman grunts. “Dummy. I drew it three times.” 

He fucks you nice and slow, building up to a quicker pace. He knows just how to move his hips to brush the tip of his cock against your g-spot, just to tease you. Roman knows you need more than that. 

You kiss him as he fucks you, wrapping your legs around his waist, holding him close. It’s nice to smell the day you shared with him, to still be able to taste the fruit he ate and smell the sun on his body. And his skin against your skin, so warm and soft. That’s one of your favorite parts about this whole thing, whatever the fuck it is. Just feeling him. Feeling all of him. 

When you try to touch your clit to get yourself off, Roman pulls your hand away and pins your wrists above your head. “Nnnope,” he smiles, rolling his hips into yours. “You didn’t win the game.” 

“Rome, c’mon. Please–”

He remains steadfast in fucking you, building quickly to his orgasm. You want to cry when you feel that telltale swelling of his cock, his thrusts turning a little sloppy. “Rome, please. Roman–”

“Fuuuuck,” he groans, spilling into you and fucking his spend deeper into your cunt, until his breathing starts to even and his dick begins to soften. When he pulls out of you, he gets a glimpse at your face and dear god, if looks could fucking kill Roman Roy would be a dead man. “What?” he asks, out of breath. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Ouch. You a sore loser, maybe?” Roman asks, sliding back between your legs. “Yeah. I think you are a ore–” Roman kisses one of your thighs, “fucking–” then the other, “loser,” he finishes, pressing his lips against your cunt. 

No drawings this time, no writing words over and over - though he does move his tongue in new ways using what he learned from his little game. Roman nips at your skin a little, licks the shared mess that drips between your thighs. 

He rounds your clit a few times, or rather, draws those swirls you loved so much. Roman’s licking you slower now, from the bottom of your cunt all the way to the very top. Just how you want it, right? 

He knows what you want too, is his fingers inside you, curling against that special place he teased with his cock. Roman slides two fingers into your soaked pussy, then curls them repeatedly as he eats you. And you rock your hips against his face, chasing sweet fucking release while you hold his head against your cunt. You tug at his hair, looping the strands around your fingers so tightly it starts to hurt him. 

And it finally happens, thank god. You cum so fucking hard on his tongue, and Roman finger fucks you through the whole thing, until your legs shake a little too hard and you’re pushing him back, shivering and twitching. 

Roman kisses up your body, then sits you up. “See? You are so fucking spoiled,” he says dramatically. “And I can only blame myself. Oh, how I’ve failed you.” 

Idiot. What a fucking idiot, who’s now having you help him bring the candles upstairs into his bathroom. Who’s got you in his bathtub next, and is washing the sunscreen off of your back.  

-

my writing buddy :) he makes the process take a long time. blame him.

a reblog or an ask is always nice, so come say hi :) i missed you guys! nice and dirty thots would be kindly welcomed.

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@kappasbbgirl @magpiepills @highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife @thesummerpetrichor

@lilipads @luiscarrutherss @baronessvonglitter @myromeow

@doll-0f-flesh @always-andromeda @causesimmer @pedropascalbabygirl

@baloobalee @slimybeth69 @pearlstiare @romanisbrat @callsignwidow @ziggymars

@perpetuallymanic @111melo @veryverycoolgirl @marisemonteiroo

@prettybpdgirl @butuhaventseenmyman @drunkdriverkillerwhale @fawnjaw @fadedviolets @flowercrowns-goodvibes @foursgurlx @hotdadlvr95 @keepinnitundercover @spiidergwenn @pearlessance

[favorvn]

April into May update

Last month -> 22,730 dialogue blocks, containing 201,328 words

This month -> 25,916 dialogue blocks, containing 227,603 words (I also worked on a lot of backgrounds and some sprite painting this month. )

I wanted to do more than this and at least get the same amount of words I had last month, but last night when I was typing my index finger started to go stiff.... 😬so uh, I'm going to see a doctor tomorrow because I think I have carpal tunnel or something. I'm ngl I'm pretty bummed because I'm pretty close to finishing writing the main portion of the game and I really wanted to push through and finish it... but as things stand last night put the fear of god into me lol so I gotta take some time and let my body heal (and build better habits in the process). I'm just hoping I didn't do some irreversible damage to my fingers or something 🫠

So yeah, that's kinda where I stand, and for anyone else who spends a lot of time typing/drawing... invest in ergonomic and always remember to stretch, don't be like me.

[halogenwarrior]

I would like to add to this: I know it gets often said that fans gravitate towards male characters and pairing up male characters because of wanting relationships with equality of power, with people countering how these stories have stereotypically gendered power dynamics all the time, just with two men. And I think the key is it's not about equality of power, but equality of sincerity.

The thing is, a lot of people (especially in the fan fiction writer demographic, but really a lot of humans in general) love sincere, powerful emotions in their fiction, and that's what often draws them to characters. They love seeing characters struggle and suffer, whether in a tragic tone or them ultimately triumphing over it, they love seeing characters have strong emotional bonds with each other deeply meaningful to their arcs where they would do anything for the other person (this particularly relevant to the reference I was making to fans writing shipping stuff), and they love both characters who wear their emotions on their sleeves and characters who don't, but have cathartic emotional transformations that forces them to face their emotions in their darkest times rather than just being stoic with unexplored depths 24/7, and perhaps growing into greater empathy and openness.

And the problem with this is that all of these forms of sincerity, in fictional narrative (in the qualities women are portrayed with) and in real life (in the qualities women are stereotypically ascribed), have been historically weaponized against women to show them as more sincere in those ways than men and portraying that as a negative thing. Women breaking down under intense suffering being used to "put them in their place" or fetishized, romances or other relationships between a woman and a man where the woman is so sincere about her love for the man that it absorbs her whole character and leaves nothing of dignity, competence or other facets of the self while the man is not all that sincere and just sees the woman as one small facet of his life, relationships between a woman and children where their deep love for the children is exploited narratively to show she should be nothing but a vessel for them without individuality, passionately emotional women shown as hysterical and unworthy of respect, less outwardly emotional women whose development into opening up more is inextricably tied to them becoming passive, feminine and "knowing their place" rather than having active goals and "cool" qualities.

So this leads to a situation where people are understandably jumpy about any of these narrative tropes being applied to women because of this weaponization of them, and try to make female characters in an insecure manner that avoids them. But all of these expressions of narrative emotional sincerity they are avoiding still remain things people find very compelling in characters and their stories, which means there is a whole range of narrative beats people are avoiding in women, and often in an annoyingly "meta" way (i.e woman who is guarded and strong not so much because her particular personality, life circumstances and outlook made it that way or she is trying to put on a front to herself or other people within the story, but because she is trying to prove something to the audience and always seems halfway through the fourth wall). And as long as there is a constant avoidance of things that tend to be compelling and popular in characters due to their sincerity and emotional resonance, when it's a woman, women are going to be less popular.

And if someone does include those beats, even if they do it in a way that avoids the sexist weaponization that has often historically come with them when they are used on women, with their arcs basically being the same as male characters who had the same beats and characterization and are loved for it, people are so paranoid and tired of seeing it in women that they see them as a misogynistic stereotype anyway, and the character fails to get "credit" or love for it even when they are well-written. Because people often tend to laser focus on a given trope as sexist in the most literal sense, like an A.I would view it, rather than realizing it's the particular framing behind it that makes it sexist (or racist, etc., this happens with all manner of bigoted tropes) and if you took away the framing it would just be a neutral character trait or story beat. For example, the whole discourse around the "serious, practical woman in comedy show or media where people are doing exciting things " and the "manic pixie dream girl", which seem like opposite tropes but are really united in how they deny the man humanity. The problem isn't that the woman is serious, it's that they are serious in a genre where the exciting, funny or uncouth things are used as the medium to explore the character's humanity and make them interesting, so them refusing to participate in it makes them not be as human or interesting. The problem isn't that the woman is silly and free-spirited, it's that the narrative has no interest in the internal thought process, background and outlook that led them to be like that and just uses them as a vessel for a man's development (which leads in the worst case to real women who have those superficial traits but obviously not the narrative framing to be called manic pixie dream girls). As a result of all this you have things like posts I've actually seen where someone explicitly said "I would hate my favorite male character if he were a woman because he suffers so much in the narrative" (even though the suffering is part of why they love the male character). The fear of weaponization of sincerity makes people dislike it in a woman when they would like the same thing in a man, even when in this particular case it is not having the weaponizing framing and is literally just a gender swap of the male version.

There's something extremely depressing to me about how many people just don't want to get weird with female characters the way they do with male characters.

Like, I can kind of see why a lot of people feel weird about writing about bad things happening to female characters, but what it leads to is everyone putting female characters up on a shelf where you can admire them but you can't actually do anything interesting with them because that might be sexist or just make people feel bad. And I think that's actually a whole lot worse in the long run.

[corkinavoid]

Hey i just reread the whole ring of rage and was wondering if you had more of it? I loved it

Hey! It's been a while since I've written that series, and, unfortunately, I didn't (and don't plan to) write any more of it.

However, here's some snippets and vague thoughts that you might like!

It takes a bit of adjusting, but eventually, all the Bats learn that the best way to deal with any kind of magical bullshit is calling Danny. Or, well, calling Tim so he calls Danny. The latter is fine with it the first few times, but after one very eventful week, when they've managed to summon him nearly twenty times in a row, he ends up introducing them to Sam. She doesn't like it, but she teaches Bats a few ways to use magic anyway. However, Tim is the exception here — Danny will never ever say no to his summons, and helping Tim can't be annoying no matter how many times he calls or how small the problem is.

One time, Alfred brings up the fact that Tim and Danny are not married legally. Not in the mortal realm, at least. To which Tim says that they are, he's actually filed all the documents about a month after they've started going out on dates. That starts a whole new level of chaos because, one, why didn't he ever mention it, two, everyone wanted a party and a wedding reception, and is it too late for that now? It later turns out that they accidentally got married in an alternate timeline, not in this one. To be fair, neither of them even realized that until Barbara wasn't able to find the records of their marriage anywhere.

Out of all the Bats, Danny's favorite — aside from Tim, who is obviously the number one — is Duke. He loves how the boy is probably the most unhinged out of all of them, and yet no one has a clue. Which is why Duke also gets a free pass to summon him whenever he needs to. His least favorite is, surprisingly, Jason, and it's mostly because Danny holds a grudge against him for attempting to murder Tim in the past. But also because Jason is liminal enough to notice and avoid the harmless (by Danny's standard) pranks that he sets up to keep the Bats on their toes.

Steph gives Danny a whole collection of manga on his birthday. Later, Tim tracks her down and starts a fight, during which he doesn't say a single word, and his face is so red he looks like a tomato, and Steph won't stop laughing. Tim doesn't talk to her for a month. Since then, every time Steph summons Danny, he comes in a form of half-man, half-octopus (think Ursula from My Little Mermaid), and they both break out in giggles spontaneously from time to time. Tim absolutely hates it.

None of them bother to explain shit about the whole ordeal to Constantine, and it's definitely on purpose. It eventually leads to the memorable day when John ends up watching Batman draw a summoning circle and successfully call on the High King of Infinite Realms with no trouble. Despite everything, the only reaction they get is Constantine sighing and muttering, "So, he didn't file for divorce, then."

[itoshiierae]

bllk boys as cliché relationship tropes #2 𝜗𝜚

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: nagi seishiro, reo mikage, isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, barou shoei

ᡣ𐭩 notes: this is part two <33 the trope brainrot continues and bachira’s got me all soft mid-writing omg!!??? 🥹 anyway, i honestly loved making this wayyyy more than i should’ve 🤪🫶🏼

here’s part one!! <33

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

♡ NAGI SEISHIRO ♡ — “YOUR BESTFRIEND WHO ACCIDENTALLY FALLS FOR YOU”

he didn’t even realize he was in love until it was too late. one day he’s letting you borrow his hoodie, the next he’s fighting a game boss with one hand because you fell asleep on his shoulder & he didn’t want to move. nags you about being annoying but watches your favorite shows without telling you. quietly does things for you — carries your bag, remembers how you like your ramen, tells you that you’re beautiful. and he doesn’t say it often, but when he does? it’s sleepy, mumbled, and so, so sincere!!!!

♡ REO MIKAGE ♡ — “THE RICH BOY WHO NEVER STOPPED LOVING YOU”

he swears he’s not obsessed with you. but he is, he absolutely is!!! grew up by your side, saw you cry in third grade, and never recovered. he remembers your favorite snack, what calms you down, and exactly where your forehead fits against his chest. it’s always been you. and even when he dated around, even when he swore he was “over it,” he still found himself looking for you in everyone else. and when he FINALLY confesses???? it’s soft, a little broken — like he’s been carrying the weight of it for years.

♡ ISAGI YOICHI ♡ — “ACADEMIC RIVAL TURNED LOVER”

you argued with him the first time you met. you still do. he challenges you constantly — debates, dares, annoys you — but somewhere between the competitive jabs and accidental late-night talks, it got warm. it’s the way he always notices when you’re upset, always makes space beside him, always pushes you to believe in yourself even when he’s pissed off. the love crept in slowly, wrapped in banter and shoulder bumps. when he finally confesses, it’s flustered but firm: “i meant it. all of it.”

♡ BACHIRA MEGURU ♡ — “THE CHAOTIC GOLDEN RETRIEVER WHO ONLY HAS EYES FOR YOU”

he’s chaotic, clingy, giggly — and somehow makes you feel like you hung the stars just by showing up. always calls you nicknames that make no sense (“my bug!” “sparkle shark!”), draws you in his sketchbook with little hearts, and randomly tackles you with full hugs in public. he lives for physical affection!!!! he gets pouty when you ignore him, but lights up like a whole damn galaxy when you smile. he’s literally sunshine in human form, and you’re the one person he always runs toward first.

♡ BAROU SHOEI ♡ — “YOUR BESTFRIEND’S BROTHER WHO SWORE HE DIDN’T LIKE YOU”

he swears he’s not soft for you. he lies. he complains when you tease him, rolls his eyes when you cling to his arm, growls when you wear his shirt — but he lets you. every time. he acts like it’s a burden, but god forbid someone else makes you smile. he’s protective in a way that might seem terrifying to others, and he also buys you things that he says are “practical” (if they’re pink, they’re yours.) it’s all gritted-teeth affection, quiet acts of service, and the rare, heart-stopping moment when he murmurs, “you’re mine.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[yoiisa]

It is possible to write with Blue Lock Bys (Yukimiya, Reo, Rin, Michael, Shidou and Isagi) with a s/o who has high libido. Please😫😈

of course darling hehe (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

all characters aged up (20+)! Tags: pwp ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ), dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, begging, thigh humping (yukimiya), lingerie kink (reo), fingering (rin), oral sex f! receiving (kaiser), car sex, slight degredation (shidou), and body worship (isagi), please proceed with caution as this is smutty!!

➜ yukimiya kenyu would be such a tease with you, but like, in a knowing way ➜ like he'd pretend to jump at the opportunity to sate your appetite, but actions speak louder than words, and he would tease you by continuously putting sex off until you're actually dying for it ➜ he wants you begging for it, because then he can finally take care of you fully, caring for your every need with intense diligence ➜ he's very particular about enjoying every little detail about you, so by teasing you and drawing out your need so much, he thinks it helps him experience everything more intensely ➜ and it most certainly ensures you feel everything more intensely

"Kenyu, please~" you whine as you sit on his lap. "Please..." "What is it baby? he coos softly. It's sarcastic, you know, but still the rumble of his voice is something, and you're so desperate right now you'll take something over nothing any day of the week. Your hips begin to rub against his thighs in an unconscious effort for friction. Your eyes close as you rest your head on his shoulder. A small sigh of relief escapes your lips as Yukimiya allows the ministrations, and a tiny smile pulls at your mouth. At least there's this. Something over nothing, remember that- "Baby, I told you, at the end of this chapter, I'll-" Yukimiya's hand moves to you ass, gripping it tightly, trying to still your hips. "Kenyu, you said that three chapters ago!" your voice is high pitched and almost manic as a particularly sharp sensation of pleasure echoes through your body. You fist his shirt and nuzzle into the crook of his neck. "Mmmmm- please Ken, I . . . I can't take this anymore~" With a sigh, he closes his book. He sets it off to the side and wraps his arms around you, pulling you tighter against him. You begin kissing at his neck and jaw, your tongue darting out to taste his skin. You feel like you're floating, everything about Yukimiya furthering how deep you spiral into a sweet needy mess for him. "Okay, come on," he says sweetly, kissing your temple. "I'll give you exactly what you need my sweet baby." You can only preen at the idea that you're finally getting what you want as he lifts you bridal style from the couch and kicks the bedroom door closed behind you two with his heel.

➜ oh reo mikage my king ➜ i think reo's favorite hobby when it comes to people he cares about is spoiling them rotten, so if you have a high drive, he's all for it, 100% ➜ if you come calling, he'll drop everything for you. ➜ also, bonus! in my mind, this man has a thing for lingerie, so you better fucking believe that this man has an entire section of your closet just dedicated to different sets. ➜ maroon, black, lavender, navy blue, gold, in silk, satin, lace, and whatever else your mind can conjure up. If you can think it, he has probably bought it and fucked you in it ➜ after all, he has the time and the resources, and he's nothing if not generous, so why not make the most of it?

Reo ran his hand over his face, then threading his fingers through his hair. The hour was wearing on him, he could feel the ache settling into his bones. He stands and walks to a chaise in his study, pouring a drink for himself and sipping it. However, he barely gets two sips down his throat before the glass is being forced away from his lips. His eyes widen and he looks down to see you, with your fingers gently pushing at the rim of his glass. You're dressed in a lavender silk robe, the fabric hanging loosely over a peak of lace hugging your skin. His pupils enlarge as he takes in the teasing glimpse and you laugh softly at his expression. "I . . . thought you might be stressed," you say, taking the glass from him and setting it on a table next to the chaise. "I wanted to come help." He's silent for a moment, before a smirk tugging at his lips. A soft blush paints his cheeks and he cups your face lovingly in his hands. "Is that the only reason?" You pout and wrap your arms around his neck, giggling softly. "Hmmm . . . no~" And that's how you end up on the chaise, your legs bent over his shoulder. Your panties are pulled to the side, and your bra is still on, but your robe has been tossed somewhere far behind the two of you. Reo hovers above you, dragging moans and cries of pleasure from your mouth with each deep thrust into you. He's intoxicating, and you can't seem to get enough of him. And as you stare deep into his eyes, you know he feels the same. As you reach your peak for the third time that night, your eyes flutter closed, your back arches, and he welcomes it with a sharp inhale of his own and a kiss pressed against the hollow of your throat.

➜ i feel like rin itoshi's drive isn't the highest thing in the world ➜ like, he enjoys sex and he with you he really enjoys it, but it's never been his priority in the relationship ➜ also I feel like between soccer practices and other responsibilities he gets tired pretty easily ➜ that being said, he does still want to help you out whenever you get needy, so when he's too spent to use his cock, he resorts to his next best thing ➜ or in my opinion, my fav thing about him: his fingers

"Rin!" you gasp, clinging to his body like a madman. His fingers delve deftly inside of you, curling at all the right angles, and sending sparks of pure bliss throughout your lower body. When your hips give a particularly harsh buck, he tsks and grabs your ass with his free hand. "Stop moving so much," he growls. The deep cadence of his voice sends another thrill of pleasure in you and you nuzzle your head deep into neck. "Sorry, 't just feels so good," you mewl. "I love it so much . . . ah~!" A smirk appears on Rin's face, but just as quickly as it comes it vanishes. He licks his lips as he stares down at your disheveled appearance. Your hair is disheveled, and your bare from the waist down. You're not wearing a bra, so he can see the outlines of your chest as it heaves beneath your shirt, which hangs loosely over your frame. When you pull back from his neck, the look in your eyes almost makes him finish right then and there. They glisten with tears of pleasure, and are lidded. He can see the pleasure you're feeling etched into every line of your iris, and love is mixed within that. He feels a tight pull in his chest and he can't help himself from leaning down and catching your lips in his. His tongue immediately delves into your mouth, exploring your mouth. You moan softly into his mouth and he sighs. His fingers don't let up at all, continuing to tease and prod and touch every crevice it can reach. You start to writhe in his arms, but he holds fast, keeping you still. You have no choice but to succumb to his assault on your core. Rin kisses you as you finish on his hand, groaning as you go all sweet and pliant in his hands. When he pulls back, you slump against him like a rag doll and he huffs out a hoarse laugh. As you regain your bearings, he lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.

➜ michael kaiser operates entirely on his own schedule, so to be honest, if he's not in the mood, you're kinda screwed ➜ but if he is in the mood, YOU are in for it ➜ all his want and desire make your neediness seem like nothing ➜ also, kaiser's got some good ass stamina, so if you set him off, you better pray your drive doesn't fizzle out because this man is getting his fill of you ➜ whether it's on his tongue or on his dick

You squeal as your boyfriend practically chucks you onto the bed. You look over your shoulder and your heart stops beating after you catch a glimpse of the sheer delight on his face. His smile is cocky and powerful and is so goddam sexy. You match his smile and flip onto your back, pushing yourself up on your forearms as Kaiser practically crawls on top of you. Kisses on your mouth turn to kisses on your neck, which turns into kisses along your chest, then your stomach, and before you know it, he's shirtless, you're naked, and his kissing the inside of your thighs. Your hands thread through his hair and he stares up at you, his blue eyes lidded and wanton. His tongue is gentle at first, testing the waters of your arousal, but soon he's lapping at you like a madman. His tongue works wonders on your core, leaving you fully satisfied but still achy for more at the same time. You know it doesn't make any sense, but the "Please" and the "More" still drip from your mouth even as he's delivering everything you've been craving since morning. And he is well aware of the effect he's having on you. You can feel his mouth twist into a smirk against you and it only drives you crazier. Your hands tug at his hair and he hisses, sending sweet vibrations through your core. Your whimpers and moans continue to build in pitch and volume, before finally, you're exploding on his tongue with a sharp call of his name. When Kaiser pulls back, he takes in your mussed appearance with a heat in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. His lips and chin glisten with your fluids. He licks his lips as he settles his hips in between your thighs and gives a sharp grind. "Don't give out on me just yet liebe," he coos. "I'm not done with you yet."

➜ shidou ryusei matches your freak the best on this whole list I think ➜ he will be down for whatever and whenever you want, but also . . . wherever you want ➜ shidou lives for the thrill of life, and chases the high of something new and exciting, so if you're high sex drive comes with promises of that, sign him the fuck up!

"Ryu!" you cry out as he yanks on your hair. The two of you have climbed into the backseat of the car. You're pressed up against the leather of the seats, with his chest flush against yours. You squeal and a slutty smile etches itself onto your face as he licks your neck. "Ryu~ ah . . . oh my god- slow down-ah." "Slow down, huh?" Shidou growls, his lips pulling into a smug smile. "Why~? You were just begging for it a few minutes ago." "I-I know, but- holy shit, you- ah!" You didn't even know it was possible for someone to fuck like this, but here he was. One hand perched on the roof of the car, the other holding the dip of your waist. His face moves from your neck to between the shoulder blades, and he litters kisses there, and sucks bruises down your spine. He travels back up to your shoulder and nips at the skin there, his hips never faltering once in their rhythm. "God I love this little body of yours so much," Shidou whispers hotly against the curve of your ear. "Every single time I see you, fuck, you don't even know how hard you make me." "Mmmmmm," your head tilts back, resting on his shoulder. "I think I do," you whine. "Yeah, can you feel it babygirl? It's all hard and deep inside of you isn't it?" he laughs, the sound sharp and hoarse in your ear. To anyone else, it might be grating, but all it's serving to do right is bridge you closer and closer to the edge. "Fuck! Ryuseiii, I'm gonna- uh! Wait- I, I-!" your eyes go cross and your body shakes with violent tremors. You bite down on your lip to try and keep quiet, but Shidou presses his hand to your lips, prying them open. "Come on now, lemme hear those sweet, sweet- fucking I'm gonna come too. Oh, fuck, fuck, yes. Fuck!" The two of you lean into one another, sweat slicking your bodies as you reach your peak together.

➜ my babygirl isagi yoichi is the easiest to get seduced by you ➜ i had this idea for a fic a long time ago where he comes home and your really needy and it was this whole ovulation type thing, but basically the point boils down to, if you want it isagi will give it ➜ in my mind, he's the most flexible to appeal to whatever type of sex you want, whether it be hard and rough or soft and loving ➜ as we all know he's super adaptable and that carries over during sex, so yay to anyone who's dating him!

Sunlight filters in through the window, the early morning glow giving everything a soft halo to it, including you. You and Isagi are laying on your sides, your chest pressed against his and your leg tossed across his hips. One of your arms are wrapped around his neck and the other trapped between your bodies, your hand intwined with his. A soft blush paints your cheeks and his, and you stare into Isagi's deep blue eyes through your lashes. His strokes are deep and send soft whimpers flowing from your lips. Each whisper of his name only sends Isagi down a path for more, more, more. "Pretty," you whisper, "you look so pretty like this Yoichi, mmm!" He huffs out a dry laugh and shakes his head. Compared to how you look right now- flushed cheeks, dilated eyes, plump lips ready for kissing- he can't imagine how he could even compare to your beauty. You clench down around him and he groans. "You feel so good," he sighs, closing his eyes. His hand squeezes yours and he leans in to nuzzle his nose against yours. "Even this early in the morning . . . how do you always feel so good?" You giggle softly, the sound dissolving into a moan. "Mmmm . . . Yoichi, I love you . . . I love you so much- mmph!" He cuts you off with a firm kiss. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to the end and an embarrassing threatens to escape his lips. For the sake of his dignity, this is the best move. His tongue brushes against yours, and your quick to return his kiss with just as much fervor. He finishes before you, but that's okay. As he says while your panting from the kiss, "It's still early. We have enough time for two- maybe three rounds. Are you okay to keep going?" All you can do is nod, and he continues earnestly, flipping you onto your back and ensuring this time you finish.

a/n: this was a beast to write, especially Shidou. Although I appreciate his freak, I fear I cannot match it as well as I would like lol, so I had to really brainstorm with his to make sure they all didn't just sound the same (˶˃⤙˂˶)

[sirfrogsworth]

Falling into the AI vortex.

Before I deeply criticize something, I try to understand it more than surface level.

With guns, I went into deep research mode and learned as much as I could about the actual guns so I could be more effective in my gun control advocacy.

I learned things like... silencers are not silent. They are mainly for hearing protection and not assassinations. It's actually small caliber subsonic ammo that is a concern for covert shooting. A suppressor can aid with that goal, but its benefits as hearing protection outweigh that very rare circumstance.

AR15s... not that powerful. They use a tiny bullet. Originally it could not even be used against thick animal hides. It was classified as a "varmint hunting" gun. There are other factors that make it more dangerous like lightweight ammo, magazine capacity, medium range accuracy, and being able to penetrate things because the tiny bullets go faster. But in most mass shooting situations where the shooting distance is less than 20 feet, they really aren't more effective than a handgun. They are just popular for that purpose. Dare I say... a mass shooting fad or cliche. But there are several handguns that could be more powerful and deadly—capable of one bullet kills if shot anywhere near the chest. And easier to conceal and operate in close quarters like a school hallway.

This deeper understanding tells me that banning one type of gun may not be the solution people are hoping for. And that if you don't approach gun control holistically (all guns vs one gun), you may only get marginal benefits from great effort and resources.

Now I'm starting the same process with AI tools.

Everyone is stuck in "AI is bad" mode. And I understand why. But I worry there is nuance we are missing with this reactionary approach. Plus, "AI is bad" isn't a solution to the problem. It may be bad, but it is here and we need to figure out realistic approaches to mitigate the damage.

So I have been using AI tools. I am trying to understand how they work, what they are good for, and what problems we should be most worried about.

I've been at this for nearly a month and this may not be what everyone wants to hear, but I have had some surprising interactions with AI. Good interactions. Helpful interactions. I was even able to use it to help me keep from an anxiety thought spiral. It was genuinely therapeutic. And I am still processing that experience and am not sure what to say about it yet.

If I am able to write an essay on my findings and thoughts, I hope people will understand why I went into the belly of the beast. I hope they won't see me as an AI traitor.

A big part of my motivation to do this was because of a friend of mine. He was hit by a drunk driver many years ago. He is a quadriplegic. He has limited use of his arms and hands and his head movement is constrained.

When people say, "just pick up a pencil and learn to draw" I always cringe at his expense. He was an artist. He already learned how to pick up a pencil and draw. That was taken away from him. (And please don't say he can stick a pencil in his mouth. Some quads have that ability—he does not. It is not a thing all of them can do.) But now he has a tool that allows him to be creative again. And it has noticeably changed his life. It is a kind of art therapy that has had massive positive effects on his depression.

We have had a couple of tense arguments about the ethics of AI. He is all-in because of his circumstances. And it is difficult to express my opinions when faced with that. But he asked and I answered. He tried to defend it and did a poor job. Which, considering how smart he is, was hard to watch.

But I love my friend and I feel I'd like to at least know what I'm talking about. I want to try and experience the benefits he is seeing. And I'd like to see if there is a way for this technology to exist where it doesn't hurt more than it helps.

I don't know when I will be done with my experiment. My health is improving but I am still struggling and I will need to cut my dose again soon. But for now I am just collecting information and learning.

I guess I just wanted to prepare people for what I'm doing.

And ask they keep an open mind with my findings. Not all of them will be "AI is bad."

[lostinlovingrevery]

Van i gotta ask…

what do u think Logan would be like when ur on ur period. and im talking about the smutty stuff sjdjjd

OKAY OKAY I GOTCHU

I'm gonna write a fic about this but ill put my thoughts below (it'll give you an idea of what im writing...)

(SMUTTY NASTY PERIOD STUFF BELOW)

(PERIODS AREN'T NASTY BUT LOGAN IS!!!!)

This man is WILD

an absolute menace

period sex doesn't bother him. blood doesn't bother him.

sorry yall be he will eat you on your period. idc if its nasty this is logan nothing gets worse than this man. hes an animal

im sorry but not really sorry but he'll definitely love that extra wetness going on down there

hes extra affectionate, for your sake of course but also periods mean ovulation coming soon. i feel like your hormones are going to set his hormones off. yknow cause. mutant, animal stuff???

any excuse to touch you. but if you want to be left alone he'll do it (he'll go into the corner like an injured animal and frump)

i think he'll love to see the relief on your face when he fingers or fucks you.

will use the "orgasms help period cramps" excuse to get in your pants. I mean sure- he definitely wants to make you feel better, but he also really wants to get in your pants. the smell of your hormones drive him insane.

He won't care about the mess, bed, shower, floor- wherever the fuck. He'll start by being real smooth about it. Wanting to give you a full body massage- you need to relax. You're obviously tired, and sore. His big strong hands can help loosen those such tense muscles, belly massages would feel SO good from him (oh my goooooood pls just imagine it)

Of course, he has ulterior motives. First he has you sitting down, maybe on the edge of the bed to give you a nice neck and shoulder massage- complete with kisses, of course. Convinces you to take your clothes off- to really relax. His hands move down massage your sore breasts, and to be honest you really can't complain. They're warm, gentle. Maybe he'll mess with your nipples a bit and even thought they're sore to the touch the stimulation feels so good at the same time. Maybe you start picking up what hes up to but you wait before you say anything

Then he gets you on your belly, massaging your back. It seems like it went back to being innocent again. Logan is cooing sweet things to you, hands careful in the areas that are touchier than others. moves down to your butt and thighs too. Personally I hurt really bad in my thighs and hips during my period- so a good massage there would be HEAVEN

and then, before you know it- you're back on your back and hes "massaging" between your legs. You can't complain though, his thumb is rubbing over your clit, two fingers buried inside you, gentle in his stroking motions in and out. The feeling brings relief to your cramps- like your body is getting exactly what it wants.

and no one knows your body better than logan.

Don't worry about the messy, he'll clean it up. (and how he cleans it up ill leave it up to yalls imagination....)

It just happens to be an accident when he slips his dick inside you.

You're half asleep, enjoying this so called "massage" from him, that feeling in your belly is wound tight but not quite there. The relief from your cramps is enough to make you happy though- so you let him have his fun. Then you feel the bed shifting, and his pants unzipping. Hes pressing kisses against your neck.

"Yknow darling, I learned something new earlier."

rea;ly, he just wants you to feel better!!! Logan is all about making his love feel safe, protected, happy. What better than being wrapped in his arms while he gets rid of those pesky cramps?????? (while also giving you orgasms

he'll draw orgasm after orgasm out of you. its not even about any of his own pleasure at this point (altho with logan really when is it ever??)- he just loves seeing the relief on your face. thats really all its about. the stretch his cock gives you, relieves that tight feeling going on down there- its almost like he's supposed to fit right in there

will be very gentle about it, checking in on you- however if you want it normal, or rough- he'll happily oblige. Prepare for lots of loving, cheek kisses, wrapped up in warm hugs while he buries himself in you- maybe your sheets are getting ruined but maybe he purposely set out an extra pair for a quick change when things are done (its gonna be awhile. the longer he smells you, the more feral he feels)

trilogy logan i think can be very animalistic over it, or very sweet. or both. both would be good. hes' gritting his teeth while thrusting into you because you smell so damn good and he's trying not to lose control. Muttering sweet things and letting you know he's not going to stop until all those pesky like aches are gone. plays with your boobs too.

old man logan will eat you out. he's old, doesn't really care. its adds flavor. Anyhoo. Thats his go to, fingering and oral. He'll have to shower afterwards cause maybe he gets all messy in his beard but oh well. Knows all the tricks in making you feel good. all the massages too- i mean, you give him massages. gotta take care of each other right? then will make you both a nice meal.

origins logan does everything, including doing it in the shower so he can wash you up after. He's very gentle and sweet, constantly checking up on you. He'll hold you and fuck the daylights out of you until youre good and tired, then draw you a nice warm bubblebath where he'll wash your hair and you both can have nice conversation.

Worst wolverine DEFINITELY AN ANIMAL OVER THIS. I think he'd want to get rough but will hold himself back until you give him the okay. Eat you out, kisses you after. Will fuck you doggy style for hours, nearly breaking the damn bed and pissing off your neighbors.

dofp logan will go missionary on this bitch. bury himself inside you, won't stop till youre literally about to pass out bc your period is giving you bad insomnia and this is solution to tiring you out. i feel like he would use a vibrator on your clit too will stuffing you full of him. double the pleasure amiright. sex in the bath.

70s logan will suck your sore tits for a long time. his hands massaging your achey thighs. if you even complain once about your cramps he's going to have you pinned (or tied up) to the bed and take care of them. great! no cramps! now you can't walk. also will kiss you after eating you out.

2013 wolverine mmm i feel like hes a mix of dofp logan and worstie. a animalistic vibe but considerate. teases you over and over to get you wound up as if you already aren't enough. you'll get your relief soon. its all part of the game.