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nanamiskentos · 7 months ago

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LAST FRIDAY NIGHT — choso kamo

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (d) and let the show begin !

prologue. → it's been seven days since you wobbled into your apartment and almost threw up on your best friend. seven days since you confessed your love to him. seven days of radio silence as you've done your best to shut him out, hoping that the earth swallows you whole. there's no way he's going to want anything to do with you now!

but it's been years since choso had started silently loving you.

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. choso kamo x afab!reader

warnings. vírgin!choso, spítting, kíssing, makíng out, thígh kínk (mild), yuuji being a menace 😭

word count. 8k! song inspiration. last friday night — katy perry

a/n. i can't believe i don't write for choso more. i really put a lot of love into this fic but i wish i had expanded on it a bit more 😭 one thing abt me is that i love adding side characters to cóck block

mp3. think we kissed, but i forgot!

"did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion? breakups happen every day — you don't have to lose it."

you jab at the skip button like it's personally offended you, cutting off the mournful strains of the evermore bonus track mid-verse. normally, you'd let the singer's poetic misery hold your fragile heart in a pretty gentle chokehold, for she understood your heartbreak like a nobel laureate in emotional devastation. but not today.

not on this particularly dreary friday, right before christmas, where even ms. swift's dulcet agony felt obnoxiously on the nose.

pinned under the suffocating weight of your quilt, you let out a dramatic sigh that could rival a victorian heroine wasting away from heartache and humiliation.

with the theatrics of someone clawing their way out of a shipwreck, you work one arm free, waving it weakly into the air like your tragic signal of defeat.

the cocoon of your quilts and covers isn't warm nor comforting. it's a smothering trap, a quilted tomb of your own making.

"this is it," you mumble to the empty air of the apartment, your voice muffled by layers of fabric, "this is how i go."

the universe, for its part, remains unbothered by your suffering.

with a theatrical groan that would earn you a standing ovation in a one-person tragedy, you yank the quilt over your head. plunging yourself into darkness once more.

but unfortunately, the muffled strains of your 'sad girl winter' playlist refusing to take the hint seep through, like overly persistent ghosts of your bad decisions in the past. it seemed that evermore was feeling less like a balm for your soul, and more like the soundtrack to your public humiliation.

somewhere in the tangled chaos of your bed, half pillows and half-sulking regret, your poor and neglected nintendo switch lies face down like it gave up on your hours ago. its screen has long since gone dark, but if you listen hard enough, you can almost hear your animal crossing villagers whispering conspiratorially, drafting a formal petition to evict you.

no doubt tom nook is already sharpening his capitalist claws, repossessing your house with an unsettling amount of glee.

but the rest of your room is not much better. the string lights on your walls flicker half-heartedly, casting an uneven glow over the wreckage of the past week.

it's not the charming nor dramatic kind of mess that makes for an artsy photo dump. no, this is the slow and unflattering unravelling of someone who let life beat them up with zero resistance. if rooms could file restraining orders, yours would have done it by now.

teetering laundry piles of discarded sweatshirts are haphazardly stacked in the corner. nearby, an empty hot cocoa mug sits, sticky with the remnants of whipped cream. candy cane wrappers are strewn across the room, the aftermath of a peppermint explosion that made your jaw ache.

but the true centrepiece of this disaster? your phone, face down on your nightstand. neglected and on silent. the one object in this room that's probably begging for attention, and one that you've been skilfully ignoring. and yet, right on cue, it buzzes again.

lighting up with a contact number that you've been ignoring all week.

choso.

and you squint at the notification, at the glowing screen that makes your eyes sting in the dim light.

sweet, dependable and utterly loyal choso.

your best friend of over a decade. the one person that you can't bring yourself to face.

the one person that also deserves so much better than this radio silence, and yet the last person that you can humanly confront. especially not after what happened last friday night.

and here, good friends, lies the crux of your problem.

that doomed night, seven days ago, has mostly dissolved into a series of blurry and fragmented snapshots. like a bad, half-finished film that you'd walked out of halfway through.

but the lead up? oh, you remember that part with the kind of clarity that should have been reserved for more important moments.

you could still feel the heat of storming out of that overpriced restaurant, half-drunk and fully pissed off, tears streaming down your cheeks and thickening your throat.

your ex-boyfriend? well, he had been your current boyfriend, before he decided to break up with you. in public. for all that classy, emotional damage that was so in character for him.

and with a line so perfectly cliché, it practically begged to be immortalised on a 'worst breakup excuses' list in cosmopolitan: i'm sorry, baby. i just don't see it working anymore. we're just too different. oh! and i found someone else.

oh, sure. but you should have been glad to have been rid of the man-child that thought frankenstein was the monster's name, the man who commented 'oxford study' on innocent tiktoks, and called pinterest 'girl instagram.'

god, what a fuckin' loser.

fuelled by a mix of public-induced heartache and questionable tequila choices, you had practically charged across street crossing. your feet hitting the pavement with the reckless kind of abandon reserved for teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

and there choso had been in your apartment. your best friend had been sitting cross-legged on your rug, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbons. probably wrapping yuuji's christmas gifts with military precision. he had been balancing a roll of tape in his mouth, scissors over his lap dangerously close to the family jewels. but you had barrelled through the door like a feral cat in a downpour.

his eyes had widened, a little startled, as you made your entrance. the tape had fallen out of his mouth, chestnut hair falling over his face as he gaped. you couldn't blame choso, of course. you had looked entirely like a bedraggled, disheveled mess in a storm. cheeks streaked with mascara trails, but then everything went...fuzzy?

what did you remember? crying. lots of it.

and boy, was it a show. the kind of weeping where your face contorts into a puffed-up, berry-red disaster, and you would feel the headache creeping in even before the tears had finished.

choso's arms had caught you before you could face plant into the couch. solid, broad. warm and familiar.

you had caught the scent of clove and pepper, alongside faint citrus that you had been associating with him over the years. you had been saying something, raw and desperate.

your words had spilled out of you like water from a broken faucet.

and here you were now, reaping the glorious consequences of your own unfiltered word vomit.

seven days of stewing in your own shame and regret. but seven days were not enough to undo this level of self-sabotage. you briefly considered the options: faking amnesia, dropping out of university entirely, or best case scenario — moving to antarctica and herding emperor penguins.

you groan, sinking deeper into the abyss of your covers. and then, of course, your phone buzzed again. the dull and persistent vibration drilled into your skull like a tiny, digital drill.

cho 💜

(01:09am) hey, are you doing okay? (08:42am) tell me if you need anything! (04:23pm) hello? did i do something?

you peek at the screen, trying to avoid making eye contact with the tiny and terrifying letters. your sheet mask scrunches uncomfortably, making you look like a particularly pathetic mummy. choso's sweet and utterly patient messages were a sharp control to your gross sulk, and his concern makes you want to curl into a ball and crawl into a snowbank.

outside, christmas snow fell gently, blanketing the world in a soft and untouched white. it was like something out of a dream, a world of calm and peace. peace that your trifling ass didn't deserve.

if choso wanted to speak to you, he'd have to drag you out of your self-imposed misery himself. and even if he were to arrive at your apartment door, he'd only find a note tacked to the wall. with a map leading to the south pole.

so, what exactly had happened last friday night?

the memory rolls out like an old film reel, all jagged and distorted. the kind that you can't skip, even if you wanted to. it comes in fragments, each one more excruciatingly clear than the last. the haze of vodka-infused whipped cream shots over hot drinks slowly melting away like a bad handover.

the door to your apartment? you remember that part with embarrassing clarity. you had kicked it open with awful, ragged flair. your heel slipping on the floor, and you had nearly stacked it. face-first into your own doorway, standing there with the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

the second the door had slammed shut behind you, a gust of frigid winter shot through the apartment like a chill reminder of your situation.

choso had been sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, in the midst of complete, barbaric chaos. the roll of mauve wrapping paper teetered precariously on his dark jeans, and scissors dangled from his lap while a stripe of tape was wedged between his teeth. in between the mess of clippings and discarded tape, he seemed more like an absurdly morose-looking christmas elf that had been tasked with being santa's helper after an entire bottle of mulled wine.

but as you had walked in, or rather stumbled in, his gaze had shot up. his chestnut hair falling in messy curtains around his face, with one unruly strand intertwined with a red-white rogue ribbon. choso's face had twisted in alarm, his usual solemn manner replaced by someone who looked like they were trying to figure out whether they needed to brace themselves for good or bad news.

"hey," he had said, voice soft but sharp, like he was trying to handle fragile glass. choso had spat the tape out of his mouth unceremoniously, and he had been tugging the ribbon free rom his hair, concern all over his fine features, "what's wrong? are you okay?"

and you? a disaster. drunk, crying, furious. the recipe for an emotional molotov cocktail.

"i hate him," you had snarled, yanking off your beige coat, hurling it in the general direction of the couch. instead, your aim missed entirely. flopping halfway onto the floor, and halfway across choso's knee.

choso simply plucked the coat off his leg with two fingers, gingerly draping it over the arm of the couch. your best friend was frowning as he set down his oversized scissors, rising to his feet in a fluid motion. amber-hazel eyes flicked to yours, wide with alarm as he stepped closer, "are you hurt? is this about —?" he was hesitating, "your boyfriend?"

"no, my ex-boyfriend!" the words were ripped out of you, and your voice pathetically cracked halfway through as tears spilled down your flushed cheeks, "and 'm not hurt, cho. unless you count emotional damage," punctuating your statement with a tragic, breathy hiccup.

choso's perpetual frown deepened, as thick and unruly brows knit together, "okay," he said, voice low and steady, "do you want to sit down? i can get you some water, wait." his steps are slow, purposeful as he closes the distance between you gently, with measured care. or like he was defusing a bomb.

but you were having none of his gentle care, "no, i don't want water! i want — i want to un-date him," you wail, arms flailing as you start pacing like a caffeinated hamster, "god, i'm so stupid for dating him in the first place. and yes, i know, stop looking at me like that. i know you want to say i told you so, but he's such a —," you pause mid-rant, clawing the air for the right word, "a troll. a goblin, an ogre."

choso blinks, "maybe you should just get some fresh water in you," but there's an underlying layer of grimacing amusement painted over his quiet features, "and i didn't even say i told you so."

"no," you blurt, your head snapping so fast that your neck immediately files a complaint in the form of a sharp crick, "i don't want water. i want —"

and then, your brain short-circuited. because that's when you'd actually looked at him. like really looked.

warm hazel eyes framed by dark, sleepless circles that seemed to follow choso around like cursed ghosts. soft, feathery strands of mahogany hair that refused to stay tied back, and tumbled rebelliously into his face. that damn sweatshirt, loose and charcoal gray, and perfectly slouched over his broad shoulders. the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal forearms so solid that they could make a renaissance sculptor pack and quit.

and like a freight train at full speed, like whee-woo, the realisation hit you. choso kamo.

your best friend in the entire world. your steady and reliable, and kind to a fault best friend. better than any stupid ex that you'd ever had.

and because tequila is the nectar of chaos, and heartbreak has no filter, your mouth decided to unleash the words that you would haunt you for the next week.

"i should have been dating you."

the room is silent, as choso freezes entirely. like someone had smacked the pause button on him, and his hand, mid-reach for a glass of water, stops cold. his eyes are wide, mouth parting as though he hadn't yet processed what you had said.

"what?" choso finally manages, the words soft and stunned, like he wasn't sure that he had heard you correctly.

you, in your infinite wisdom (or rather, drunken idiocy), barrelled on like a bull who had just seen red cloth, "i'm so serious! you're the one i should've been with all along!"

you wave a hand at him, as if showcasing him to an invisible jury, "you're smart and you're sweet, and you actually care about me, unlike him!"

choso blinks, his expression unreadable, "okay," he says slowly, setting the glass back down on the table, "i think maybe, uh, you should sit down?"

"i don't wanna sit down, i want you to stop looking so perfect right now."

there's a faint flush creeping up choso's neck, like red pigment staining cream watercolour canvas, "perfect?"

"yes!" you hiccuped, teetering over the couch, "you're supposed to be my best friend, and instead you just stand there with your stupid forearms, and your everything, and it's not fair!"

choso doesn't move, doesn't even speak. just stands there, vaguely dumbstruck. like you had hung the moon, and then yanked it back down to earth to hurl it at his chest.

"i should've been dating you, cho," you declare again, louder this time, and your finger jabs his broad chest like it was somehow his fault, "you're the best, y'know that? and you're so hot, how did i not realise this sooner?"

your best friend's expression goes on a journey of varying emotions, shock and disbelief, panic and confusion. all while his candied pink lips open and close, "uh," because by now, eloquence had left the room for both parties. his hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to steady you or flee. his ears noticeably red, the flush creeping down his neck.

but drunk-dumped you wasn't done. oh no, this was your oscar moment. the hill you were going to die on. the ted talk that no one asked for.

and you were on a roll now, "i mean, look at you! you've got the broody, hot guy thing down so well, and you know that's my type. and everyone knows it, like why aren't we dating already?"

choso's mouth curls again, but no sound comes out. he looks like he wants to crawl into a snowbank and bury himself there forever, "okay, i think maybe you should sit down before you hurt yourself, or, uh, the furniture."

"i'm fine!" you'd declared, throwing your arms up in defiance just as your knees decided that they were absolutely not fine. you wobbled, and in an instant, choso's warm hands are on your shoulders, steadying you with ease.

the searing heat of his touch makes your heart lurch in a way that felt far too real for comfort. you look up at him, his face close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, and your breath hitches.

he's close enough now that his lips could press against yours with the mere turn of his head. but you know that choso's just too kind and thoughtful to kiss you in this state right now. he also looks like he's about to gently suggest that you pull yourself together. you wouldn't know, because you've just bulldozed right over him with zero brakes.

tears stream down your face still, but they're starting to slow. sticky and hot, tacking to your cheeks, as you deliver the final blow, "if i asked you to kiss me now — like genuinely right now, would you, cho?"

you would never know what choso's reply would be, because you hiccup violently. the kind that punches your chest and makes you sway. fate was never done with you, because your stomach lurches in warning. you had clamped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with panic.

choso, bless his heart, had looked ready to throw himself in front of you, "bathroom. now," he'd commanded, his voice taking on a rare, firm edge.

and that's right where your memory cut off, mercifully plunging you into the black void of your vodka-soaked brain. no idea if you'd made it to bathroom. no idea if you'd thrown up all over him, classy as always.

but the last thing you did remember, the thing that haunted you eve now, like a ghost tapping on your shoulder, was the look on choso's face. wide-eyed, jaw slack. like you had flipped his entire world upside down.

choso sits cross-legged on the cold dorm floor, the faint creak of wood beneath him. in his hands is a neatly wrapped gift, small and unassuming. but painstakingly chosen for you. the crimson ribbon, shiny and festive, catches the light of the desk lamp.

it wasn't extravagant, nothing flashy nor pricey. but it was thoughtful, personal. something that he had picked out weeks ago, back when everything between you two had been normal.

back when you didn't look at your phone, and decide he wasn't worth answering.

choso's thumb grazes the corner of the box, smoothing over the edges of the paper that he had meticulously folded after watching youtube tutorials. but now? the box felt heavier than it had any right to. would you even want this anymore? would you even want to see him?

choso sighs, letting his head tip back against the edge of his bed frame. it was a tight and awful feeling, something small and sharp that had wormed its way into his chest.

it wasn't just the silence. it wasn't even the unanswered texts or the way you’d been avoiding him like he was the human incarnation of bad news.

it was the fact that you were you. his best friend. the person he always knew how to read — until now, when everything felt scrambled.

he stares at the gift again, his brows furrowing. he'd been turning this over in his mind for seven straight days, wearing grooves into his thoughts like a track stuck on repeat. did you regret it? did you even remember what you said?

and worse — what if you did mean it?

that last thought was the one that always hit hardest. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the dark strands falling back into his face. somewhere on his desk, his phone buzzed softly, and for a second, his pulse jumped. but when he checked, it wasn't you.

because of course it wasn’t.

"pathetic," choso muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

seven days.

seven long, agonising days since you'd stumbled into your apartment like the ghost of heartbreak past — tear-streaked, half-drunk, and dropping words so raw they’d knocked the air out of choso's lungs.

seven days since you’d looked at him like he was everything good in the world — right before nearly puking on him and passing out on the couch in a heap of drunken devastation.

and seven days of brutal radio silence ever since.

choso groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he slouched against the edge of his bed. he got it — why you'd be embarrassed. he, he was still processing it, the memory looping in his head like a cursed highlight reel.

"you're amazing, cho. you're perfect."

the words echoed, soft and slurred, over and over like a broken record choso couldn’t shut off. a selfish part of him — a really shameful, awful part — had been glad your ex was out of the picture. not that it was a surprise; choso had never liked that guy. too loud, too cocky. the kind of guy who thought buying overpriced cologne absolved him of skipping deodorant.

but then there was the other part of him — the one that made him feel like a jerk. the part that felt guilty for feeling anything at all. because he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about you.

choso wasn't supposed to have spotify playlists privately curated with all your favourite songs. wasn't supposed to have started buying extra hair ties, just because the thought of you stealing one was so annoyingly appealing.

and he definitely wasn't supposed to have been quietly, hopelessly in love with you for five years and counting.

how many times had he messaged now? four? five? enough that he was starting to feel like that guy, the one who couldn’t take a hint. what if you'd sobered up and realised last friday was just drunk nonsense? what if you didn't like him like that at all?

had he not spent seven days drowning his misery in tubs of mango and pistachio ice cream? enough was enough.

choso's thumb hovered over your contact for a long, stupid second, debating whether to send one more pointless text. but before he could add another "hey, just checking in," he swiped away and hit a different contact. a boisterous teenager with a shock of pink hair.

he shoots off a quick text, almost grimacing as he hits send.

Choso Kamo: Need advice. Got a hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: if this is smth weird i'm not googling it for u

choso rolled his eyes, already regretting this decision. but he needed to hear an outside opinion.

Choso Kamo: It's not weird, serious this time. If someone confesses something private to you while they are drunk, then avoids you for a week, what do you do? Hypothetically?

a pause, and then:

yuujithegoat2003: is this someone a hot girl lol

choso sighed, his dry lips twitching despite himself.

Choso Kamo: Yes. Also, serious answers only. yuujithegoat2003: ok ok. do they remember what they said? Choso Kamo: Most likely not.

yuujithegoat2003: huh...so did they say something good? or was it rude? Choso Kamo: It was good. Really quite good. yuujithegoat2003: bro this seems easy, just ask if they meant it.

choso blinked at his phone, at the...almost reasonable response. suspiciously reasonable, coming from his younger brother.

Choso Kamo: And if they freak out? Or say that they didn't mean it? yuujithegoat2003: then u say 'just kidding' and blow the place up and leave the country. i can get u a fake id, i know a guy. i know lots of guys.

Choso Kamo: You need to stop being influenced by Gojo Satoru. Just because his public break-up landed on national news does not make it a premise for my own situation. Hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: ok, gojo just said no one gaf abt your love life anyway. seriously tho if u like this hypothetical person, just be chill. don't be all intense and scare them off bc its never that deep.

Choso Kamo: Love is that deep. Especially when you care for the other person a lot. yuujithegoat2003: ur so dramatic bro. anyway good luck.

yuujithegoat2003: also if you get rejected don't tell me bc i can't handle second hand embarrassment. thx. gtg to work. these pizzas don't deliver themselves ay

choso glances down at the gift still in his lap, the ribbon he'd so painstakingly tied now a little crushed — much like his pride. the box stares back at him accusingly, as if to say, what's the plan here, genius? wait for her to magically show up?

choso exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. sitting here wallowing wasn’t doing him any favours, and neither was yuuji's unhelpful voice.

"yeah, sure," he mutters under his breath, shoving the box into his jacket pocket. he stands abruptly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his desk chair.

if you weren’t going to talk to him, fine. he'd bring the conversation to you. answers, he thought, stepping out into the cold. the winter air bit at his face, but it was bracing, grounding even. one way or another, tonight was going to settle this.

the knocking was relentless.

you tried to ignore it at first, clutching your blanket like it was a shield against all outside forces. whoever was at the door would get the hint eventually. probably. hopefully.

but no, the knocking persisted, evolving into a deliberate rhythm, like some overzealous drummer auditioning for a garage band.

"unbelievable," you groaned, peeling your headphones off and tossing them onto the pillow where they landed with a hollow clatter. if this was the pizza guy you'd ordered from two hours ago, he was wildly late, and you were too broke to tip him anyway.

dragging yourself off the mattress felt like an olympic event. your legs wobbled, your blanket fortress collapsed behind you, and your pride was buried somewhere under the covers still. at least you'd showered earlier — small victories.

your damp hair dripped cold trails down the back of your oversized sweatshirt, and you caught a whiff of cocoa butter as you shuffled to the door. that was…something acceptable at least. but then the mirror by the entryway betrayed you, reflecting sleep-swollen eyes, and the faint ghost of face mask residue clinging stubbornly to your skin.

perfect. a vision of grace and dignity.

you yank the door open, ready to unleash a pointed what do you want? — but the words lodge somewhere in your throat.

smooth. and oh, just your luck.

there stood choso, a walking anomaly in the drab matrix of your sad little existence. his tall frame fills the doorway, backlit by the flickering hallway light, clad in a baggy black tee and faded denim that didn't quite match the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. his hair was tied up in a messy bun, spiky strands sticking out like an afterthought, and of course, he looked unfairly good for someone who had probably spent the past week avoiding the sunlight.

"uh, hey," he says, his voice softer than usual — careful, even. like he thought you might throw the nearest piece of furniture at him and sprint into the night.

"hey?" you echo, voice brittle as you folded your arms tighter. the sweatshirt you were wearing — his sweatshirt, one that he had left here weeks ago — suddenly felt two sizes too big and painfully obvious, "what are you doing here?"

choso scratches the back of his neck, his gaze flickering over you briefly before darting to the floor, "i needed to see you."

"at…eight at night? without warning?"

"would you have answered if i'd texted you?"

the air between you stilled as your brain scrambles for a retort, but he had you dead to rights. with a reluctant huff, you step aside. "fair point. just come in."

choso hesitates for half a second before stepping inside, his presence making your already small apartment feel even more claustrophobic. he's taking a quick glance around, and you watched, mortified, as his eyes landed on the pile of crumpled tissues precariously close to a half-drunk mug of cocoa and a bottle of jack daniel's teetering on the edge of the coffee table.

"sorry for the mess," you mutter, your voice defensive as you crossed your arms tighter.

"it's fine," choso says, a little too quickly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, "i didn't mean to…interrupt."

"you didn't interrupt anything." you wave vaguely at the disaster zone that was your apartment.

choso's lips twitch, almost like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure if now was the time, "look, i just —" he trails off, his usual dull voice faltering as he pulled something small and neatly wrapped from his pocket, "i came to give you this. and talk."

you stare at the gift in his hands, shiny crimson ribbon and all, your pulse kicking up like it had somewhere urgent to be, "christmas came early? thanks, cho," you say, mirroring his words with the kind of ease that only comes from too many shared silences. "i'm fine, though. i wasn't up to much."

choso cracks a small, half-hearted smile, but it's like watching a flicker of light in a dim room — there, but not really there. "i tried texting," he says, glancing at you, searching for something.

"i know," you murmur, suddenly finding the floor very interesting, "i just wasn't in the mood for much talking."

choso huffs, a sound halfway between exasperation and amusement, "i noticed," he says dryly, and that only makes the air in the room more thick and uncomfortable.

you sigh, letting your shoulders slump as you flop back onto the couch, curling your knees up to your chest like you're trying to make yourself small enough to disappear, "so, what? you came here to check if i'm still breathing?"

"kind of," choso admits, settling awkwardly on the edge of your coffee table, his long legs folded beneath him in that way that makes him look like he’s trying to physically contain himself. his knees bump into yours, and you have to fight the urge to pull away, like you could get too close, "but mostly...i came to talk about last friday night."

your stomach does a horrifying little flip, the kind that sends cold fingers crawling up your spine. you stare at him, silently willing him to read the begging look in your eyes and back off, but he doesn't. he's never been the type to take the hint.

"i've been thinking about it all week," he continues, his voice quiet but steady, as if he's preparing himself for something big, "and i need to know if —"

"nope," you interrupt, holding up a hand, "nope. we're not going there."

choso blinks at you, like he's trying to process the sudden barricate that you've just put up. but you're so not ready for this conversation, not now, nor ever. and you'll be damned if he gets any closer to the minefield. he scowls, his brows knitting together like he's resisting the urge to push you off the couch, "why not?"

"because it doesn't matter, okay?" you lean your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like you can will this conversation away, "i was drunk as hell, cho. you're overthinking it."

he scoffs, his voice sharp now, like he's cutting through your flimsy deflection with a blade, "i don't think i am."

you wince, shrinking a little under the weight of his stony gaze, "why does this even matter?"

"you think i can just brush it off like it didn't happen?" and there's a rawness in choso's voice that hits you harder than expected.

your cheeks heat up, a fiery blush creeping up your neck, "i didn't mean it," you mutter.

"yes, you did," choso snaps back, with uncharacteristic heat, and he leans forward, enough to close the distance between you two, "and you know how i know? because you've been ignoring me all week. if it was just some drunk nonsense, you would have laughed it off by now. but you haven't."

you open your mouth to argue, to push back. but the words stick heavy in your throat. nothing comes out, and it must prove choso all the more right, because you watch as his bottom lip is captured by his teeth, suddenly watching plush skin split.

"do you want me to apologise?" you ask finally, voice a little too sharp for comfort, "because i will. i'll say i'm sorry for putting you in that position and —"

"i don't want an apology," choso cuts you off, and the dim light of your apartment makes the dark circles under his eyes stand out like bruises, "i want the truth."

you freeze, your heart thudding like a drum in your chest, "what truth, cho?"

"that you meant it," choso says softly, "that you meant it when you said that you wish it had been me."

the words hang in the air, heavy and electric. your breath catches, as your mind goes blank. an entire power outage, as you blink at him like a fish out of water. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you force the knot in your throat to loosen just enough to speak, "yeah," you whisper, "i meant it."

choso's whole body seems to deflate, like he's been holding up the weight of the sky. his shoulders slump, and the sheer relief on his face hits you like a tidal wave. it's almost enough to undo you. there's a sound, soft and shaky and far too vulnerable that escapes him.

neither of you move. the moment stretches out, fragile. like it could snap in half if either of you dared to breathe too loud.

then, choso is the first to move.

there's no hesitation, no uncertainty. just pure intention, like a dam finally bursting open. he shifts forward, hands finding their way to your waist with an urgency that makes your pulse go into overdrive. choso's grip is firm, but there's a reverence to it, as if you're something he's waited his entire life to touch. he pulls you to him, and you can feel the heat of him flood your chest, your blood, your bones.

"what if you regret this?" you murmur into his chest, voice muffled as your arms slip around his necks, holding onto the beautiful man like he may float way.

"not a chance," choso replies, and his voice is raspier than you've ever heard it, like he's saying it more to himself than to you.

choso kamo finally kisses you.

the kind of kiss that feels like a storm is finally breaking over clear skies, with an unrestrainted longing that crashes over the both of you.

his sweet lips meet yours with a hunger that makes your head spin, raw and real. choso clearly doesn't want to hold back, and neither do you.

his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly at russet strands.

choso groans into your mouth, a soft and burning thing that ignites every nerve in your body.

without breaking his hold on your lips, his wide hands slide down, finding the back of your thighs, making you shamefully clench them closer together.

but he's tapping them in silent invitation, and you leap into him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. the world around you blurs as he stumbles backwards.

and when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed, gravity does its job. you both tumble into the mattress in a jumbled mess of limbs and muffled laughter, your heart pounding so loud, as you muster up the courage to prod your tongue at his lips, letting him part his mouth so you can take up more of choso.

you land beneath him, his weight pressing into you in the best way possible, sending sharp spikes of heady arousal through you. and you blink up at him, breathless.

choso is so close now, his hazel eyes locked on yours with a rare intensity, like the calm façade is entirely shattered now. but there's a smile on his lips, a crooked little thing that sends a rush of warmth through you.

"hi, choso," you whisper, your voice soft yet breathless as he chases your lips again, a desperate hunger in his eyes. it's as if he can't bear to be apart from you, even for a heartbeat.

"hey," he murmurs back, that low rumble sending shivers down your spine, igniting a heat you can't ignore.

you keep pressing kisses to his glossy lips, the world narrowing down the press of his mouth and how choso's hands cradle your waist like you might slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

without breaking contact, choso shifts, his strong hands guiding you gently, firmly.

"don' wanna crush you," he spills against your mouth, his voice low and rough, and before you can reply, he flips you effortless.

the movement is seamless, fluid even. and you're suddenly perched atop him, straddling his thighs and sinking into the worn denim of his jeans.

he's leaning back against the covers beneath him, as his chest rises and falls in unsteady waves as he gazes up at you. expression caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

choso looks so completely, heartbreakingly in love with you that it leaves you breathless. his hands tighten on your waist, fingertips pressing with a near bruising intensity into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt that clings to your frame.

his cheeks are flushed a deep, telling pink, and you can't help the soft, teasing coo that slips from your lips as you trace the curve of his temple with gentle fingers, "is something wrong, cho?" you murmur.

his lips, swollen and glistening from your kiss, part slightly, his breath uneven and catching on the edges of unspoken emotions, "nothing. nothing, i swear," he says, the words tumbling out rough and raw, his voice pitched low and vulnerable.

his hands slide you closer, his grip firm but trembling slightly, and his next confession nearly undoes you, makes your core moisten even, "just…never done this before."

"really?" you whisper, eyes widening as you take him in — the flush on choso's cheeks, the way he won't quite meet your gaze, the way he holds you like you're something precious.

the realisation that he's never shared this part of himself with anyone else tugs sharply at your heartstrings, "never?"

choso swallows thickly, nodding once, his voice a quiet hum as he admits, "mhm."

"ah, you're so cute, cho," you giggle, watching as the man scrunches his nose in mock protest.

"tch, 'm not meant to be cute."

you huff, feigning disappointment, "and here i was, wishing you a very merry christmas eve." he whines as you lean in, pressing a teasing kiss to his neck, right where his heartbeat thrums beneath his pale skin. your lips find their home at the juncture, and you can't help but smile at the way he whines at your touch, bucks his hips up into yours.

"must have been real good to get a holiday gift like this."

you pull back just enough to admire your handiwork, a little red bloom that blossoms on thin skin, bruised petals that mark him now. choso's swallowing thickly, his adam's apple bobbing, as a soft whine escapes his lips again as you lean in, this time closer to the jaw. leaving a trail of kisses in a messy that makes choso squirm.

you press your thumb against his lower lip, feeling the soft and trembling skin quiver under your touch, "hey. open up," you coax, a teasing lilt colouring your voice.

choso looks up at you, his wide eyes clouded with desire as dark strands of hair fall across his forehead, "huh, what?"

you tap his lip again, impatience bubbling in your chest, "c'mon, open your mouth. properly," and the way he immediately obeys, parting his glossy lips sends a thrill through you. the scent of clove and citrus envelops you as you lean in closer, running your tongue over his lower lip.

you let a glob of spit fall from your lip into his mouth, with a thick thwack! echoing in the air. you deliberately miss, just a little bit, to watch him squirm as he swallows, eyes fluttering shut and inky lashes staining his cheeks.

"so good, aren't you? good at playing nice, hah," you use your thumb to smear the slick over his lips, just a bit. to watch him shudder, entirely captivated by you. it's exhilarating and makes your cunt clench around nothing. probably seeping through the thin material of your shorts and onto his thick jeans.

bang bang bang!

a sharp knock that booms at your door, enough to make your ears ring. you hear choso groan beneath you, shifting slightly so you can feel the full, thick curve of his bulge right where you need him most.

"think we can ignore that?" he rasps, his voice rough and low, the sound of it leave slick strands clinging between your thighs.

you spread your legs just a little wider over him, watching as his frown dissipates and his jaw drops, distracted by the preview you've given him, "i'm really hoping so."

but whoever is at the door has no intention of being ignored. another knock rattles the wood, followed by an all-too-familiar voice yelling, "hey! open up! delivery!"

your brows furrow, recognition sparking, "cho, isn't that—"

he cuts you off with an apologetic sigh, lifting you off his lap with surprising gentleness. choso sets you down on the quilt, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before muttering under his breath, "it better not be."

you watch him go, more than a little distracted by the sight of his broad shoulders and the way his messy hair bobs with each step. already, you're plotting exactly how you’ll get your hands back in it once he returns.

choso swings the door open, and you hear a collective, "what the hell?" echo through the apartment — one part you, one part choso, and one part…

"itadori yuuji?" you blurt, leaning over to get a look. sure enough, there's choso's younger brother, standing in the doorway in a bright red pizza delivery uniform, balancing three large boxes in one hand and his phone in the other.

yuuji blinks at the two of you, then raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of confusion and something vaguely accusatory before reading off his phone in a robotic voice, "uh…merry christmas eve. i have three pizzas. extra cheese. stuffed crust," he pauses, not able to keep the act up as his golden eyes narrow, "but, uh — bro, what happened to your face?"

you bite your lip to keep from laughing as choso straightens, his expression caught somewhere between mortified and furious, "yuuji—"

but the younger man's attention shifts to you, his gaze taking in the oversized sweatshirt you're wearing, choso's sweatshirt, and his jaw drops, "oh hell no. this is the hot girl you texted me about?"

choso visibly flinches as you burst into giggles.

"that's like your best friend? that's like my sister-in-law!" yuuji throws up his hands in mock disbelief, "you really keep your circles tight, huh, man?"

before choso can even respond, yuuji leans in closer, squinting at his older brother, "and seriously, dude, what's all that on your face?"

choso groans, snatching the pizzas from yuuji with one hand and shoving him toward the hall with the other, "okay, that's enough. get out."

"you haven't paid me! that's against the law!" yuuji protests, but choso grabs the scruff of his brother's uniform collar, steering him out the door.

"i'll pay you double. triple. just leave."

"my pizzas are probably cold now anyway," you call out, adding fuel to the fire.

"yeah? well, you look a bit too busy to eat them anyway," yuuji swivels his head over his shoulder to wag a finger at you with a grin, before choso finally shoves him fully into the hallway.

as the door slams shut, you hear yuuji's muffled voice echoing, "i'm telling everyone. i'm telling dad. i'm telling sukuna. i'm telling gramps, gojo, nanami —"

you can hear their bickering voices fade down the hallway, to where choso is probably gonna pack him into the car and send him off.

you glance down at the box you'd set aside earlier, your curiosity getting the better of you. carefully pulling at the ribbon, you open it to find a small scrapbook, beautifully made. inside are photos and clippings of you and choso: movie ticket stubs, receipts from late-night takeout runs, train tickets from your trip to the coast.

your chest tightens as you run your fingers over the familiar handwriting scrawled in the margins, a quote from a cheesy romantic movie that you had forced choso to watch with you a few months ago. what an honour it is to be loved like this.

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fishsticksloser · 7 months ago

Note

Hi! You know that comic of the girl who's putting on lipstick, and she's like, "It's been half an hour, and we still can't find a kiss proof lipstick! This experiment must be boring you!" And the guy is whipped. What about the rise boys with an s/o doing that? (Love all your fics they are so well written :)

Lipstick Stains

RotTMNT, Casey, & Liam x gn!reader

Warnings: oc x reader, kissing, whipped boys

A/N: First of all.... Thank you so much! Second, I... I have you in a chokehold(affectionately) now because of this. Sorry that some of them are shorter than others

Casey

He is not sure how he got here

He blinks up at you, confused and dazed

No one has ever kissed him so much

Casey doesn't complain

Hell... he doesn't say anything really

He leans into your kisses though, pressing himself closer

His face is littered with kisses

Not to mention his hands

He smiles a soft, dazed smile when you approach with another color on your lips

His lips are definitely a smear of many different colors as he kisses you properly after every lipstick

Casey hums into every proper kiss, a bit kiss drunk by now

Donnie

This was not his idea of an experiment

You had complained that your lipstick wasn't kiss proof so he was going to make you some that was

But first, obviously, you guys had to go through every single one of your lipsticks so he could get an idea of the color you wanted and the texture

He had a paper you were supposed to be kissing, not him

Did he complain?

Did he stop you?

No.

Donnie just sat there, a kind of dazed look in his eyes as you applied another

His face was scattered with kisses

They went onto his neck

His shoulders

His plastron

His shell

Donnie was so out of it, he could barely respond when you asked if he was okay

Leo

It was definitely not his idea

Not at all

This is obviously a lie

Every time you walk towards him, a new lipstick painting your lips, he sits up more

Slightly leaning forward in preparation for your kisses

Leo is practically purring like a cat as your lips press against his skin

He moved when you tried to kiss him with certain colors

His eye stripes covered with darker lipstick verses the rest of him

His tail wags happily, closing his eyes and churring loudly

Leo was so happy

So content

Absolutely covered in lipstick stains

He does retaliate though

Grabbing lipstick to kiss you all over as well

Liam

Also completely confused as to how he got here

What did he do?

Why is he covered in lipstick?

Liam doesn't necessarily mind it

But the feeling of lipstick on his skin is not an overly pleasant feeling

He can't help the giddy feeling he gets when you smile as you approach with a new lipstick on

It may not be a pleasant feeling, but you look so happy

Liam can't say no, letting you press more kisses to his face

He feel particularly excited when he feels your lips on his facial scar

It makes him want to grab you and show you the same affection

Mikey

It was his idea!

He saw all the art people had made by kissing canvases

He really wanted to try it

And who were you to deny this sweetheart?

You were testing out which ones to use for the piece

Having a blank canvas hung up for you to swatch them on it

Still...

The canvas remained empty

Instead you stood in front of Mikey, looking over the colors on him

Mikey blinks up at you, grinning yet slightly dazed

Who was he to deny these lovely kisses?

He definitely won't complain

He loves kisses

Mikey is excited for every single one

Raph

All he remembers is you mentioned that your lipstick wasn't kiss proof

Now he's sitting on his bed, dazed and wide eyed

Covered in lipstick stains

If you didn't know he wasn't a statue, you'd have thought he wasn't breathing

In fact, you could even hear the sharp breaths he took in when your lips pressed against his skin

Raph's face was covered, even his mask had some stains

The stains trailed all over, down his neck, over his shoulders, his shell, plastron

He really couldn't tell where you hadn't kissed

Was he basking?

Was he too scared to move?

A bit of all the above

Raph didn't want to ruin your fun and he was enjoying all the smooches you'd left on him

He definitely won't complain if you leave more

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spencerreidenjoyer · 1 year ago

Text

guess | spencer reid x reader

wc: 2.3k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: slight exhibitionism/voyeurism, alcohol consumption (reader is not drunk during sex), lingerie, munch!spencer, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

a/n: heavily inspired by guess by charli xcx ft. billie eilish, specifically billie's verse. yes the song dropped yesterday. yes i listened to the song once and decided to write a fic about it. i'm insane about s7/8 reid rn so :) (also posted on ao3!)

You swear you don’t mean to show off, but the miniskirt you’re in doesn’t help your case in the slightest.

Spencer had told you to join him at the bar for drinks with his coworkers, the bar just a couple blocks down from the club you were at with your friends. Your boyfriend had been away for most of this week and you really wanted to see him, so you don’t think twice about popping by to see Spencer. Besides, you hadn’t seen Penelope, JJ and Emily in a while either, and those girls treat you too kindly.

You realise how skimpily dressed you are when you walk into the bar, though, when you approach the very properly-dressed group of FBI agents at a booth in the corner. Your top is cropped and low-cut, revealing your cleavage, and you were wearing a little black miniskirt, the hem of which barely skirted the tops of your thighs.

Spencer has never commented on your fashion choices, often being the very satisfied recipient of your sometimes revealing outfits. But as you greet the BAU, his eyes are dark and hungry as they roam your figure. You smile at him with a whispered “Hi, baby,” before you kiss him chastely. The look on Spencer’s face is unreadable, other than the fact that you know he appreciates the view.

His gaze darts up at Derek from across the booth when he whistles at you.

“Looking good, mama.” Derek waggles his eyebrows at you, earning him a smack to the chest from Penelope and a hearty chuckle from Emily.

You lean over to hug JJ, Penelope and Emily in that order on the other side of the table, and you feel Spencer’s hand quickly snake across your waist, pulling you back to sit down. You glance over at him briefly, but he only keeps his gaze straight ahead.

“You are one lucky guy, Reid,” Emily laughs, and you feel Spencer’s arm curl around you tighter, pulling you in closer.

The rest of the night is pretty fun, cracking jokes and talking with Spencer’s team, but with the alcohol in your system from earlier, it only takes a few more drinks for you to get drunk. You’re extra giggly, half-sitting in Spencer’s lap, his hand not leaving your side. You feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, saying, “I think we’re going to head home first. This one here seems a little drunk already.”

“I’m not drunk,” you lilt, rolling your eyes. You lay your head on Spencer’s shoulder, blinking hard before you meet Penelope’s gaze. You hear Emily defending you about how you aren’t drunk, but Penelope smiles at you and says, “I think boy genius is right.”

You frown deeply, almost comically so. “Penny! You’re supposed to back me up here!”

Penelope laughs, always so kind to you. “Come on, honey. Let Reid take you home.”

You huff, crossing your arms like a petulant child. You don’t notice the way Spencer’s gaze darts down to your chest shamelessly. Derek whistles, and you assume Spencer must glare at him because Derek is raising his hands in surrender, telling Spencer he doesn’t mean anything. What were they even talking about? You don’t know, but Spencer is murmuring in your ear about getting a taxi home, and after you say goodbye to all of his friends, you’re letting him guide you out of the bar and into the cool night.

You shiver, the very little fabric you have on not doing you any favours when the temperature drops. Spencer is quick to shrug off his jacket and help you put it on. His jacket is long enough on you, considering Spencer’s height, to cover your skirt.

“I swear alcohol’s supposed to warm you up,” you grumble, holding your arms close to your chest as you try to stay warm. “I’m fucking freezing.”

“You feel warmer for a bit because the alcohol is a vasodilator – it causes the blood vessels under your skin to dilate, increasing blood flow, which makes you feel warmer. If you drink more, the higher levels of alcohol actually work to shrink your blood vessels instead and make you feel cold. Do you have a headache?”

You shake your head, but take the chance to snuggle up to Spencer now. “You feel nice and warm.”

“Good,” Spencer says, holding you close. In no time, he flags down a taxi, and you two pile in and drive towards his apartment.

Spencer’s hand is drawing circles into the side of your thigh, mindless, but the touch is incredibly distracting. You ask him softly, “You’ve been touching me all night, Spence. Something on your mind?”

“You,” he whispers back. “Can’t stop thinking about your underwear.”

You squeak at his brazenness, smacking his chest. “You– Spencer!”

“I got a good look when you were practically bent over the table just now,” Spencer continues, his voice a low rumble in his throat. “Didn’t even give me a chance to guess.”

You gape at him like a fish, but Spencer smiles and murmurs in your ear, “You know how much I love when you wear that lacy black pair.”

You bite down on your lip, trying not to moan like a whore in the back of this taxi. You just look at him, silently wishing he’d do something. Spencer presses a kiss to your jaw, and you feel your cheeks heat.

Thankfully, the driver is quick to announce that you’re at your destination, and you and Spencer stumble out of the cab quicker than you’d like to admit. Spencer doesn’t even wait for his change before he slams the car door shut.

Spencer crowds you against the back of the elevator, an old, rickety thing with no camera, so you feel less bad when Spencer slips his hand under your skirt and past your panties, his finger sliding between your wet folds. “Spencer!”

“You’re so wet for me already,” Spencer groans, kissing down your neck desperately. His fingers are so tantalising, rubbing up against your clit, your hole. “You’re so sexy.”

“Spencer,” you whine. “Hurry up and fuck me.”

The elevator doors creak open on Spencer’s floor. “Let’s go, then.”

Spencer barely locks the door behind you before he’s kissing you, eager and sloppy and desperate. It’s so hot, his large hands on your waist pulling you closer to him, and you feel the growing problem in the front of his pants.

“Spencer,” you moan. You feel his hands push up your skirt, feel him wedge his leg between your thighs. You must be soaked through your underwear by now, and you shamelessly rut your hips forward to grind against his leg.

“You know I love your fashion sense, my love, but this is slutty even for you.” Spencer’s voice is dark when he says it, and you whimper. “You’re dressed like you want somebody else’s attention.”

Your eyes widen and you look up at him. “No!”

“Derek was eyeing you like a piece of meat earlier. Emily, too.” Spencer frowns.

“I only want you, baby,” you insist, holding onto Spencer’s arms. “Only want you to notice me.”

“I am the only one who knows the colour of your underwear,” Spencer hums, his fingers skirting the waistband of your panties. “And fuck, you look good in them.”

“Please, Spence,” you whine, your plea lilting off into a gasp as Spencer lifts you, getting you to wrap his legs around him. You’d seen how he looked when he was younger, so scrawny he looked like he’d get swept away if the wind blew too hard, but now, he’s got more meat on his bones. His body is a pleasure to look at, let alone feel under your hands, which you’re happy to do now.

You touch the firm lines of his body through his shirt, as Spencer carries you to his bedroom. You mumble, hands frisky, “You’re so hot.”

“Says you,” Spencer smiles. “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby.”

You grin as he lays you on his bed, gasping when he slides his palm over your wet cunt through your underwear. His thumb flicks over your clit through the lace, the material dulling the electrifying sensation. you whine, “Spencer, please.”

Spencer tsks, looking down at you. “Let me take my time with you, darling. You’ve been teasing me all evening.”

He presses his thumb against your clit a little harder, making you moan loudly. While he tends to tower over you in bed, you also deeply appreciate the view of him getting on his knees so he can make a home between your thighs. His hair is wild, unruly, and you run your hand through it, admiring it. Keeping your gaze, Spencer leans down to kiss your pussy.

You feel his warm breath on you, the scratch of his stubble on your skin, pinned down simply by his gaze as his tongue darts out to lick you over your underwear. You whimper, as Spencer wraps his arms around each of your thighs, using you as an anchor as he presses his face between your legs.

You sob, because what Spencer’s giving you just isn’t enough, not when you need to feel his tongue on your cunt. He thumbs at your hole through the fabric, dipping into your wetness in a cruel approximation of the pleasure he usually gives you.

“Fuck me,” you groan. “Take my panties off already.”

“Not yet,” Spencer hums. Instead, he pushes your panties to the side, lets his fingers slide over your cunt. You gasp at the sensation, his rough, calloused fingers sliding over your wetness, and then you feel the warmth of his tongue.

The sounds his mouth makes as he eats you out are filthy, obscene. His tongue flicks over your cunt with a practised precision, familiar with what makes you tick, the wet, slick sounds too overwhelming. Your toes are curling with how good Spencer makes you feel – legs trembling, breathing heavy. You can’t stop the whimpers that leave your lips, almost helpless in the way you moan for him.

“Please,” your voice is shaky as you cry out for Spencer. “I need you so bad, baby."

Spencer hums against your cunt, the vibrations sending shocks up your spine in your pleasure. “Okay, my darling.”

Finally, finally, he’s sitting up and pulling your panties down, your little skirt still pushed up to expose your cunt. You look up at him, silently wondering why he hasn’t taken it off. He plays with the soft fabric in his hands almost absentmindedly and says, “I think we should keep it on.”

You blink up at him, not coherent enough to say anything about it. Instead, you watch him take his shirt off – you whistle at the sight, while he just rolls his eyes. He unbuckles his belt and push his pants down, his cock bobbing up, hard and red and leaky. You bite your lip, thinking about how he’ll feel inside of you.

“Kiss me,” you whine, and Spencer smiles at you. He tastes of you when his lips press against yours, and he’s quick to deepen it, his tongue in your mouth, like he's close to devouring you whole.

While he kisses you hungrily, you feel his hand between your legs, moving to line himself up with your entrance. You moan as the blunt head of his cock presses up against your hole, the sensation you’ve been craving all evening. Cruelly, he rubs up against you just like that, sliding between your folds but not giving you the satisfaction you need. You’re close to biting his head off.

“Spencer–” you start, but Spencer decides to press his cock into you right at that moment, and you sob with the way his thick length splits you open. Every time he fucks you, you feel like he was made for you, filling you up in all the right ways, feeling so perfect on top of you, inside of you.

You meet his lips and kiss him lazily as he starts to thrust into you, at the perfect pace, just deep enough to hit all the right spots. It’s too good, Spencer knowing you and your pleasure like the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” Spencer groans against your mouth, finally showing some sign of his unravelling. “You’re so tight, darling.”

You gasp, groaning his name, legs wrapped around his waist to pull him closer, feeling like you could fuse into one person with how much you’re clinging onto him. You press your forehead to his shoulder, moans punched out of you with every one of Spencer’s thrusts.

“Feels– Feels so good, Spence, love you,” you cry.

“I love you too,” Spencer groans, voice low and rumbly in his chest. “You’re so perfect, my love.”

You sob as your orgasm hits you, crashing into you like a tidal wave. You shake as you come, feeling so positively overwhelmed with the way Spencer fucks you, the way he holds you, the way he kisses you. You can’t feel your legs as you come down from your high, head spinning with all the pleasure. “Spence…”

“I’m– Fuck–” Spencer’s tripping over his own words as he comes right alongside you, your clenched pussy sending him over the edge too. He blows his load deep inside you, sticky and hot and so satisfying. You can feel how hard he’s breathing as your mind clears, his arms trembling as he holds himself up so he doesn’t end up collapsing onto you.

“You’re perfect,” you hum in Spencer’s ear, soft and gentle as you kiss the side of his head. You pull him in close, letting him rest his weight onto you, and your hand goes to stroke his hair softly. “So good. I love you.”

“Thank you. I love you more,” Spencer groans, his voice a little raspy already. “I’m sorry if I was too possessive over you in front of my friends tonight."

“All is forgiven, especially since you were sexy as fuck,” you grin up at him. “You’re always sexy.”

“Says the girl in a miniskirt and black lace panties.” Spencer smiles.

“All the more I know what I’m talking about, then,” you giggle, before kissing him slow.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x fem reader

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bunny-jpeg · 6 months ago

Text

a side of fries

toto wolff

tags: smut/fluff, food (mcdonalds), age gap (26/52), pregnancy, pregnant!reader, gentle sex, sweet & spicy fic, cowgirl position, domestic

it was ten at night on a friday. and most women your age were probably at a bar or some club, they were dancing the night away in uncomfortable heels and short dresses. the loud thump of the bass and the endless drinks.

you could even hear them walking and chatting past your apartment in monaco. but you weren't a club go-er, not since your met toto. and not since you got pregnant.

you were half of toto's age almost to a t, twenty six while he was fifty-two. you both made quite the pair, but you loved him so deeply. you loved in a way that you never felt for anyone else. he was unlike any other man you had ever met.

you actually were the girlfriend of a young engineer and at a race in your home country, you ran into and met toto. while it was an honour to meet someone like him. it wouldn't come till after you and your boyfriend broke up that toto would come back into your life.

"you don't have to." you played with the bracelet around your wrist as you stood outside the expensive restaurant in monaco. he flew you out for the weekend, he told you that he wanted you to go on a real date.

he simply held your lower back and smiled down at you, "i want to, you are not making me do anything i don't want to do, meine prinzessin." then leaned in a little, "may i kiss you?" and that was when you knew that you were in love with toto.

and in turn he loved you more than the stars that dotted the sky.

it was ten at night, toto had been busy in the home office with work for the next leg of the season. he only had a month with you before he was back in different parts of the world. thankfully, you were able to join him for the dutch and italian grand prix.

he was comfortable being on the couch next to you, you tucked into his side. you wore one of his quarter zip sweaters that was loose enough on you to be comfortable. toto had an arm around you while you watched a movie on the television. it wasn't anything too difficult, toto had mentioned earlier that day that he had never seen those "animated spiderman movies" when he caught you looking at baby onesies online. you had your eye on a little spiderman one.

now you were snuggled up as you watched spider-man: into the spider-verse. and while you loved the movie, there was something else on your mind. you leaned up and kissed your lover on the jaw.

"toto." you said softly.

"yes, liebste." he asked as he pulled you a little closer to kiss the top of your head. he then looked at your face and asked, "what are you thinking about?"

"i'm hungry." you rested your chin up against him. you looked at him, "i want mcdonalds."

toto made a slight face before he ran his fingers through your hair, "darling." he said, "you know that isn't healthy for you or the baby." you only pouted further.

"but me and the peanut want it."

toto chuckled, affected by your puppy-dog eyes. he was glad that he married his weak spot. he moved his hand to your middle and rubbed it, the rounded belly you had. he said, "my sweetheart, please. we have food at home."

you pouted, "please... please!"

before toto knew it, he had a pair of proper pants on and a cleaner t-shirt. you were in maternity shorts and one of his t-shirts. he had sneakers on while you were wearing flip flops. toto thought you were beautiful. you were his weakness, he hoped that you didn't make a habit of weaponizing your puppy-dog eyes to get junk food.

you both went down to the car and soon were headed towards the fast-food place. it was odd, in a city with so much food and culture. you wanted greasy fast food. his hand was on your thigh as he rubbed the partially exposed skin.

toto entered the restaurant with you, his hand on your lower back. you went to the self ordering station and he stayed close to you. you looked at him and asked, "do you want anything?"

he raised his eyebrows at you and you tilted your head towards the screen.

he chuckled, "i don't think it'll agree with my stomach at this age... and if you're getting a soft drink, please get something with no sugar. i don't need the doctor giving you or me a hard time because of your sweet tooth."

you ordered a cheeseburger, a large (diet) coke, and a side of fries. you could already taste the grease on your tongue. toto thought it was adorable, how excited you were. how excited you were.

he remained close to you, a protective hand at your waist as you both waited for your food. he looked down at you and asked, "are you alright, liebste?"

you nodded and replied in what little german you knew, "mir geht es großartig." you stumbled over the last part a little and toto beamed at you. obviously the child you were having together was going to be multi-lingual but you didn't want to miss out on their conversations in german. so you've been trying to learn.

he rubbed your back a little bit and you had a hand at your swollen middle. your number was soon called and you got closer to the counter with toto close behind like a shadow.

the employee looked at you and then toto. she looked a bit confused and you just sheepishly smiled as you took the meal. you thanked her before you shuffled out of the restaurant.

when you got in the car and put the straw in your diet coke, before you took a sip you said, "she thought we were father and daughter."

toto made a face as he got into the driver's suit. he reached over and rubbed your middle, "and here i thought that getting you pregnant would solve that problem." he leaned over and kissed you, the sharp taste of coke on his lips before he buckled himself and drove off.

back at the apartment, you happily ate your greasy food while toto played with your hair. he was impressed with you in everything you did, you were the perfect wife for him.

"happy?"

you nodded, with half of a fry sticking out of your mouth. toto leaned in and ate the other half before he kissed you. by the time you finished your meal and got rid of the garbage. he was hungry for something else. as you were partially bent over to throw out the wrappers. he draped an arm over your belly and pressed his chest up against your back.

eventually he rubbed your middle and sighed happily, "you look divine." he pressed you closer to him and kissed the side of your neck, "you carry my child so well. you're going to be an amazing mother."

just as toto couldn't deny you, you couldn't deny him. you giggled a little and turned in his grasp. you kissed him on the lips, the taste of grease still stained them. you shuddered with warmth.

when he pulled away he simply suggested, "why don't we go to bed, you must be tired." he cupped your face with his large hand and smiled.

you ended up on the bed with toto slowly pulling the shirt over your body, exposing your pregnant body to him. he placed a hand on your rounded middle and leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, you could hear him say he loved you against your skin. sex was slowly becoming a little more difficult thanks to the bump. but you'd always find ways to make do. your husband stripped you free of your clothes like a present. his hungry gaze on your swollen breasts. even giving the tender flash a kiss when he got you out of the sports bra.

your body had changed so much these last few months. all because of him, it was quite the boost to his ego. that as his age he could still father a child with such a beautiful, lovely woman. he pulled back while you sat on the bed and admired you. he licked his lips at the sight of you and felt warmth pool through his body.

you sat there naked, it was only fair that he did the same. you admired him, licked your lips hungrily as he joined in you in bed. naked as well. he was still fit for a man his age, he took care of himself. he still had enough stamina left in him to make sure his wife was taken care of. he wrapped his arms around you as he laid in bed. with you still seated upwards, it was the perfect angle for him to kiss you bare bump.

"you're such a good wife, good mother." he said lowly as his hand dipped further down until he was between your legs. his long fingers toyed with your pussy as he kissed at your swell, "from the moment i laid eyes on you, i knew you had to be mine. no one that beautiful should go without. and in return you gave me the most precious gift ever."

he pressed you closer for a moment, his nose squished against your belly. he exhaled deeply. that was why he spoiled you, as a thank you. you were giving him a child. when he pulled away, he had a hand on your hip and watched you move on top of him.

due to the pregnancy, you had to switch up the positions. and while toto loved classic missionary, having you in his lap wasn't too bad either. his hands on your belly as he eyed at you, his dark eyes pulled you in. he licked his lips as you shifted yourself on his lap. then sank down on his cock.

you whimpered a little and it was music to his ears. he loved how you sounded and it only spurred him on further to touch you. to love you. to give his wife all the affection she yearned for. you were all his, and he'd give you the world.

"how are you feeling? sick at all from the food?" he asked. during your pregnancy he wanted to make sure that you were eating well and taking care of yourself. he worried about you, work made it hard for him to be around often. but regardless, he was still weak to your puppy dog eyes.

he held your hips as you moved against him. he wanted to steady you as you pleasured the both of you. so pregnant yet working so hard. toto was a lucky man. he admired you as the pleasure coursed through his body. he asked you once more, "is the movements hurting you?" concern in his voice where the edges were tinged with lust.

"no, no, it's perfect. it's fine. nothing hurts, not even my hips." you said with pleasure seeped deep into your voice as you moved against him even more. you felt the crawl of want through your core and your cunt clenched around his achy cock. you exhaled deeply, "toto, this feels amazing." you chuckled lightly, "even better than the mcdonalds."

toto took a firmer grasp of your ass and said, "that's good to know. that my cock is better than fast food. i'd say that it doesn't add pounds on you, but.." he eyed your swollen belly, "i fear that's not the case." he relaxed a little bit as you continued to move up and down his cock.

you moaned as you held onto his short dark hair and gazed into his dark eyes. he can see the lust heavy in your gaze as you moved up and down his cock. you arched your back a little more and he placed both hands on your swollen middle.

"my wife." he groaned, "i got you all nice and pregnant. spoiled you, made you all mine. a yet you've only become more beautiful. stunning in a ways that keep me hooked to you. i need you, my darling. every inch i can have you." he panted against your warm chest, "i got you pregnant, i made you mine."

his words made your stomach flip as you continued to pleasure him. the feeling was immense, his words were like hot coals against your already heated skin. and it made your head swim with euphoric want. only toto wolff could make you feel revered and adored, but also like a slut. a whore for him to play with. even though he spoiled you in every aspect he could.

it was a duality that made you shudder as you felt the pleasure continue to mount in your core. he kissed at your chest and it made you clutch onto his hair tightly. the thumping in your chest felt faster with each buck of your hips. you were beyond excited, pleasure dripped from your core as you took his entire length.

you felt a haze in your system as you rode him. he happily let his sweet wife keep the pace. let you get to climax first. he cupped your swollen belly, the feeling of the skin under his hands made his cock twitch. even at his age he could knock up someone as beautiful as you. it didn't take much either, just a weekend in the swiss alps... or maybe it was the hotel in monza.... or the back of a cab at an after party a week later. regardless, he got your pregnant.

you tensed up around him, your cunt tightened around his cock as you held on tighter. you came around his length and continued your hot, quick movements.

you near sang his praises as you came, tensed up around him and he pulled you down for a searing kiss. he picked up the pace of his movements and fucked you feverishly till he reached his own climax. the feeling flooded his head and left little room for coherent thought. almost like a primal need to fuck you until a base part of his was satified. so he continued to move his hips once he finished inside of you.

when the clarity hit, he stopped and held your face to pepper your heated skin with kisses. he rested against you and panted heavily, "alright, alright, my treasure. my love." he held your back more tenderly before he guided you fully onto the bed and laid a protective hand at your waist.

"i love you."

"i love you too. now don't think you can always get your way by giving me sex." he playfully scolded you. he shifted himself close to your pregnant form. how warm you felt even from a small gap between you two.

you just smiled at your beloved toto and said, "oh don't worry. i'll use my powers for good." as if you hadn't been using your child to be a very spoiled mrs. wolff. <3

#bunny writes #reader insert #formula 1 #formula one imagine #f1 smut #formula one fanfiction #formula one smut #f1 x reader #formula one #torger toto wolff #toto wolff smut #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff fanfiction #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff #mercedes racing #torger christian wolff #torger wolff

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archangeldyke-all · 9 months ago

Note

jinx teasing sev and saying that she wouldn’t be able to survive a week without kissing r bc she’s “whipped”

sev takes that to heart and in fact does try to prove jinx wrong, but the second she sees r’s sweet and confused face at her dodging the kiss she breaks and apologizes and promises to make it up to her bc lets be honest sev wouldn’t be able to go even a day without kissing her precious gf

GOD i'm gonna make this roach verse.

i'll give a vague explanation below the cut so people who aren't familiar with that fic and still want to read this blurb can have context

men and minors dni

ok all u need to know is that sevika and reader had a whole enemies to lovers thing when reader got hired as jinx's (age 11ish in this blurb) nanny. they're madly in love now, and sevika has learned to tolerate (love) jinx too.

what sevika doesn't know is that you've been in on it from the start.

jinx was teasing you, about the kisses you're always pressing on sevika's cheeks and the way you're always tucking her loose hairs behind her ears, and you got flustered and blurted "at least i'm not as bad as sevika!"

jinx, of course, cackled and agreed with you, then she asked, "you think you can get her to buy us jericho's tonight?"

you giggled and ruffled her hair. "probably. you wanna have some fun with it though?" you asked.

which is how you're here.

jinx made a bet with sevika that she couldn't last more than a day without kissing you. sevika, of course, took the bait-- desperate to prove jinx wrong without thinking through the consequences.

consequences being, of course, your pout when she dodges your kiss at lunch. (jinx is hiding her giggles behind her hand. sevika is hiding her own pout behind hers.)

you try again when she helps you and lock clear the plates after the gang eats. (jinx tags along, carrying a singular fork as her version of 'helping'-- just to see if sevika fails on her bet) sevika ignores your attempted forehead kiss, making a u-turn and practically running back out into the bar.

and then, you bring out the puppy eyes.

standing just outside of jinx's room while she 'reads her books' you confront sevika. she cringes the moment she sees you, and you just sigh. "sev..."

"baby, c'mere." she sighs, wrapping her arms around you, folding immediately. if you focus, you think you can hear jinx hyperventilating from holding her laughs in her room. "i made this dumbass bet with jinx that i could go the whole day without kissing you, and i didn't get the chance to let you in on it without the brat around." she pouts. you blink up at her, trying to make your eyes as big as possible.

before you can speak, sevika darts down to kiss you. you can't help but giggle against her lips. when she pulls away, you finally sigh.

"i guess that's alright."

"it's not." she kisses you again. "i felt like i was stubbing my toe each time i dodged you." she pecks you once more. you start to giggle. "what can i do to make it up to you?" she asks.

in her room, you hear jinx's muffled "fuck yes!"

you just bat your eyes at sevika. "wanna take me to jericho's for dinner tonight?"

sevika nods. "do we have to bring the brat?"

you chuckle. "duh. it's her favorite, she'd kill us if we went without her."

"fine." sevika sighs, kissing you one last time before turning around and marching away-- off to do whatever job silco's got her on today.

jinx's door flies open, and the girl comes flying out, cackling manically. "we did it!"

"i told you we could." you say, ruffling her bangs. you pull her to your side and start walking the pair of you toward the stairs. "c'mon. dinner's not 'til late and i'm hungry. wanna share some flamers?" you ask. jinx nods, giving you a quick hug before darting off and scrambling down the stairs toward the kitchen.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika imagine #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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ramp-it-up · 25 days ago

Text

At Last

Make it So | Knock You Down Masterlist

Summary: Bucky makes you his wife. And you let him.

Word count: 4.8 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader; Steve Rogers x Peach

A/N: This fic is in the Knock You Down AU, and the wedding is finally here. It comes after the events of Make it So. This universe obviously intersects with the Peach verse, and would come after Show Off. It also will intersect with the Muse AU in the future of this story. Being on the couch for the past week is coming in clutch to catch Bucky and Steve up to Ari. I'm nervous because I haven't written for these two in a while and wanted to get the wedding just right. Please let me know how you feel by commenting, reblogging, and interacting. 😉

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Reader is 3 months pregnant. Anxiety attack, wedding stress, destination wedding, wedding dress shopping, sex in an established relationship, pregnant reader, Bucky is a simp and feral for Furmoaså, flirting, teasing, Bucky speaking google Romanian, praise so much praise, oral, (f receiving) more bathroom sex, bump worship, raw p-in-v, after care.

Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

The coffee table was buried in color swatches, RSVP mockups, half-emptied takeout containers, and a half-full glass of ginger ale you’d been too nauseous to finish.

You sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Bucky’s dress shirts, hair up in a messy bun, your phone in one hand and your planner in the other.

You stared blankly at the spreadsheet open on your laptop screen, wondering how you’d gone from “just us, barefoot on a beach” to twelve-person string ensemble and a four-tier cake.

You didn’t even remember how it happened. Just that it was spiraling now. Too fast and too big.

The tightness in your chest was creeping up your throat. That shallow, dizzy feeling again, not hunger, not nausea. Just too much. Your vision blurred and your hands trembled as you shut the laptop.

And that’s how Bucky found you.

“Hey. What’s going on, Frumoasă?”

He was fresh out of the shower, his hair damp and curling. His chest was bare, sweatpants riding low on his hips. He was drying his hair as he stepped into the room, but when he saw your face he dropped the towel.

In two strides he was in front of you, crouched between your knees, warm hands cupping your cheeks.

“Baby,” he said softly, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t even noticed.

“Breathe with me, okay? In…”

You inhaled shakily, eyes locked on his.

“Good girl. Now out…”

Your exhale caught, but you pushed through it.

“There you go,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “Again.”

You followed his rhythm until the wave of panic ebbed, just enough to let your lungs expand again. You felt yourself calm just a little.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I’m trying to do everything right. I want it to be perfect. I want you to be proud. I want the baby to be okay, and I just…”

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Come here.”

He pulled you into his lap, your legs draped over his thighs as he settled back into the couch. His hand slid under the shirt you were wearing, his shirt resting warm and steady over the gentle swell of your belly.

“First of all,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple, “you already gave me perfect the day you said yes.”

“And second… proud doesn’t even begin to cover it. I look at you every day and think, how the fuck did I get this lucky?”

You closed your eyes and let yourself sink into him, your forehead against his neck, your body melting against his chest. His other hand moved to your hair, fingers cording through the thickness gently.

“We can call off the whole thing right now and go to city hall in whatever we’re wearing,” he whispered, “and it’ll still be the best day of my life. I swear to God.”

You let out a broken laugh.

“You’d marry me in sweatpants?”

“In a heartbeat. With mustard on my shirt and the courthouse AC broken. Don’t care.”

His lips grazing yours.

“You’re not doing this alone. I’m here, Baby. For all of it.”

You nodded slowly, sniffling into his neck.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Now, what do you need? A nap? A foot rub? For me to throw this whole planner into the ocean?”

You laughed again, watery and real.

“Honestly? All three.”

“Done.”

And just like that, the storm passed.

Not because the stress was gone, but because Bucky Barnes knew how to hold you steady when it hit.

—---

It was past eleven the next day when Peach arrived, holding a pint of salted caramel gelato.

“Tell me you’re not still doom-scrolling BridalTok.”

You didn’t answer. The open Pinterest tabs on your laptop, the silk robe you hadn’t changed out of since breakfast, and the vanilla candle you’d lit twice today were damning enough.

Peach kicked off her sandals and padded inside.

“You’re glowing, by the way,” she said, settling on the couch beside you.

“Even if you’re panicking. Still glowing. Like, annoying-level glowing.”

You groaned and pulled the throw blanket over your face.

“I don’t feel glowing. I feel deranged. I cried over a centerpiece. A fucking centerpiece, Peach. Bucky had to talk me down like he was disarming a nuke.”

Peach laughed, flopping over until her cheek was resting on your shoulder.

“Sounds like he passed the test.”

You peeked at her from under the blanket.

“What test?”

“The one that actually matters. You already knew the sex was good. You already had the chemistry, the intellectualism, the obsession. But the way he holds you through this? The hormones, the wedding spreadsheet meltdowns?”

She grinned.

“That’s the forever part.”

Your throat tightened a little.

You sat up slowly, tugging your knees to your chest.

“Was it like that for you and Steve? When you knew?”

Peach went quiet, her teasing softened by memory.

“I knew the second I saw him in Hilton Head. I wanted to strangle him. And kiss him. And break every plate in the house.”

You smiled. “Sounds romantic.”

“It wasn’t. Not then. But when I saw him again in Brooklyn, and I wasn’t mad anymore. Just wrecked and happy to see him? That’s when I knew.”

She turned to you, all mischief gone.

“But this wedding? This is you. Big, golden, joyful you. And Bucky sees it. He wants it. Not because it’s shiny, but because it’s yours.”

You blinked hard, breathing shallow now for entirely different reasons. Peach nudged you with her foot.

“If you still want simple, you can have it. But don’t hide from what you want because it scares you. If it’s fireworks and a string quartet on an island with your belly full of baby Barnes? Then bitch, do it.”

You wiped your eyes. “I love you.”

She grinned. “Obviously.”

She stood and stretched dramatically.

“Now. Are we crying into this gelato like the emotionally unstable icons we are?”

You grabbed two spoons.

“Of course.”

—

The boutique was a quiet sanctuary tucked between two noisy cafes in SoHo, and for a few hours, it belonged to just the three of you.

A sign in the window read Private Appointment – Bride Inside, scrawled in looping script, and Peach had immediately posed in front of it for a photo.

Inside, soft jazz filtered through the air as you stood on the pedestal, hem floating just above your bare feet, silk and tulle whispering around your thighs.

You tried not to cry.

Your mom sat on the velvet settee, hand pressed to her lips. Peach held the other, and even she was misty-eyed, despite teasing you the whole drive over about being “the chill bride, remember?”

“You look like a goddess,” she whispered. “A divine entity. They should retire white after this.”

The gown had been a long shot, a last-minute sample pulled out of storage by a determined assistant who said, “I just have a feeling.”

And somehow, it was everything.

Soft and stunning, romantic without being fussy. Ivory silk with a gentle shimmer, delicate cap sleeves that slipped off your shoulders just enough, and a deep V-back that draped like liquid. The front skimmed over your three-month bump, subtle enough to feel like a secret only Bucky would notice up close.

The veil was still in its packaging. You hadn’t decided on it yet. But when the assistant gently pinned a cluster of pale blossoms behind your ear, you suddenly saw the whole picture.

A villa. The sea. Golden hour.

And Bucky.

Your mom finally stood and crossed the room to cup your face like she had when you were small.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” she murmured. “Not that he isn’t already crazy about you.”

You laughed, thick with emotion.

“I don’t even know how to walk in this.”

“We’ll practice,” Peach grinned. “We’ll make a TikTok. Bucky’ll cry watching that.”

The fitting ended with a rush of photos, none of which you sent to Bucky. You’d barely stepped out of the dress when your phone buzzed.

Bucky: How’s it going? Are you still in the dress? What if I promised not to blink. Just a peek.

You: Absolutely not.

Bucky: I’ll bring dumplings. One glimpse for every sauce container.

You: Stop trying to bribe my honor.

Bucky: Your honor already said yes to marrying me. Let me worship you. …I’ll throw in a foot rub.

Peach leaned over your shoulder and read the thread, grinning.

“You know he’s parked outside, right?”

You turned toward the window and there he was, in his sportscar, sunglasses on, and pretending to be normal. He was parked illegally and completely unrepentant.

Your cheeks flushed.

“Oh my God.”

Peach cackled.

“Already in full simp-mode.”

—---

Bucky couldn’t stop imagining you in that dress.

He hadn’t even seen it, just chased the outline in his head, by the way your voice caught when you described how it shimmered, and by the way your hands had brushed your own hips when you whispered, “It just floats, Bucky. Like a dream.”

Well, now he was the one dreaming. Hard.

You’d spent the afternoon at your final fitting with your mom and Peach. He’d tried to bribe someone, anyone, to get a peek.

The designer, the assistant, the poor delivery driver who’d dropped off the steaming food Peach ordered from a fancy Thai place. But no one cracked.

So now he was pacing the penthouse while you did your hair in the ensuite, wearing one of his old tees and nothing else. The same legs that would walk toward him in that dress next week were currently propped up on the vanity, lotion glinting on your thighs like an oasis illusion.

He was losing it.

“You’re quiet,” you called, not looking up. “That’s dangerous.”

“I’m picturing you in white,” Bucky said, appearing in the doorway.

His eyes were starving.

You smirked at him in the mirror.

“That bad?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer.

“That good. Too good.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing your neck, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.

“I can’t stop thinking about how you’ll look. But even more? About what’ll be underneath.”

You raised a brow.

“You won’t be seeing that during the ceremony.”

Bucky raised himself to full height.

“No panties next week.”

You laughed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, one hand gliding down to cup between your thighs.

“None. I want to be thinking about this sweet little pussy while you walk down the aisle. About how soaked you’ll be by the time I say I do.”

You gasped as he dragged his nose along your neck.

"Vei fi atât de frumoasă..."

“I thought you said you didn’t want to jinx anything,” you whispered, teasing.

“I don’t,” he murmured, lifting you up onto the counter with ease. “I just want what’s under the dress.”

His hands were hot on your thighs, spreading them open as his mouth found your neck, his voice wrecked with want.

“Just picture it, baby. You walk down that aisle, glowing, mine in every way. Everyone watching you. No one knowing you’re bare under there except me.”

You moaned softly, head tipping back as he kissed just beneath your jaw.

“You’ll say your vows, let me put that ring on your finger, and I’ll be standing there thinking about how my cum’s gonna leaking out of you that night.”

“James…”

“That’s right, mama,” he smiled into your neck, while slipping two fingers under your shirt to roll your nipple between his fingers.

His other hand was between your legs, thumb dragging a slow, teasing circle.

“You’re soaked,” he growled, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“This all for me, Baby?”

You nodded, dizzy.

“Been thinking about you all day.”

“Yeah?” His fingers dipped lower, spreading slick heat. “You ache, sweetheart? Want me to fix it?”

Your hips rocked into his palm, desperate and needy.

He chuckled.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Bucky sank to his knees.

He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, his hands gripping your hips, spreading you open with no shame. His mouth hovered over you, hot breath ghosting across sensitive skin.

And then he devoured you, his tongue firm and greedy, lips wrapping around your clit and his groan vibrating straight into your core. You cried out, fingers clutching the edge of the counter, spine arching as you came, so sensitive with pregnancy.

“You think you’re glowing now? Wait until you’re wearing my name, my ring, carrying my baby, and soaked for me on our wedding night.”

You whimpered, thighs rubbing together for friction. Bucky smirked, cock hard against your back, his lips brushing your ear.

“No panties,” he repeated, voice wrecked. “That’s final.”

As if he wouldn’t let you do anything and everything you wanted. He was grasping at straws, desperate.

You shivered.

“We’re getting married in front of my entire family.”

“I’m your family and I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said simply as he rose.

“Right here.”

You were already nodding when he turned you around and bent you over the counter, dragging your panties down and pushing your thighs apart. He didn’t bother teasing this time, just slid in deep and slow, your walls fluttering around him as he groaned your name like a prayer.

“God, you feel like heaven.”

One arm locked around your waist, hand splayed over your belly. The other cupped your breast through the shirt, thumb brushing your nipple. His thrusts were rougher now, driven by something raw.

“You gonna come again for me?” he growled into your neck.

“Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

You shattered with his name on your lips.

And he followed with a broken moan, spilling inside you with a possessive groan, his body curling protectively over yours as he kissed the sweat-slicked skin at the back of your neck.

“You’re gonna walk down that aisle,” he whispered, “and I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You kissed his jaw. “You better.”

“You know what’ll help?”

You sighed happily. “What?”

“No panties.”

You laughed and buried your face in his chest.

“We’ll see.”

He grinned against your temple.

“No. We won’t. That’s the whole point.”

—---

The bridal suite smelled like pressed linen, sea air, and gardenia. You’d dreamt about this as a child.

But nothing about this was childish.

The silk under your fingers was real. The gold initials stitched in your train were real. The diamond on your hand caught every beam of sunlight through the balcony doors.

And Bucky Barnes was real.

You stood barefoot before the full-length mirror, the final zip of your gown still undone, your hair swept up in curls, a halo of pins and fresh petals glinting beneath your veil.

Peach was in the hallway chasing down earrings. The stylist was packing up brushes. And your mom stood behind you, hands gentle on your shoulders, looking at your reflection in the mirror.

“My beautiful girl,” she whispered.

You turned to look at her.

There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

“You used to twirl around the living room with a pillowcase on your head and say, Mama, one day I’m gonna marry a prince.”

You laughed, already crying.

“He’s not exactly a prince.”

“No,” she said softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face.

“He’s better. He’s yours.”

That hit deeper than expected.

“You’re brave, you know,” she added.

“Not just because you’re marrying him. But because you’re letting yourself have this. Love, joy, your dream. You’re not shrinking for anyone.”

You swallowed hard.

“He loves you so much,” she continued.

“You’ve always been sunlight, but with him? You shine. And that baby already knows how lucky they are.”

You rested your hands over the small swell of your belly, blinking fast.

She stepped closer, adjusted a strand of hair, and kissed your temple.

“Take a deep breath, baby. This is the start of the rest of everything.”

Peach was showed up behind you in a sage-green slip dress, grinning like she had a secret.

“You gonna cry?” you asked without turning around.

“No,” Peach sniffled.

“You’re gonna cry. And ruin your lashes. So don’t.”

You huffed a soft laugh.

“Help me with the back?”

She stepped up behind you, fingers gentle as she zipped the dress slowly, smoothing it with a reverent touch.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

You finally looked at yourself.

Your body was already beginning to shift, soft in places it hadn’t been months ago, glowing with the quiet strength of what you carried. And the dress wasn’t there to hide it. It was designed to honor it.

A deep neckline, silk that draped like water over your hips, the faintest shimmer that caught the light every time you moved.

Your hand found your belly, still barely visible. But you felt it. Bucky’s child. Yours.

“You’re not just a bride,” Peach said softly behind you. “You’re a monument.”

You turned, blinking back tears.

Peach held up a tissue like a threat.

“Don’t you dare. We’ve got twenty minutes. You cry now, and the stylist will have to reapply your entire face. And Steve’s already crying and pretending he’s not, so that’s my job for later.”

You smiled. “He is?”

“Oh, he’s wrecked. I caught him sneaking a look at Bucky, who’s pacing the beach like a caged panther. He’s muttering to himself and holding the rings like they’re gonna disappear.”

Your stomach fluttered with nerves, joy, and a little nausea.

Peach stepped forward and took your hands.

“You ready?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

“Good. Because this wedding? It’s not about proving anything. Not to family. Not to guests. Not even to yourselves. It’s just the loudest, brightest way to say what you already know.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“That he’s mine.”

Peach nodded.

“And you’re his. For good.”

You took one last look in the mirror, breathed in deep, and exhaled slowly.

Then you whispered to your reflection, “Let’s go get married.”

—--

Bucky’s palms were sweating.

Which was absurd, given what his hands had done in past lives. They done some dangerous things and they had been steady. Always.

But not today.

Today, his hands were waiting to touch you, his future wife. And for the first time in years, he was nervous in a way that had nothing to do with power, and everything to do with love.

He stood at the edge of a terraced garden that sloped down toward the sea, the salt air heavy with hibiscus and lavender. The villa behind him had hosted billionaires and heads of state, but none of them mattered.

The only thing that mattered was the sound of soft footsteps behind him.

He adjusted the cuff of his navy linen jacket, one of three that had been custom-made for this day. Steve had rolled his eyes earlier, muttering something about Bucky becoming a goddamn peacock in his old age.

But then again, Steve hadn’t seen you yet.

You had insisted on a first look. Said he couldn’t badger his way into seeing the dress ahead of time, but you’d give him this moment before the wedding.

Something private. Just for you two.

And thank God for that, because Bucky already felt like he was going to drop to his knees.

“Buck,” came Steve’s voice from behind him, sarcastic.

“If you pass out, I’m not carrying you.”

Bucky cracked a shaky grin but didn’t turn around. Not yet.

He heard your laugh before your voice. The sound of Peach’s heels clicking nearer.

And then…“James.”

He shut his eyes for a second. Took a breath like it was his first in years. Then he turned. And the world fucking stopped.

You stood in the garden light, hair swept up, veil fluttering slightly in the sea breeze, and the gown…Jesus.

Bucky couldn’t breathe.

You looked like a dream he was afraid to wake from. The silk clung in all the right places and glowed against your skin, soft and strong and completely you.

His eyes dropped to your hand and the ring he gave you glittering in the afternoon light, and then lower, to the barely-there swell of your belly, where his child grew.

His voice cracked as he said your name.

You stepped forward, nervous for only a second until you saw the look in his eyes.

He was ruined.

Bucky’s throat worked as he blinked hard.

“You look…”

“Yeah?” you teased, suddenly shy.

“Arăți ca pentru totdeauna. You look like forever,” he said hoarsely.

He reached out, fingers brushing your waist like you were made of spun sugar, like you’d disappear if he held on too tightly. But you didn’t disappear.

You stepped right into his arms, melted into him, and he kissed your temple carefully.

“I love you,” you whispered into his neck.

His voice was raw. “I love you more.”

You pulled back to look at him, hands resting lightly over the lapels of his jacket.

“Still nervous?”

He shook his head.

“Not anymore.”

—---

The ceremony was held at golden hour on a bluff overlooking the Aegean. The aisle curved through native sea grass and white stone, petals scattered with the ocean spread wide behind the altar.

Bucky waited, heart racing, jaw tight, in the very center of it all.

Steve stood at his side, a rare look of reverence on his face. The man had been his right hand through everything it took to build an empire. But nothing had ever made Steve sniff back emotion like this.

“She’s coming,” Steve said under his breath as Peach walked toward him. “Try to stay upright..”

Bucky didn’t reply.

And then he saw you and everything went still.

You stepped into view, arm tucked gently through your stepfather’s, veil floating behind you, dress glowing like it had been dipped in starlight.

Bucky swore the sun dimmed itself just to let you shine.

He’d seen you earlier, kissed you, held you, but this was different.

This was sacred.

Reaching the altar, Peach dabbed her eyes discreetly, and tucked in beside Steve. He reached for her hand. His grip trembled and he leaned close and whispered something only she could hear. She nodded, then pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

But Bucky couldn’t see them anymore.

He saw only you.

And you were looking right at him. Like there was no one else. No crowd. No ceremony. Just him.

He pressed two fingers to his lips, then to his heart.

You felt it. A vow without words.

Your stepfather leaned in and whispered, “He loves you, baby girl,” before placing your hand into Bucky’s.

The officiant spoke, but neither of you heard a thing.

“Okay?” he mouthed.

You nodded, eyes shining. “You?”

His laugh was pure joy.

“Not even a little.”

The ceremony passed in a blur of gold and sea wind and reverent silence. There were a few readings, a pointed look from Peach when the phrase “in passion and peace,” was spoken, and Steve chuckled under his breath.

Bucky barely registered it.

He watched your lips shape the words “I choose you,” like they’d been written into his skin.

And when it was his turn, his voice cracked.

N-am crezut niciodată că merit așa ceva, dar jur pe Dumnezeu că voi petrece fiecare zi demonstrând că merit.

“I never thought I’d deserve something like this,” he said, eyes fixed on yours. “But I swear to God, I’ll spend every day proving I do.”

The officiant smiled.

“I now pronounce you…”

Too late.

You were already reaching for him, grabbing his lapels and pulling him in like you couldn’t wait another second.

The kiss was deep, sweet and improper.

The crowd gasped. Peach hooted. Steve muttered “Jesus, you two,” and shook his head, but there was a grin on his face big enough to rival the ocean.

You and Bucky walked back down the aisle hand in hand, both of you beaming, radiant with something wild and holy.

He leaned close as the cheers swelled behind you, eyes flicking down your body.

You bit your lip and winked at your new husband as you leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“No panties. Just like you said. And shaved bare, too.”

Bucky didn’t stumble, but he damn near did.

You kept walking, serene and glowing beside him, your veil floating like a flame in the breeze.

Bucky was wrecked.

And the happiest he’d ever been in his life.

—-

The villa was quiet when you arrived and bathed in candlelight, the ocean’s rhythm a soft pulse through the windows. Someone had come in ahead of you; peonies floated in the clawfoot tub, and bottles of water chilled beside a tray of honey-dipped figs and dark chocolate.

But you didn’t notice any of it right away.

You noticed Bucky.

He kicked the door shut behind him, jacket already off, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his gaze raking over you like he was starved.

He’d kept himself in check all day.

Ceremony, photos, dinner, the toast that Peach gave that wrecked you both, he’d kept it buttoned up.

But now he was unhinged. It shocked him how much he wanted you.

“Come here,” he said, voice raw.

You turned slowly, silk rustling as you moved toward him like a dream he’d been chasing his whole life. And when you were close enough to touch, he did.

His hands found your waist and then lower, gathering your gown in his fists, dragging the fabric up inch by inch until the whole thing slipped off your body and pooled at your feet.

And Christ.

There you were.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your mouth. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, sweetheart. Look at you. Mine.”

His lips dragged over your collarbone as he walked you backward toward the bed, relishing the fact that you were bare under his hands. He groaned as his palms found your breasts, thumbs grazing over sensitive nipples.

“You’ve been teasing me for days,” he said, breath hot against your neck. “All that talk about the dress. And what you’d wear underneath.”

“You like?” you asked, breathless.

Bucky smirked.

“I love you bare. Shaved. Soaked for me. So gorgeous.”

He sank to his knees in front of you, pressing a kiss to the gentle swell of your belly. His hands were splayed over your hips, grounding himself.

“But it’s not just this,” he murmured, voice thick.

“It’s not just how perfect you look. It’s everything. Your laugh. Your voice. The way you make me feel. The way you look at me.”

You were already shaking under his praise, thighs trembling, breath catching. His tongue dipped into your navel and swirled, making goosebumps peak.

“It gets me hard, Frumoasă. Really fucking hard. But that’s not why I love you. You’re kind. You’re sassy. You’re good. And you’re real.”

You whimpered, hips twitching.

“To find someone gorgeous, sweet, smart, hilarious, and mine? That shit’s not real. It’s not. But you are.”

His mouth moved lower, and you barely had time to moan before his tongue slid through your folds, filthy and slow. He groaned like a man who’d been craving this all night, gripping your hips and dragging you closer.

You cried out, one leg lifting automatically over his shoulder, and he buried his mouth deeper. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard. But he didn’t stop. Not until you shattered against his tongue, sobbing his name, your body convulsing from the force of it.

Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stared you down.

“You’re already wrecked,” he rasped. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He undressed without looking away. Shirt, belt, trousers, all gone in seconds. His cock was already hard, thick and heavy, flushed dark and wet.

And when he crawled over you, he took a beat to just look at you.

“Still with me, Mrs. Barnes?”

“Always,” you whispered.

And then he sank into you, slowly, inch by agonizingly thick inch, stretching you around him until he was seated to the hilt and barely breathing.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut like he was in pain.

“You feel like…fuck, you feel like coming home.”

You whimpered, your hips rolling to meet him. He started to move, deeper with each thrust, building a rhythm that made the headboard knock the wall and your name fall from his lips like he didn’t know how to stop saying it.

He kissed your breasts, your neck, your mouth, his hand slipping between you to trace soft circles over your clit. But what wrecked him, what destroyed him, was when his hand slid to your belly again.

Right over where your baby was growing.

“We made something,” he choked out, voice breaking. “Right here. Inside you.”

“You made me yours,” you whispered.

“I always will.”

You came again, sobbing his name, your walls fluttering around him. And Bucky followed with a groan, burying himself deep inside you as he spilled, clutching you tight, and shaking from the force of it.

Later, he carried you to the bath, washing you gently, like something priceless.

You curled between his thighs as warm water lapped at your skin, the scent of gardenia rising with the steam.

He kissed your shoulder and the back of your hand.

“You’re everything,” he whispered.

“My love. My future. My family.”

You turned in his arms, pressing your lips to his.

“And you’re mine.”

——-

Well? Whaddya think? 🤔

#kyd asks #ask dj #knock you down fic #peach fic #bucky barnes #knock you down verse #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #mob boss! bucky barnes #sebastian stan

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prettycalla · 20 days ago

Text

|| reverentia ||

Pairing: Geta/Reader

Summary: Geta is afforded a rare, quiet morning with his Empress. He refuses to let even a second of it go to waste.

Word count: 2.5k

Tags and warnings: Smut (not overly explicit, but still very obvious!), fluff, Geta adores his wife, Geta's POV, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(Once again, the lovely @getaapologist gave me a little thought and here I am, turning it into a whole thing. Please check out her fics, they're so good! This can also be read as a vague continuation of this fic.)

Geta Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

When Geta awakens, the sun has yet to breach the horizon. The hour is somewhere between night and day; that strange time where he can merely exist as he is. The burdens that come with ruling have been taken from his shoulders, laid to rest elsewhere for a brief moment.

Now, he is a man, no more and no less. It is a strange comfort to him.

He turns his attention then to you, asleep in his embrace. Your head rests against his chest, tucked under his chin. As if you were made to fit so perfectly in his arms as you do.

His beautiful Empress. His beloved wife.

A soft sigh falls from your lips, your warm breath ghosting along Geta’s collarbone, and he cannot help the shiver that runs along the length of his spine. The movement jostles you ever so slightly, but it is enough for Somnus to lift his spell from you.

A sleepy little groan leaves you, and Geta holds himself completely still, lest he disturb you further.

But it is too late.

“Good morning,” you manage to say through a long yawn.

Geta pulls himself back, just enough that he can see your face.

How he finds himself clinging to little moments such as these. When the greedy, unsatisfied child that is his Empire still slumbers on, and his only thoughts can be of you.

He says nothing, yet his mind races with words that he still stumbles over. Words that you are fluent in, that are still foreign on his tongue.

He has always seen vulnerability as a weakness, and yet he does not with you. How you hold your heart out to him, so fragile, so easily crushed by a man who has known only to conquer, to destroy. And yet still you offer it to him, this delicate, breakable thing.

Once he thought you foolish for it; now it only urges him forward to learn to do the same for you.

He does not know how to say it, and so he decides, as he so often does, that he must show you instead.

For rarely does a man of his lofty position ever truly have to think of what he must say. Why would he ever need to, when he has a sea of sycophants at his command?

Simpering sheep with daggers hidden in their wool. Dangerous to turn one’s back to.

But Geta is no less dangerous. He has had to learn from a young age that there are few he can place trust in. The Empire will take and take and take, until he is little more than a husk, picked clean by scavengers.

His teeth have grown long, his claws sharp in his years on the pedestal he has been placed upon. He is versed in swordplay, but will surrender to the animalistic violence more commonplace in his brother when he must. They are two of a kind, after all.

And he will fall prey to his baser urges to protect you, again and again. Without thought, without fail.

You are more precious to him than any jewel, any land, even his title.

He places a hand beneath your jaw, gently tilting your head up to look at him. Truly he is privileged to be the only man to see you as you are now - your face bare, a soft smile pulling at your lips as you look up at him through half-lidded eyes, still tipsy with sleep.

He cannot bear the thought of another seeing you as he does now. Even his own brother.

There was a time when he might have lost your love to Caracalla, and it is the only time in his life that he has ever truly considered taking the very breath from his body. His own flesh and blood. The only other to hold Geta’s heart as fiercely as you do.

You bring a hand up to rest over his, and it is only then that he realises how he trembles. You overwhelm him, like nothing ever has.

Like no one ever will.

He leans in, brushing his nose lightly against yours before he kisses you. His mouth is firm against yours, and as always, you lean into it, allow him to take what he will. You submit so readily to him, and yet he is very aware of how much power you wield over him. He wonders if you know this too.

He nips at your lower lip, and you gasp softly, allowing him entrance. He licks at your mouth; soft in his actions, knows that you will not disappear. That in this moment, he can take his time.

Your hand tightens against his, your body pressing closer to him. He knows that your need for him is gradually growing, as his is for you. He has each little movement, each touch, each sound, committed to memory.

If he were to forget everything, let it not be this.

Let it not be you.

It is with reluctance that he parts from you. He slips free of your gentle hold, placing a line of kisses along the length of your neck, down your shoulder, the crook of your arm, the delicate skin of the inside of your wrist.

He looks up at you, as he presses another kiss to the back of your hand. What a vision you are in his eyes. Venus herself would dare have your head in her ire.

You reach for him then, as if to coax him back to you, and he forces himself to resist the siren song of your embrace, persuaded elsewhere by more pressing matters.

He slips under the covers as he moves lower still, continuing a path of kisses across your stomach, your hip, until he has settled himself quite comfortably between your legs. His hands drag softly along the lengths of your calves, back and forth, until he feels the beginnings of gooseflesh erupt beneath his fingertips.

You offer no resistance, allowing him to arrange you as he likes. It does not escape his notice the unwavering trust that you place in him in these moments.

How he would never dare to lose it.

His hands push at the fabric that covers you from him, over your knees, past your thighs, until it is no longer in the way of what he seeks from you.

He stops for a moment, if only to admire you; beautiful creature that you are, laid almost entirely bare before him. He will never tire of this view, even after his very last breath.

To him, you are a goddess made flesh.

He dips his head to the insides of your thighs, where his cheek, still rough at this time of the morning, scratches against the sensitive skin there. You let out a gasp, and a low chuckle escapes him as he does it again.

“Geta…”

He sucks in a breath at the sound of his name leaving you in such a manner. There are few who will use his given name, fewer still who have earned the right to address him with anything other than his titles.

There is Caracalla, who says his name with such familiarity, as though he was born with the word already on his tongue. And there is you, speaking his name with such care, such fondness, that he finds himself overwhelmed with feelings he does not yet have words for, each and every time he hears it.

"Whatever is the matter?" he asks, composing himself, as though he is unaware of the part he now plays.

"Surely you have teased enough," you reply, with an impatient little huff.

How sweet you are in your desire for him.

"You would accuse me of such a terrible thing?" he asks, the very picture of innocence. "Such treasonous words cannot be ignored."

"Oh, please, you exaggerate- Oh-"

Geta deliberately waits until that very moment to strike, distracting you entirely with his tongue. You jolt at his sudden movement, and he places his hands on your thighs, holding you firmly in place. He is well-versed in making you squirm, but he cannot allow himself to become distracted from the task he has so greedily set himself.

There was once a time when he thought an act like this to be degrading, particularly to one of his lofty position. How he has most assuredly realised his error in judgment.

For how could he possibly see you, as you are in this very moment, as anything less than magnificent?

He has grown far more adept since the first time he had you in this way, and will use every trick at his disposal to leave you a quivering mess beneath him. Little else provides him with as much pleasure as watching you fall apart so beautifully.

If he could keep you like this for eternity, he most certainly would, and judging by how your fingers thread tightly into his fiery locks, free as they are now of the weight of his laurels, you would let him. Let him worship you as you deserve.

He continues to move his tongue against you in that devastating way, until you are able to do little else but let him take what he wants from you. The sounds of your breathless sighs, as they rise slowly in volume, are sweeter than any music to him, little song bird that you are.

"G-Geta," you manage to whisper beneath quick, little breaths.

Your grip tightens in his hair, and sensing your growing need, he works harder to tip you over the edge that you are so desperately teetering from.

"Please- Stop-" you gasp out suddenly.

At that, he lifts his head immediately.

"Are you alright?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.

You nod shakily, and his shoulders drop in relief. To think that he might have hurt you-

"I am- I am more than alright," you reply, a tremble in your voice. "But..."

Geta rises then, moving until his body is over yours, his hands pressed to the bed on either side of you.

"But?" he echoes, his gaze focused so intensely on you. "Whatever is the matter?"

You cannot quite meet his eye, and he realises that it is not from fear or worry, but embarrassment.

"It...It is not enough," you admit quietly, finally meeting his gaze.

Geta's eyes widens for a moment, before his lips curl into a knowing smile. When once this would have provoked a childish reaction from him, now it only strokes his ego. Affirms how you feel for him.

"Oh. I see," he replies, crudely running a hand over his mouth. "What would you have me do then?"

As if he does not already know. In answer, you reach for him, your hands gripping his shoulders, as your heels dig gently into the backs of his legs, urging him closer.

Up until now, he has been able to ignore his own urges for the most part, but no longer can he cast them aside. Not with your soft touch against him, the warmth that radiates from your body, how you look at him, with such desire in your eyes.

To deny himself of you any longer would be to deny you both, and so he moves, his patience swiftly on the brink as he lines himself up and pushes into you. It takes everything in his power to stop himself from collapsing on top of you, but the feeling of you - that heat - around him is intoxicating. He is but a man, after all.

He gives you as much time as he can to adjust, but it is you who breaks first, clutching at his strong arms.

"Geta...If you do not move soon, I shall be driven to madness," you tell him, your need for him so evident in how you speak.

He needs no more convincing, and so he does as you command. He moves, and a groan slips through his clenched teeth at how perfect you feel. He is far too proud to admit it, but he knows that he will not last long.

He forces himself to focus on finishing what he has started, managing to build a somewhat steady rhythm, as he grows more and more pent-up with lust.

You only serve to make matters worse, clinging to him in a desperate manner as you urge him on. Your breath stutters, your nails scratching at his skin, and he knows that you draw close.

Geta's arms are tight around you, his fingers sure to leave bruises with how hard they press into your skin. He is animalistic in his need, yearning for release - both his and yours.

"Let go, mea lux," he all but pleads, as his hand slides between your bodies to push you further. "Let me see you."

It is not much longer before you are at last overcome, your back arching in his hold. He swears under his breath at how you squeeze him, and he is losing what little patience he had, he cannot last, he cannot-

His hips jerk forward as he spills into you, a growl working its way out of his throat as that wave of pleasure finally crashes over him. He ruts against you until he is finally spent, suddenly exhausted.

It is some time before he is able to move again. He manages to push himself up onto his elbows, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight of you. Your face is flushed, lips parted as you try to steady your breathing. He gives in to the sudden urge to kiss you that overtakes him, taking pride in how you gasp in surprise.

Neither of you speak for a while, content to quietly bask in the afterglow of it all together.

But there is only so long that Geta can ignore it. The unwelcome visitor in the room.

Sunlight is already beginning to peek through the slit in the curtains, slowly spilling across the floor, and breaking the spell that Geta has allowed himself to fall under.

"The hour grows later," he says softly.

It is with reluctance that he utters those words. He would give anything to remain as he is.

"Do as you must," you tell him.

He looks down at you, to find you staring up at him. He knows that look in your eyes all too well.

Stay here with me, you silently plead.

Geta lets out a quiet breath. Perhaps he can indulge himself a while longer. He lies down once more, pulling you into his arms as he does so. With your head once again against his chest, your soft breaths against his collarbone, it is as if he had never woken you at all.

Although he is most certainly glad that he did.

"Surely the palace can remain in one piece without me for a few minutes more," he murmurs.

You hum in agreement, wrapping your arms tightly around him in turn. Geta cannot resist the smile threatening to break across his face, and so he allows it. Allows himself another small moment of peace.

There is nowhere in the world that he would rather be right now, and certainly no one else that he would rather be with, than you.

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @bib200 @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry

(You can join the taglist here! You can also ask to be removed through the same form!)

#emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #emperor geta x you #geta x you #angie writes #prettycalla writes

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 months ago

Text

mr. domestic │ Spike x Summers!Reader

everything he wants 'verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Part 1 │Part 2 │Part 3 (In Development!)

Spike thought love was supposed to hurt. Then he fell for you, bubbles, blood and all. Now he’s a kept man with a shopping list and a soft spot a mile wide, and honestly? He likes it that way.

Hey, again! Long time no see. Sorry for the wait! If it's any consolation, this is a 33,000+ word sequel to sweeter than blood. Please read that one before going ahead with this! Again, this is a multi-chap fic that I'm posting as a single one-shot up here on Tumblr. Just Spike POV this time.

Heads up: canonical character death, daddy kink, menstrual sex, Summers family drama, Season 6 BtVS finale references. Be ye warned!

It snuck up on him, this softness.

Didn’t happen in a bolt of lightning or some earthshaking, Slayer-slaying sort of moment. No, it crept in slow, easy, like a song he half-remembered from before the demon, some long-forgotten lullaby winding its way through cracked ribs and ruined veins. Now he’s got it stuck on repeat, and the worst part is, he doesn’t mind.

He used to think love was all fire and pain. Should be, right? He was made for ruin. Got his heart broke by that stuck-up bint Cecily, fought for Dru like a rabid dog, wore rejection from the Slayer like a second skin. Hell, even Darla and ’Gelus tossed him aside at the earliest convenience, not that he ever gave a tinker’s damn about their esteem. Every bit of love he’s ever known came sharp-edged and blood-slick. Cost him pride, cost him sanity, cost him skin more than once.

But you—

You giggle from the bathroom, the sound bright and clear over the faint hum of the pipes. It burbles up like champagne, a little drunk-sounding, and he can hear the splash of water as you shift in the tub. Knowing you, you’ve dragged a wine cooler in with you, meaning you’ll be too-hot and chatty the moment the water’s wicked from your skin—and he’ll listen to every word, because he never wants to miss a thing.

You’re different. Love with you is bubbles, is towels too warm from the radiator, is kisses pressed to the corner of his mouth when you think he’s not quite awake. It’s honey on his tongue instead of gore, comfort so sweet it should rot his teeth.

“Spike,” you call, sing-song, full of that mischievous lilt that always makes something in him go more than a bit half-witted, blood that ain’t his rushing down south. “C’mon. Water’s gonna get cold.”

He smirks to himself. Big Bad, brought low by bath time.

“Not happenin’,” he calls back, lifting his fag to take a long, slow pull. He smokes with his head stuck out the window, not wanting to infect your breathing with all that rot. Bloody tosser, he is, now, thinking about things like that. “You’ve already stolen my dignity. You’re not gettin’ my last shred of masculinity too.”

Another splash.

“But it’s all foamy,” you say, wheedling, “and warm. And my boobs look fantastic.”

He snorts. “They always look fantastic, kitten.”

“You’re missing the view…”

“Got the whole soddin’ thing memorized,” he mutters under his breath, though his hand is already twitching—itching—to toss the cigarette aside and slink toward the siren-call of your voice.

The Scoobies―stupid nickname, matches their bloody stupid personalities―they like to joke about him now. Xapper, mostly, talking up a big game about how he’s been defanged. The Slayer grits her teeth every time Spike drives to her house to pick you up, engine running too loud, making some muttered comment about him being your personal chauffeur. Even Little Bit’s been caught whispering “whipped” behind her palm, not knowing he hears everything. They think he’s been neutered all over again. Tamed. Domesticated.

Let ’em think it. Let ’em imagine he’s some shell of himself, panting after you like a lapdog. Truth is, they’re just jealous. Jealous of the way you smile when he passes you your tea, jealous of how you whimper his name like a hymn, hot little body writhing as he runs his hands all over. Jealous of the way you curl into him at night, muttering sleepy little secrets into his skin, affectionate, and meaning every last one. He’s never had someone to himself the way he has you: untouched ’til he got there, singularly devoted, all for him. And that kind of commitment—real, chosen—makes the rest of it fade: the flames, the chains, the clawing need to be anything but alone. You make the past almost worth it.

“Please?” you croon, dragging out the vowel sound like it’s foreplay. “I’ll scoot forward. I’ll be good.”

And that’s the problem, innit? You’re always so bloody good.

With a muttered curse and a flash of irritation at himself―soft, senseless, besotted―he tosses the butt of his cig out the window and heads for the bathroom, already peeling off his shirt. You’re gonna gloat, he knows it. Already sees the smirk on your face, the way you’ll tuck yourself between his knees like you were made to be there, all curves and warm, slippery skin.

God help him. He’s gone.

The bathroom’s a bit steamy already when he slips in, fog clinging to the mirror. You’re lounging back in the clawfoot tub, knees poking out of the water, bubbles piled so high it’s a miracle you haven’t disappeared completely under them. You beam when you see him, unabashed, shameless, playing the smug little nymph who’s just summoned her favourite demon with nothing more than a giggle and a moan.

“Took you long enough,” you say, budging over as promised, making room like this was always going to happen.

Spike huffs, tugging his boots off one at a time. “You really are a menace.”

“Your menace,” you correct, chin tilted up with the kind of confidence that drives him mad. “Now get in before I change my mind.”

“Oh no. Not that,” he says sardonically. “Anything but the dreaded mind-changing.”

He strips slow and dramatic, knows you like the show, even if you pretend not to. Your eyes dart down when he pushes his jeans down, and your teeth catch on your bottom lip as though you’re trying to hide how much you’re staring. That look—just that—could bring a man to his knees. He’s killed for less. Sliding in behind you, he hisses a bit at the heat, then exhales once he’s settled, your back flush to his chest. Your hair tickles his chin, your skin damp and flushed, the tub too small and too full. Perfect. You let out a satisfied hum and melt against him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is.

“I swear,” he mutters, arms folding around your waist beneath the water, “you’ve got me completely bollocksed.”

You laugh, leaning your head back onto his shoulder. “Yeah. That a bad thing?”

He kisses your temple, then your cheek, then lower, just under your jaw where your pulse flutters—a secret only for his ears. “Not complainin’. S’just a bit of a come-down from eatin’ hearts and evisceratin’ priests, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’ll survive. Big Bad can take a bubble bath now and then. You’re still scary. But, y’know, in a sexy kinda way.”

He groans into your skin. “M’never gettin’ my reputation back.”

“Nope,” you agree cheerfully, reaching forward to pluck a handful of bubbles and plop them onto his head in a crown of soapy foam. “Too late. You’re mine now. My cozy, bath-loving, emotionally-attached vampire boyfriend.”

Spike scoffs, but he doesn’t move to brush them off. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You tilt your head to look back at him, lips curved up. “And?”

“And I’m bloody buggerin’ ruined.”

His hands roam beneath the water, not looking to start anything—yet. Possessive, reverent. They rest low on your hips, then glide up your belly, like he’s checking you’re real. You sigh, a soft, contented little sound, and that’s it: that’s the stake through his heart. Not pain, not fire. Just that noise, that ease, that trust.

“You know,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut, “you’re really good at this.”

“What, bathin’?”

“No. This. The whole… making-me-feel-like-I’m-worth-it thing.”

His breath catches slightly. “That’s because you are.”

You shift, twist a bit so you can see him better, water sloshing a bit over the side. He cups your face with one hand, bubble-damp and still dripping, and leans in, pressing his lips to yours. It’s not desperate, not filthy, just… warm. Solid, like a promise.

“You really love me,” you whisper when you pull back, eyes wide as if it still surprises you.

You say it like you still can’t quite believe it. He can’t, either. Not really. Not deep down, where the doubt still sleeps. He watches your face, waiting―always waiting―for the laugh, the flinch, the way it all usually goes. But you don’t. You smile, stunned and real, as though you’re feeling it settle in your chest too.

There’s a beat where everything holds. No laughter, no flinch. Only you, looking at him like he’s something you chose, like you’d do it again.

“More than anything,” he says simply, truth so heavy it sinks straight to the bottom of the tub. “More than I’ve ever loved anything. Ever.”

And he means it, means it in the kind of way that terrifies him: quiet, vast, swallowing. Because he’s had obsessions, addictions. People he’d burn the world for, starve himself for, kill for without hesitation just to hear their praise. But this isn’t that. You don’t demand things, don’t test him the way Dru did or spit in his face like Buffy. You look at him, with those soft eyes and that stupid little smile, and he wants to be good. Not for redemption, not even for you, but for the chance to matter.

You blink a few times, like you’re overwhelmed—and maybe you are—but the next thing you do is reach for the mostly-empty wine cooler sitting on the rim of the tub. You take a sip, then turn and offer it up to him with a cheeky little tilt of your head.

“Want some?”

He looks at the bottle like it might bite him. “What, and ruin my street cred?”

“You’re in a bath full of bubbles, Spike.”

“… Fair.”

He takes it, drinks, and grimaces. It’s toxic—or nearabouts—sickly-sweet and full of something artificial, just like most of the swill humans poison themselves with. But you grin as though he’s passed some kind of test, and suddenly he doesn’t mind so much.

“Tastes like shite, baby. Not sure how you choke this down,” he says for the hell of it. “Gonna drink piss, it oughta be the real stuff.”

“Ew. No thank you. Smells like paint thinner.” The scrunch of your nose and the way you shudder is cute as anything. You waggle an eyebrow at him. “I shouldn’t even be drinking, y’know. Not legal.”

“Would be in the homeland,” he mutters, prompting an ‘oooooh’ sound the way you always do whenever he does something you find stereotypically British. He jabs a finger into the sensitive divot of your belly-button, a low bark of laughter escaping at your loud squeal. “Whoever got you ’em must be a real bad influence, then.”

You giggle again, soft and indulgent, and lean back against him. “The worst.”

Your hair sticks to his skin. The air’s thick and hot and wet, clinging to both of you, and it should be uncomfortable, cramped, undignified… but it isn’t. It’s peace, and that’s the part that guts him.

Peace is fragile, he knows that. Spike’s not supposed to have this. Somewhere deep down in the bones of him, he’s waiting for the moment it breaks. When you wake up and realise you could have more, when the Scoobies stop whispering and start prying, when some prophecy tears its way through your front door and takes him out like trash. But if it’s coming, let it come. Let it try, because if this is all he ever gets—steam, skin, sweetness—then it’s more than he ever had any right to ask for. While he has it, though, he’ll hold you like the last warmth of sunlight before night falls.

You sigh, all sleepy-soft and trusting, and tip forward again.

“Okay,” you say, “soak time over. You can wash my hair now.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he gripes.

He’s already reaching for the shampoo.

There’s something heady about watching you open things he’s bought you. Not nicked, not looted―bought.

Sure, the credit cards are the great poof’s way of making sure you’re provided for, but it’s about time Spike got back in on the family money. Ain’t exactly his, ain’t exactly come by honestly, but if anyone’s owed compensation for generational trauma, it’s him. The bloodlines of hell still recognize sire-claim even if the soul-havers don’t, and with Darla somehow returned from dust and kicking ’round again, the Order’s financial backers have been bending arse over to avoid a power dispute. Not that the old bitch seems keen on taking up her place of seniority: a woman of her time, that one, too willing to go along with Angelus to take charge of her line. That, and Dru’s re-siring her makes the chain of command too confusing to figure out.

Oh, well. Sod ’em. It’s Peaches’s problem. Always is.

The Aurelius estate is a fortress of trust funds and ghost accounts. And Spike? He’s got access again, courtesy of the little plastic rectangles bearing the name William P. sent by post along with a letter from his grandsire. Didn’t even bother with pleasantries, did he? No, just a line about responsibility and a warning not to spend it all on ‘foolish pursuits’, as if loving you’s somehow a waste. Wanker. Not only that, but the added indignity of the bloody thing is it opening with a curt ‘as promised, Pratt’—always ready to throw in a dig ‘bout his poncy human name.

A small price to pay in the name of lasting security, he thinks. Now, he’s finally free to follow through on a little spoiling.

You gasp when you find the velvet-lined box on the bed, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with a red ribbon made of real silk. He likes the drama of it all: leaving little gifts like kills for you to find, emblems of his love for you, eyes tracking as you tear them open to find the treasures within.

“Spike,” you breathe, drawing the chain up to the light. Gold―the real stuff, none of that low-grade plated junk. Delicate. Long, tapered charm, nice big garnet studded in at the top. Reminds him a bit of a railroad spike, though he’s not telling you that. “You didn’t have to―”

“Yeah, I did.” He leans against the doorframe, staring with that stupid too-tight feeling in his chest, like his heart wants to start beating again at the sight of you. “Saw it ’n thought of you. That’s the deal, innit?”

He almost didn’t buy it. Too fancy, maybe. Too much. You get squirrelly about this sort of thing, still mucked about from your dad’s neglect. But he wanted to see that look on your face again: the one you wore when he laid that coat on your shoulders, the one that said you couldn’t quite believe someone thought you were worth the dosh.

He sees that look now.

You gaze wide-eyed at him, as though you aren’t sure what to do with his statement. He shrugs, casual as ever as he enters your personal space, sidling in behind you.

“’Sides,” he adds, swiping the necklace from your grasp and lifting your hair over your shoulder. The clasp takes him a few goes, tiny as it is, but it comes free with a little click, allowing him to fasten it behind your neck. “You deserve nice things.”

Turning to him, you lips curve softly as his fingers trace the pendant resting beneath the hollow of your throat like a collar. Marked. The garnet catches the light, blood-bright. He wants to kiss it, wants to press his mouth where it lays and bite down. Not to harm, not to feed; just to feel the truth of it. Of you.

“So do you,” you whisper back at him.

But he doesn’t need you to get him things to be happy. Doesn’t know how to explain to you without sounding like a pillock that you’re the only thing he needs. You’re young—in a way that would probably make him feel guilty for corrupting you if he was more like one of your little pals—and still swayed by shiny baubles. It’s not about buying you, though. Been there, done that, got him nothing but pain and trouble. It’s different. You love him with or without the trinkets. It still eats at him, how someone like you can look past the monster in him, past the chip and the history and the bodies in his closet. Not disregard, no, but deciding that they’re not worth the cost of leaving. When you look at him, when you kiss his knuckles as if they’ve never torn anyone open, he believes it. Wants to.

Mostly, Spike just enjoys providing for you. It reminds him that he can give more than grief and gore. Makes him feel manly in a way that doesn’t require claws or carnage or cruelty, a claiming bite made in cash.

’Course, your merry band of morons don’t see it that way.

At first, they think he’s stealing it all. Shove him up against the wall, stake to the chest, demanding to know where he swiped it from or whose corpse he filched it off. He’s not that bloody pathetic, and he says as much before you yell at them to back off, li’l hand sneaking into his back pocket and copping a feel before withdrawing his wallet to show off his newly regained fortune. There’s grumbling after that, a few nasty things said about the souled prick who set him up―he’s keen enough on that line of discussion, if the Slayer wasn’t always so defensive of her one true love―and that’s the end of that. Threats turn to taunts, and he’s never minded words when fists and feet, whips and chains hurt so much worse.

The truth is, they’re probably seething mad. Spend all their time playing goody-goody and all they get are a bunch of bruises and scrapping by in a 9-to-5 just to afford three square a day. Meanwhile, all you gotta do to live the good life is love him. It makes him smug enough to show off whenever he can.

When he drops a new pair of boots at your feet at the Magic Box―soft leather, real Italian make, fit you like sin―Zeppo snorts into his coffee.

“Wow. Sleeping with Spike comes with perks, huh?” It’s a little too defensive to be a true wise-crack, pointed with an edge of mean. “Should’ve tried it back when he was living in my basement. Might’ve scored a matching set.”

Too easy. He takes bait like no-one else.

“Please. Gotta offer more than a hole to get into my wallet, mate.” Spike glances at you, smirking when your face goes warm. You know what’s coming. One of the best bits about you? You don’t flinch. Don’t get shy when he runs his mouth. “My girl’s sharp as hell, deadly where it counts, and tight in all the right ways. You? Just a bobblehead with knees that click.”

He’s rewarded with a face turned the colour of a sunburned tomato, the boy choking on his coffee so hard it sprays all over a stack of bridal magazines he’s been made to look through. He sputters, glaring daggers, but can’t seem to get a word out past the sound of his own dignity combusting. The Slayer makes a strangled sound—half gasp, half growl—and bolts for the back room before she blows her self-control all to hell.

Next to the boy, demon girl lets out a snorting chuckle.

“He’s not wrong,” she says bluntly, flipping a page. “Your knees do make that weird crackle when you get off the couch. Very unsexy. Like old popcorn.”

A second later, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of fists hitting the punching bag starts up, hard and fast. Spike smiles. He knows exactly who Buffy’s picturing with every hit. Didn’t miss the way her shoulders tensed when you laughed, the way she watched your hand when it found his without hesitation. As if it’s a betrayal. It burns her up inside, he reckons, that he’s found peace where she’s only ever had war.

He still remembers the day he found out. Learned before the rest, though it didn’t keep for much longer. He was trying to sneak through the back of the magic shop to spend some time with you in the basement. Stumbled on the Slayer instead. Tried to play off his presence, act casual. Lingered too long―long enough for her secrets to start spilling.

“Everything here is hard and bright and violent. Everything I feel, everything I touch. This is Hell. Just getting through the next moment, and the one after that. Knowing what I’ve lost.”

Knew then that she was strugglin’, looking for something to seek shelter in. He’s no genius, but he’s pretty sure he gets how that story would’ve ended: rage and ruin, him all but destroyed, her no better. Stayed away after that, let the Scoobies do the heavy-liftin’. Not interested in kissin’ her woes better when he had―has―far more interesting places to kiss on his baby. His girl.

He shakes off the memory. Bad omen.

“You good, Harris?” Spike drawls in Lackbrain’s direction, mock-concerned. The boy coughs, wheezes, waves him off—like that’s going to repair the shrapnel of his pride.

Worth it.

Red mutters something about capitalism and exploitation under her breath, but even she doesn’t refuse the takeout when Spike foots the bill. Something nice from the restaurant down the street, not the usual filth they drag in from pilfering through pockets for the last tarnished penny. The others make their fun, but his baby’s gotta eat well. That, and Captain Forehead gets the statements on his spending—and he wants that bastard to know he’s treating you the way you deserve. Another nail in the Buffy-and-Angel coffin. He might not feel anything for the chit now, but anything involving riling ‘Gelus up is motivation enough in his books.

The Magic Box is all mildew and musty shelves, stale incense and the stench of dried demon guts, but you kiss him like it’s Versailles: soft and grateful, a little bit hungry, uncaring of the complaints you get from the rest. Like there’s no one in the room but him. Like you aren’t ashamed of him, don’t think he’s anything less than enough. It shuts him up, takes all the clever little comebacks and bitter asides and melts them into something warm behind his ribs.

They can scoff. They can sneer. You chose him, and that’s more than any of them ever did.

You’re… achy. That’s the word Spike lands on after trying a dozen others. Achy, squirmy, soft-eyed and irritable in the same breath.

You curl up on the bed in one of his threadbare old shirts—black, holes at the hem, still smelling like smoke and him—towel laid out underneath, clutching a heating pad and looking like heaven in bare legs and frustration. You’ve been this way all day: overwrought, oversensitive, caught somewhere between a whimper and a tantrum. It’s making him feral.

S’like this every time it comes around. Makes him feel like he’s never wanted you more.

You make a noise, something between a sigh and a growl, and Spike shifts his eyes from the telly. From his vantage point on the sofa, he can just see you through the crack of the bedroom door. You wriggle again, curling onto your side, and he catches the scent. Rich. Warm. Sexy as all hell. Rust and sugar, rain hitting hot pavement. The kind of smell that makes the demon in him rise below the surface, temples tightening and fangs prickling at his gums like they know what’s coming.

They do.

He swipes the remote from beside him, turns off the noise. Slinks down the hall, pushes the door open fully, quiet and careful. Walks over and sinks onto the edge of the bed with you.

“You alright, baby?” he asks.

You pout, eyes glassy and desperate. Close, now. “No.”

“S’wrong?” He lets his hand drift idly to your knee, purposefully vague, grin threatening at your subtle attempt to widen your legs a touch in silent invitation. Not the game, though. Gotta say it.

“Everything hurts. I’m bloated,” you complain. “My back’s killing me. And you’re—you’re looking at me. Like you wanna do something about it.”

“I do.”

You squint up at him, half-hearted protest at the ready. “It’s gross.”

He tilts his head, brow lifting in amusement. “It’s not. Say it every time, don’t I?”

“Spike…”

Easy, easy girl. The indecision’s performative now, innit? He can smell it on you, the salty tang combining with copper sweetness to form a potent elixir. Arousal and blood, tucked up between your thighs like a pressie just for him. He needs it.

“Want you.” Spike leans over you, voice dropping into something darker. Lets the yellow bleed into his eyes a bit, just to hear the pitter-patter of your heart reach fever pitch. “Want all of you. Always. Doesn’t matter what time of the month it is.”

Your mouth twists, unsure. He sees you want to give in. Not yet.

“Got a nummy treat for Daddy, yeah?” He doesn’t often voice that fixation of his plainly; hits too close to home for you, reminds you of what you don’t have. Gotta ease you into it real careful, get you used to it. And bugger if it doesn’t make a little whine sound in your throat, tears well up a bit. Desperate. “Gonna bleed for me? I’ll lap it all up, promise. None to waste.”

You choke on your breath, fingers clutching at his nape as he noses against your pulse, gives the vein thrumming through your skin a quick lick to get you going.

“Bet you’re sensitive,” he purrs. “Little thing like you, all full ’n sore. Could probably make you cry just from touchin’ you.”

He withdraws, relishes the pleading noise you make when you think he’s leaving, but he’s got a different goal in mind. Moves down, kneels between your legs like a man praying for absolution. You resist at first, soft and trembling, legs warm against his palms as if they’ve got second thoughts—but he’s stronger, and he’ll win. He witnesses the shift of emotions play out on your face: the uneasiness, the desire, the pride and shame and need fighting it out in your head.

When he starts peeling your knickers down slow, you don’t stop him, and that’s how he knows victory’s assured. You stare at him, pink-cheeked and trembling, as he slips them off, holds the gusset up and takes a deep inhale from the crinkly pad stuck there, fang flashing at the aroma. He tosses them away; won’t need them when the source is about to give in.

“Lemme have a taste,” he says, a bit coaxing. “Make you pop like a rocket. Take the edge off.”

A second of hesitation, then you nod, tiny and mindless and obedient.

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head, thumb slipping down to circle whisper-soft against your clit, all but purring at the stifled cry you let out. “Gotta use your words. Tell ol’ Spike: yeah or no?”

“Ye—yeah,” you sigh, crumbling like a house of cards. Beautiful, the way you break. “Please?”

Don’t gotta say much else. He settles back against the headboard, already stripping his shirt off, chest bare and hungry-eyed as you struggle to your knees beside him. Scooting lower, he offers you a lazy curl of the lip, hooded gaze running down your body as he reaches for you.

“Come on,” he says, the invite you’ve been waiting for. You’re already crawling up, up, over by the time he adds, “Sit on my face, baby, yeah.”

Your knees are planted firm to either side of his head, thighs trembling, hands braced on the wall as he puts his mouth to your red-slick folds. Laves flat and slow and filthy through your slit, hands holding fast to your hips like they belong there—they do—when you try to jerk away. His tongue catches the first drop, thick and metallic, and his whole body thrums. You cry out, thighs flexing, and he can smell the salt in the air as your eyes spill over.

The blood is hot, a bit syrupy in its nutrient-rich form as it coats his lips and chin and throat like a lolly. You’re a delicacy, and he’s consumed by consuming, eating you as if he’s starved―as if this is what he’s for. S’like a rich wine, aged to perfection, tasting like heaven and ruin and life. Nose brushing your clit, his tongue laps and curls at your tight little hole, scooping up the flavour and feeding as though it’s his last meal. He growls, low and constant, the demon rippling into view and catching against your skin.

As always, it makes you shake, naughty when you chase the scraping of his fangs against your innermost thigh, keening high and clear. When he snags on slick pink flesh, you come fast, too fast, hips jolting and breath hitching on a sob.

Spike doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just keeps you pressed against him, licks and licks like he can’t get enough, listens to you cry and moan. It’s the best kind of music, a symphony in his ears.

“Can’t—” you gasp, legs shaking. “I can’t—Spike, it’s too much—”

You tip forward, only the headboard holding you upright. Lift your hips as though you mean to leave. He’s a bad, rude man; doesn’t let up, purses his lips around where you leak slick and hot and sucks, sending you shrieking into another orgasm. He dips a finger into you and finds you clenching, pulsing, too snug for anything more.

“No, no…”

You’re whining, dithering between grinding down and lifting off. A weak protest. He pulls away only to graze at the skin down your thigh, smirking at the winking of your entry when you catch sight of his face, ridged and monstrous and covered in blood.

“Can take it, baby,” he purrs, licking his finger clean. “You always do.”

He returns to his meal.

This time, when you finish, your whole frame goes taut, hips rolling, knees locked against his skull, wail caught in your throat while your nails claw at the wall as if you’re trying to anchor yourself to the earth. You ride out the wave, rocking frantically against his mouth, and he moans like he’s tasting god herself; sin and sacrament, the first kill after a fast. It’s only when you reach down, grab his hair at the root and wrench away, your signal to stop, that he gentles his touch, withdraws to soft kisses against your folds.

Shuffling from under you—you’re frozen, panting for breath, locked in tremors as you try to find equilibrium—he holds himself against you, chest to spine, running his hands up and down your body to ground you, bring you back. He’s still got his game face on, and he knows he’s looking at your side profile like you’ve hung the stars.

“Did so good,” Spike says against your temple, throbbing in his jeans at the streak of red adorning your face. “So good for me.”

You crane your head to look back at him, blinking and vacant. He brushes your hair back, kisses your sweaty cheek, your ear, your jaw, the crown of your head. His hand maps your contours, cupping your breast before descending to settle against your belly, the warmth of you absorbing into his cold flesh. Matches the heat of your blood filling his gut, glutting his hunger and making him dozy as a cat after a hunt.

“All wrung out,” he coos. “Nearly creamed me pants, havin’ you up there. So proud of you.”

A small, broken noise is his only response, your throat too dry, too sore, too strung out to offer more than a whimper. That’s alright, though.

“C’mon, kitten,” he says eventually, nudging at your side. “Let’s get you to the loo. Gotta go, yeah? Then I’ll run a shower. Get you all cleaned up.”

You nod, barely. He slides off the bed and lifts you with care, arms cradling you bridal-style even though you mumble something sleepy and offended about being capable. He lets the corners of his mouth lift. “Yeah, yeah. My capable girl with jelly legs and a twitch in her thighs. Let’s not test gravity just yet, alright?”

The bathroom’s chilly, even for him, so he turns the big warming light on that floods the room in brilliant gold. The glow catches in your hair, in the damp of your skin, making you shining and radiant. Venus, come to life in his dodgy flat on the Hellmouth. Setting you down on the closed toilet lid―blood’s easy to clean off the surface―he turns to the shower faucet, turning the hot water on and adjusting until it’s comfortable. Kicks off his jeans, while he’s at it, freeing his poor chafed prick from its denim prison.

“You okay?” he asks, crouching in front of you. “Need anythin’ else?”

You look up at him, lashes wet and cheeks still flushed. You shift a little, then wince. He sees it immediately.

“Still hurtin’, huh?”

Nodding, you bite your lip. Ah, game’s not over yet, then. That look―wide-eyed, wanting, just a little helpless―always gets him going.

“Say it,” he tells you, already rising to his feet, already stepping into your space. His cock bobs with the movement, your eyes snapping to it like a hound to scent. He leers down at you, grabbing himself at the base and giving it a good few passes with his fist, locking at the head to eke out the bits of white fluid beading up. “Say what you want.”

You swallow, nervous as though you aren’t familiar with this part of his body, as though it’s your first time. It half gives him a mind to keep going, to wank off until he coats your face and make you lick it all away. Wouldn’t be new for you.

“I want you,” you whisper, peering up at him through your lashes. Your mouth drops open as he brings himself in close, tongue peeking out to lap at his tip.

He grunts. “Yeah? How bad?”

You kiss where saliva is cooling on him. “Bad.”

Spike growls. It’s low and barely restrained, the sound vibrating through the room. That’s how he remembers that he never shifted back to his human visage; that all the while you’ve been gazing up with something like worship, you’ve really been looking at him. Who he is, underneath the man he pretends to be. It knocks the wind out of him.

Helping you to your feet, he spins you slow, gentle hands pushing you forward until you’re braced on the edge of the sink. He takes in the sight of you through the mirror as you pant against the counter, thighs still trembling, body already knowing what comes next.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe as he rubs his prick through the mess between your legs, huffing amusement at your little shiver and the arch of your spine. “Bleedin’ and cryin’, so bloody wrecked you can’t stand straight—but you still want me.”

You make a noise of assent, hips tipping up to catch him where he’s needed. “Always.”

“Gonna be rough, kitten.” He can already feel it: the bloodlust, the thrill of the hunt requiring satiation. “Not gonna be sweet.”

You don’t quite catch his eyes given his lack of reflection, but the plea is clear. “Don’t want sweet.”

Well. That’s it, then.

He grabs your hips and thrusts in hard, one callous push that makes your mouth fall open on a soundless cry. You’re soaked, tender and slick, walls fluttering from the last time, and he can feel everything: every spasm, every pulse, every sweet ache still echoing through your cunt.

“Bloody―fuck,” he snarls, digging his fingers into your hips. “Tight little thing. Always so good for me, yeah?”

You whine, tears falling once more.

He snaps into you again and again, rutting rough and deep, pace relentless and angle brutal. You scrabble for purchase on the spout sticking up from the basin, the tap handles digging into your ribs as you’re jostled up and up and up. Calling out with hurt little ah-ah-ahs, your hand slaps against the mirror, driving back against him. The wet sound of it echoes, melting together with the hissing of water on tile. Shower’s still running, but the bill’s unimportant compared to having you like this. Leaking all over his prick, over his belly and his legs, honey-soaked blood that’s all you, and he’s so far gone he doesn’t care if he dusts here and now.

“Filthy girl,” he groans, fixated on the curve of your neck as you twist to watch him, eyes stuck on his face and heart thundering at the sight before you. S’not fear that’s making it race. “Let me work you open, let me feel it all. Want me to hurt a little, don’t you? Want me to fuck the ache away.”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, the words distorted from the force of his thrusts, spine hunching as you clasp your head in your hands like it’s the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. Bruises are already forming under his palms. “Spike, please―don’t stop―”

“Never,” he vows. “Never gonna stop takin’ care of you.”

He stares at your expression in the mirror, sees every shudder and sob, every time your mouth falls open as you constrict around him as though you’re trying to keep him inside forever. Wishes he could see himself too, see the devotion in his own eyes. But the glass stays empty, like always. You’re the only proof he’s real.

Spike reaches around and rubs your clit, forceful and fast. You come again, screaming, legs giving out as you shake under him. He catches you and holds you close, hips still moving as he rides it out, chasing his own high now.

“Inside?” he asks, breath ragged. “Want Da―want me to fill you up, baby?”

You nod frantically, words gone. He slams into you twice more and groans—harsh, grating—as he spills inside, chest pressed to your back, arm banded tight around your waist to keep you upright. Buries himself to the hilt as if he’s trying to brand you from the inside out. You’re his. All of you. Even the blood. The last of it washes over him and he stirs himself deeper in you, forcing you up on tiptoes. You like the hurt, so he keeps going, rocks in until you’re squealing and writhing, begging without words. Finally, spent, he falls still.

For a long second, there’s only the rattle of your breathing, yours faster than his. Not like he needs to, really. Just fond of the sound of it. Your heartbeat in his ear, your lungs pulling air through your battered little body… there’s no better noise to him.

Then, he leans down, mouths at your neck, your ear, lips sticky. “Still hurtin’?”

It makes you laugh, exhausted and winded and drunk. On him. He could bottle and drink your laughter for a century, sustain himself on your joy alone.

“Not that way,” you say.

He grins, kisses your shoulder. “Didn’t think so.”

His grip doesn’t loosen. Doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to pull out and lose the heat of you, the weight, the ruin he’s left on your skin. He’s never been good at quiet, but now? He’d stay here forever, buried. Blood-warm. Belonging.

“Mine,” he murmurs, voice low and gutted. “All mine.”

And there’s no one left to argue. Not now. Not ever.

Famous last words, eh?

Got too confident. Too sure that there’s nobody standing in his way, in yours. That’s why he’s not expecting the visitor that shows up at the door.

Spike hears it before you do: three sharp raps, knuckles stiff with self-importance. It’s the kind of knock that’s used to being answered promptly, that thinks it deserves to be. You’re in the kitchen, humming to yourself, shirt sleep-creased and bare legs swinging as you sit on the counter eating your little seedless grapes straight from the stem. Domestic as anything. Pretty in a way that makes him wish Peaches taught him to draw way back when, to create instead of destroy. It’s the kind of scene that should be immortalised. He’d been about to drag you back to bed, or maybe spread you across the marble and feast, if not for the knock interrupting the peace.

It comes again, more forceful this time. Spike stands.

You frown. “Was that someone at the―”

“I got it,” he says, already moving. He notes as he passes by that the sofa bed’s been folded back in, bags gone. Glinda must’ve decided to head back to the dorms after all. Probably for the best; no one there to hear her cry.

As he approaches the entry, he can tell it’s not a vamp or some other nasty. Not a threat. There’s no weight behind the sound, and the heartbeat’s easy enough to hear through the wood grain. The scent hits him first—rich cologne, too polished for good ol’ Sunnyhell—and something else buried under it: a trace of blood not fresh, but familiar. Family.

Spike opens the door, and there he is. Tall, tanned, money-washed. Not a hint of the smalltown vibe he gets from everyone else ’round here. Pressed linen, Rolex gleam—Hank bleedin’ Summers, right here in the flesh. Recognises him from the dusty photos tucked at the back of the shelf in the living room, the place you and your mum and your sisters dumped everything to do with the useless sod. Out of sight and out of mind, just like he’s been all these years.

He’s holding a manila envelope in his too-soft hands, his expression stony. Doesn’t have the effect he’s after―too doughy. Niblet’s scarier than this one, and she’s just a kid.

“Can I help you?” Spike asks with a raised brow. He doesn’t need to turn; he can feel the shift in the air, the thrum of your heart stuttering into worry. Bugger.

Hank doesn’t blink; barely even acknowledges him, the wanker. Instead, his gaze shifts past him, somewhere behind as he steps forward like he owns the place. “How could you be so stupid?”

No foreplay, then. Straight into the bloodletting.

You’re right behind him: breathing coming unevenly, the scent of the shampoo you use wafting his way. Double bugger.

“Huh? Dad?” you say. Spike looks at you―bare legs, loose shirt, hair a mess of sleep and satisfaction―and sees the moment the fire dims in your eyes. “What… what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Hank repeats, volume rising like it’s the most obvious question in the world. “What are you doing here? Shacking up with a guy twice your age―this―this thug―and acting like that’s normal?”

Spike snorts. Not the worst thing he’s been called. Tame, even.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, tone light as he moves an inch or two into the tosser’s space, a hint of a threat seeping into his posture. “Missed the part where you got visitation rights. Or where I let you know my address.”

“Not all my daughters are reckless chumps,” Hank tosses out, unknowing or uncaring of Spike’s tacit intimidation.

The barb stings you as intended. You flinch. “Buffy told you where I live?”

“Yeah.” He laughs, but there’s nothing funny about what’s happening. “Stopped by earlier. Seems she’s got a lot of thoughts about this set-up, too.”

Spike files that away. Buffy. Should’ve figured that. Twice now, she’s handed you over to someone who hurt you. Gonna have words about that.

“She called you?” Your question’s slightly hysterical. “So what―you won’t pick up when Mom’s dying, but you’ll fly here because I’m in a relationship? Jesus, Dad.”

He’s glad to hear some of the grit back. Got worried for a second that you’d fall apart completely.

Hank stares at you like you’re something he’s stepped in. “Nice try, kid, but you’re not throwing that in my face. And no, Buffy didn’t call. I got something interesting in the mail a few days ago. Mrs Greenberg is very concerned about you.”

Spike feels the wave of ire wash over him. ’Course it’s that manky old biddy. Always nosing over the shared fence into your front yard, back when you lived with your sisters. Always with snide comments about the Slayer’s ripped clothing, or all the people walking in and out of the house, or how cropped Little Bit’s shorts are. She’s had a bloody field day with him since first capping eyes on his hair, his duster, his car. Hates him, and the feeling’s mutual. He wishes the chip’d give him a freebie, just one. He’d pick her.

“She sent me some photos,” Hank continues, tossing the envelope in his grip at your feet. It lands with a dull thwack. “And a note that said ‘thought you should know what your daughter’s up to.’”

Your face drains of colour as you crouch to pick it up, pull out its contents, rifle through the pages. Spike can’t see the particulars, but he can certainly imagine them. You, in his coat. Laughing next to him on the pavement. His hand on your waist, mouth on your neck. All of it damning if you squint at it with the wrong kind of eyes.

You’re silent. Spike pushes down the urge to speak, to defend you, ’cause this isn’t his fight. Not yet. His job is to be here after.

Hank’s shoulder knocks his as he edges further inside the flat, uninvited. “Do you have any idea how this looks? How this reflects on me?”

What a wanker.

You laugh, brittle and sharp. “Of course. Of course it’s about you. Not about me―not about how I’m doing, or what I want. Just your reputation.”

“You… Don’t talk back to me!” Hank snaps. “I took you in when you needed it. I paid for the best school, gave you everything―”

“Everything?” you cut in. “You dropped me off at Thacher and forgot I existed. I was fourteen, Dad! Fourteen years old! And scared out of my mind. All you gave me was a checkbook and a dorm room before you disappeared.”

“I did what I had to,” he says coldly. “You needed discipline. Direction. God knows your mother didn’t give you any.”

“Don’t you dare―don’t you dare bring up my mother.” Your words are shaky, eyes wet. And yet, no tears fall. “You don’t get to say stuff like that. You don’t get to walk in and act like you have a right to judge her, or me. You left me. I needed a parent, and you left.”

Spike would tear the old man’s throat out if you asked him to. The chip’s not what holds him at bay. It’s the knowledge that no amount of violence would fix this, would make you feel like you weren’t left behind. Besides, this ain’t about today. Ain’t about Spike. It’s a lifetime’s worth, spilling out all at once.

Your shoulders are curving in, your voice growing thinner around the edges. “I wasn’t the screw-up, remember? That’s the only reason you bothered. Because I was the one most likely to turn out alright. To make you look good.”

“That’s not true―”

“Isn’t it?” You scoff. “I spent every year trying to be perfect, trying to make you proud, and it was never good enough. So don’t you dare come into my home and call me stupid like I’m some lost little girl who doesn’t understand what she’s doing.”

“You don’t,” Hank says, face red. “You’re sleeping with a man who belongs in a mugshot. No job. No prospects—”

“Right. Because money and status are the most important things in life.” You smile, vicious, and let out a bitter laugh. “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to lecture me―”

“I’m your father!”

“No.” You say it soft. It lands like a gunshot. Even Spike flinches.

A hush falls.

He’s starting to hate these bloody family rows always going on in front of him. Feels like watching himself, years ago, all rage and grief with nothing to show for it. Only difference is, no one ever stood beside him back then. Now, he always seems to end up looking on, unable to toss himself into the ring lest he risk his impulses overriding his common sense.

“Dawnie… You know how many nights she cried herself to sleep after Mom died? I don’t. Hard to remember. But I do remember how she’d keep asking me where you were. Why you weren’t picking up our calls. Why you wouldn’t come.” The anger’s eased up, leaving only a sort of resigned sadness that makes you sound so much older than you are. Spike hates it. “Where were you, Hank? Where have you ever been when we needed you?”

Hank’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Eventually, he gives up, staring back at you. Spike can hear him grind his teeth beneath his closed lips. Not sorry, then.

“I think we should just be honest here,” you say, quiet. “You… you stopped being my father a long time ago.”

Spike’s seen a lot of screaming matches. Started more than his fair share. But this? Watching you peel yourself open like this, letting old pain see daylight for the first time? This one cuts different. Deeper. It makes his fists curl with something more than rage. It makes him ache.

Hank sighs, wiping a hand over his face. “I did my best.”

“Then your best sucked.”

Glancing down at the envelope you’re clutching, you appear to make a decision: your spine straightens, your shoulders squaring back out. You throw the contents back at Hank in the exact same manner he did, the stack landing at the man’s feet.

“Leave, Hank,” you tell him. “It’s the only thing you’re good at.”

Hank’s mouth curls, examining you like he doesn’t recognize you. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he never did. A light in your eyes sputters out; abruptly, you turn and leave the room, a door creaking open behind you as you disappear down the hall. The air shifts.

“I’d get goin’ if I were you, Summers,” Spike says, stepping forward slow and smooth. “Not wanted here.”

Hank glares. “You―you ruined my girl―”

“My girl, actually.” Spike’s fingers dig so hard into his palms that he can feel the damp of blood starting to well up. “Shouldn’t have chucked her away if you planned on havin’ any sort of say in who she shacks up with. Between you and me? I ain’t the one who ruined her. You did the job well enough on your own.”

Hank snorts derisively. “Enjoy it while it lasts. She’ll wise up soon.”

“Maybe.” Spike shrugs. “Maybe not. Either way, has nothin’ to do with you anymore. She needed a dad. Got a ghost instead. Now make like one and disappear.”

One more long moment―then Hank turns and leaves without picking up the evidence he’d trekked all this way to shove in your face, door slamming behind him. After, silence.

Wanker.

Spike collects the packet from the ground, tossing it onto the kitchen counter as he retraces your steps. The door creaks open as he steps into the room, sees you curled up on your side at the edge of the bed, facing away from him. He crosses the room, kneels by your side.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks. Already knows the answer, though.

You don’t respond; just look at him with wide, lost eyes, gleaming with the promise of an impending meltdown. He reaches forward, strokes your hair, flattens his hand to the contours of your arm until his touch meets your wrist. Your fingers dart out to grasp his like a lifeline.

He makes a vague soothing noise, a sort of hum that he wishes would ease that horribly wounded expression you’re wearing. “What d’you need?”

Finally, you whisper, “Hold me. Please.”

That he can do.

Spike crawls over you and crowds to your back, arm wrapping tight around your middle and legs winding with yours. You pull him even closer, an unspoken demand to squeeze harder, mould himself to you to the point that your bodies cannot be separately distinguished. He does it. It’s all he has to offer.

“Got you,” he murmurs in your ear. You shudder, then relax, boneless.

You lie there, quiet and tucked close, like the silence itself is a bandage. Spike doesn’t tell you it’s not your fault. Doesn’t tell you it’s okay. He waits, steady and present. Yours.

Because that’s the point, innit? He’s staying.

The DeSoto’s headlights sweep across the curb and up the pavement as he pulls in to 1630 Revello Drive, engine idling low. You sit in silence beside him, backpack at your feet, hands wringing themselves to death in your lap. Outside, the streetlights cut long shadows over the bonnet, blinking amber across your face. You look calm—too calm—and it eats at him.

It’s funny how strangely time passes when you’ve got no end in sight. Decades pass in a blink, half-forgotten. But the hours since Hank’s nasty li’l turn-up? Endless. Truth is, Spike’s been waiting since the man left for you to completely break apart. Long time coming, and you deserve a release of a different kind. Instead, it’s this: quiet, withdrawn, something melancholy that he can’t touch, can’t save you from.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. Not hesitant; just making sure.

You nod. “Dawn needs help with her history project. I’ll… I’ll deal.”

Yeah. Deal.

S’not often that he has no idea what’s about to happen. Spend enough time kickin’ ’round, you learn some things about people, the way they behave, how they’re going to respond to finding stuff out. But you? Ordinarily, he’d say you’d go in swinging, maybe not with fists but with words. Now, though, you seem so… so defeated. Like fate’s gone ahead and cut all your strings.

This is what moves him to follow you to the front step instead of hanging back in the car. Wednesday nights are for you and Little Bit, usually, but this time, he’s coming in too. You flick him an odd look, saying nothing. He wishes you’d say, do something. Tell him to bugger off or send him packing back to the flat. But nothing. Is he the corpse here, or are you?

Before you knock, the door swings open.

The Slayer’s expression flickers between surprise and wariness, gaze skipping from you to Spike and back again. “Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”

Figures she’s the one answering. Red’s probably off somewhere knitting or meditating or whatever it is witches do when they’ve sworn off casting. Maybe with Zeppo, making sure he’s not drinking his weight in cheap beer after making the biggest mistake of his life leaving demon girl at the altar. Prick.

You don’t answer. Just step past Buffy, impassive but for the way your chin folds into your chest a bit, subtle enough to be missed by anyone not looking for it. He is. He sees it all.

Her eyes narrow. “Did he show up? Dad?”

Your head jerks up, down, a spasmodic nod. No words still.

“Well?” she asks. “How did it go?”

Now you’re paying attention. Your gaze snaps to her, and for a second Spike can see intensity there, a burning set to consume. Then it fades, replaced by an ache too deep to name.

“I’m… I don’t think I can be around you,” you say. It’s not quite an answer. Comes out strangely. Stops and starts, like you’re fighting the urge to scream or cry. “I’ll come by for Dawnie. But I—I need space from you, Buff. Indefinitely.”

“What are you—”

It’s all you can say, it seems. You turn your back on her and head upstairs, white-knuckled grip on the rail. Buffy’s forehead creases, smiling in clear confusion.

“Wait—what?” she asks after you with a short bark of laughter. “You’re mad at me? Seriously?”

You don’t answer her, instead disappearing up to the landing. Gone, and all that’s left is the rage thrumming in his chest like the heartbeat he no longer has.

Spike remains in the entry, waiting for the telltale creak of the door at the end of the hallway. The sound cleaves through the silence, dull and echoing. He pictures you on the other side, face buried in Niblet’s quilt as she watches on with bewilderment, trying not to cry loud enough for Buffy to hear. A helplessness claws up his throat, bitter and sharp. He’d give anything to follow, but someone’s still got to fight your corner down here.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight. Buffy turns to him, arms crossed tight across her chest.

“What?” she snaps.

“Oh, don’t play dumb now,” he says, temper flaring.

He advances on her, gearing up for a beating. More shouting, like last time. Typical. Another spat at Casa Summers. Bleedin’ place might as well be cursed. Never just tea and telly; always ends in blood or somebody stormin’ off in tears.

“Thought I’d have a little chat with you, Slayer,” he continues. “‘Bout how you sicced that deadbeat old bastard on her like a bloody trained hound.”

Her face tightens. “He’s her father, Spike. And you’re just—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “A demon, evil, some thing. Heard it all before. You keep sayin’ it like it still means anything. But I get it now. Why you hold onto it so much. Eats at you, doesn’t it? Me an’ her. Makes you lie awake at night, wonderin’ what could’ve happened between us.”

She flinches, tries to cover it with a scoff. “Oh my god. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He steps closer, smirk flashing. He can feel the coil of it winding in his spine. The pressure in the room surges: hot, close, electric. Slayer bristling like a cornered thing. Spike leaning in like a wolf scenting blood. His hands flex at his sides, itching. Always comes to this with her, doesn’t it? A beat too long, a breath too fast, and then—

“I’m not,” he says.

Doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to open the door to that memory—her, eyes full of anger, heart tapping out a maybe. Maybe. But she never did. Never would.

“I’m tellin’ you the truth you won’t admit,” he adds, following through. “You got her hurt just to hurt me. ’Cause you can’t stand the fact I found something real before you could figure out if you even wanted it―me―first.”

“I didn’t―I didn’t mean to upset her!” Buffy’s voice rises, but the aggression’s hiding something vulnerable, insecure. She won’t make eye contact with him. “She’s just a kid. She shouldn’t be with you. You know it, I know it. Everyone does.”

“Funny,” he growls. “You keep sayin’ it’s so wrong, but she’s never been as happy with you as she is with me.”

There we go. The look, all wrath and malice, the one that promises a world of suffering. “What the hell would you know about her happi―”

“You think you’re doin’ all this to keep her safe, yeah? But you’re not. You’re just twistin’ the knife in her back, over and over. Callin’ it love.” He chuckles. It sounds nasty to his ears. “Coward.”

She gets in his face, hissing at him like a viper spraying venom. “Shut up, Spike! You’re dangerous! I have to protect―”

“I am dangerous! You, though? You’re worse. Least I’ve never made her cry so hard she passes out. You don’t care what it costs her, so long as you get your digs in. And you call me soulless.”

From the way her eyes begin to shine, that last bit landed hard. Good. S’time she understood how bad she’s been treatin’ you. How bad all her pals have been treatin’ you. Sure, they don’t jump you the second you walk in the door or anything, but they don’t do a great job at hiding their contempt, either. You’re too content with your lot to make a fuss about it right now, but he knows where this goes: another big blow-up, and maybe one you all can’t walk back from.

Spike tilts his head, lets his leer fill in the gaps between his next words. “Good goin’, luv. Didn’t even have to lift a finger. You’re the one makin’ it so easy for little sis to crawl between my sheets.”

The Slayer draws herself back and swings. Her fist crashes hard into his cheekbone. The blow lands with a wet crunch, pain blooming like a struck nerve beneath his eye. He grins through the deep-seated throbbing of bone fracturing apart, because it’s familiar, real, a reminder that some things still break the old-fashioned way. Letting the punch sit a mo’, he rubs at his cheek—then returns it twofold, skin on his knuckles splitting from the force he uses. She slams back into the wall with a cry, clutching her jaw. As she catches her breath, shock blooms across her face.

“Ah,” he says dryly, just to rub it in. “The pain.”

She’s off-balance, eyes wide, the realisation crawling over her like cold fingers. He watches her swallow, sees the tremble in her lip before she catches it. Emotion flashes across her expression: confusion, then dread. For the first time in a long while—maybe ever—she looks at him not like a mistake, but like a threat. Something inside him leaps, then curls in on itself. He shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t want her to flinch. But bloody hell, it feels good to be stronger for once.

“You… you hit me.” Her stance has gone slack. “How?”

“Got me first, didn’t you?” His hand is throbbing. Worth it. “‘Sides, you copped one a few weeks back too, remember? Night you tried to rake my girl across the coals?”

Thought it might’ve been a fluke, actually. Or maybe that the memory of the zap wiped itself from his mind the second after. But nah, this here proves it.

She stares. “But the―the chip…”

“Still got it.” He shrugs, but it feels hollow. “Still works―on humans.”

And that’s the thing, yeah? All this talk of him being beneath you, but he’s been fighting the good fight for a while now. Maybe it’s not something he chose at first, but he’s choosing now. He’s been choosing since you came into his unlife. Wants to be better, for you. Not ’cause you want that, necessarily, but ’cause how else will he ever be enough? Still, still, the Slayer doesn’t see it. Or won’t. Too blinded by her power to see she’s using it to crush you.

He tries to chase away the sting by doing what he does best: cruelty. “Guess Red wasn’t as good as she thought. Didn’t bring you back right. Maybe that’s why you’ve been such a monster since you clawed outta your grave.”

Breathing unsteadily and shaking her head, still pressed to the wall, Buffy whispers, “Get out. Get out.”

“Piss off, Slayer.” He’s had enough. Started like a thrill, but now it’s just noise. “Get off your high horse. Think I’m the evil one―then what the bleedin’ hell are you?”

He turns away, jaw aching and knuckles bleeding. It doesn’t feel like a win. Nothing ever does, not really, when it comes to her. But he’ll take the scrap of justice, even if it’s come at the cost of a little more of himself.

Spike doesn’t wait around. Just heads upstairs, the thud of his boots on the steps grounding him again. As he draws closer to you, the anger melts away. Your scent calls him, and like a planet orbiting the sun, he’s bound to the path, up and up and up. The hallway stretches ahead, filled with the sort of quiet that comes after a storm. The weight of what just passed clings to him like dust, but your voice―soft, threadbare―pulls him onward. There’s blood on his hands, and still, he reaches.

For the first time today, the atmosphere’s peaceful. No shouting, nothing being thrown, no limbs flying. Only this: dim light, muted rustling, the creak of the pull-out as you set it up. Your movements are practiced, careful. A trajectory on autopilot.

Niblet dumps her backpack on the floor beside the sofa, muttering curses under her breath like willpower alone could bring a curse down on the Slayer. “I mean, seriously. I can’t even look at her right now. She actually told him where you were? Like that was ever gonna end well.”

You nod faintly, tucking a fitted sheet over the mattress corner. She hasn’t noticed that you aren’t throwing your own complaints in yet. Hasn’t noticed much beyond the burn of betrayal bubbling up in her voice.

“And then she tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I was being dramatic. She lied to me! Said she didn’t tell him where you were. But she did.” She huffs, tossing her still-damp hair as she looks at you. “And now she’s acting like you’re the one who blew things out of proportion?”

While it’s no small thing to have her on side―the ringing in his ears after listening to her shriek at big sis is proof enough―Spike knows you’re maybe a half-hour from complete breakdown, and this isn’t helping. He leans against the kitchen counter, watching, not getting involved. Not yet. Not until he has to.

“And Xander?” She goes on, flinging one of the throw pillows onto the sofa like it’s personally offended her. “He still talks about you like you’re some helpless little idiot and Spike’s a predator, and Buffy and Willow never call him on it. Especially after the whole wedding thing.”

She shudders, and Spike can picture what she’s thinking. That godawful get-up demon girl made you all wear, though he still thinks you can pull the green off alright. The boy taking her hand, speaking softly to her. The way he slipped out, letting her walk up the aisle by herself. Still raw, it all is. Not a thing to mention at your li’l gatherings. Like it never happened.

“Yeah.” Your shoulders twitch, eyes downcast.

“I just…” She drops onto the edge of the pull-out with a frustrated grumble. “I thought after—after everything, they’d all back off. Let you be happy. But no, it’s all fake smiles and pretending that they’re okay with it when they’re clearly not. And they keep putting me in the middle of it, acting like I’m supposed to be on their side. I’m not.”

“I know, Dawnie.” You pat her head and busy yourself with smoothing out the creases in the duvet, trying to conceal your sniffling.

“They don’t see how you are together. They think it’s some… some creepy sex thing, but it’s real, isn’t it? It’s love. They don’t get it. It makes me wanna―”

“Alright, Bit,” Spike says, gentle as he can make it. “That’s enough.”

She freezes, startled. “Huh? I’m only―”

“Tellin’ the truth, yeah.” He pushes off the counter and crosses to her. “S’not what’s needed right now, is all.”

You still don’t look up. You simply stand there, fingers twitching at the corners of the blankets piled generously on the makeshift bed. Spike tugs it from your hands, palm to the small of your back.

“Go start your shower, baby,” he tells you. “Yeah? Let me finish this.”

You hesitate, but then your lip wobbles and you nod. His gaze follows you down the hall, your arms hugged to your torso like they’re the only thing keeping your insides in. Like you’ve been gutted. In a sense, you have. Hank, Buffy. An absolute shite day. The bathroom door clicks shut; the taps creak; the water heater hums to life, a low buzz through the thin walls. Without you, the flat feels smaller.

Dawn pulls her legs up, chin resting on her knees. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make her sad.”

“I know.” Spike kneels to grab the last of the pillows. Too many of the bloody things. “She knows, too. S’why she let you say your piece.”

No response. One’s imminent, though―the real source of her explosion tonight. Sure, some of it’s about the Slayer, about her little lapdogs and the way they treat you and him, but he reckons it’s a front. An ugly, angry wall she’s using to hide from reality. So he lets the silence sit for a while, fetches a glass of water for the small table beside the sofa and draws the curtains closed in the meantime. Lets her work through her feelings.

Then it comes.

“I…” Little Bit sighs, hands fiddling with the hems of each pant leg. Her nose is turning red, a sign that she’s about to cry. “I thought he came to see us. For real. Said he was gonna take me out for ice cream later. I wanted to ask if we could go to that place by the promenade. The one with the waffle cones? And then he just… didn’t show. Didn’t even bother to call. Now I know why.”

Her confession cracks the fount open, tears winding down her face. He crouches before her, catching her line of sight with a sympathetic twist of his lips.

“You’re too good for him, Bit. Always were.” He tries to inject as much surety as he possesses into his words. It’s not enough to fix what Hank broke, but better than letting her believe she’s to blame for his failures. “Nothing to do with you.”

Bit glances away, wiping her eyes. “I know. It’s ’cause of Buffy.”

Not exactly. But not wrong, either.

“I―I had one chance. To spend time with my dad. And she wrecked it, just to stick it to you. To hurt her.” She frowns, turning back to him with beseeching eyes. “Why?”

Part of him’s always touched by how much she trusts him to have all the answers. To a kid like her, he’s seen everything, understands everything. Doesn’t have the heart to tell her that there are some things he can’t explain. He can try, though.

“She’s… she’s got her own demons, see? In her head. Playin’ with her feelings.” Crude analogy, but it works. “Doesn’t know what to do with them, not since she―”

“Since she was snatched outta Heaven,” Niblet says. Some of the ire’s burnt itself out. “Yeah.”

He curses himself for feeling sorry for the stupid bint in this moment. But he can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like, goin’ about day by day down here after being at peace. Knowing it was friends who tore him from his final rest, brought him back only to shove him into the same old endless fight. Doesn’t excuse her actions. Makes them easier to forgive, maybe.

Little Bit interrupts his musing. “I wish… I wish she’d deal with it, instead of taking it out on all of us. She’s not the only one suffering.”

He snorts. “Careful. Wishes in this town don’t go down well.”

Wouldn’t do to play those games out loud, what with demon girl back to her former glory―not that anyone else has figured it out. He certainly ain’t gonna dob her in. Let her get her jollies cursing Xapper; not much of a loss there, the miserable sod.

“But―she loves you,” he adds, more sincere. “You know that, right? Both of you. Not showin’ it all that well at the mo’, but she cares. Enough to risk everything to do what she thinks she has to.”

That’s what’s getting him the most about all this. It’s love. How the worst pain gets doled out, innit? For that feeling. Kill for it, die for it, destroy everything to make sure that love lasts another day. And the irony? That ruin is the very thing that turns love into hate. He knows best. He’s love’s bitch, after all.

“Doesn’t feel like love,” Bit mutters, wiping her face with her sleeve.

“No,” he agrees. “Doesn’t always.”

Like the kept man he is, he takes a while to hush his girl’s little sis, help her dry her tears and settle herself for sleep. Tucks her in good and proper, soft goodnight falling from his mouth and echoed by a frail, weary whisper. Turns off all the lights, except for the plug-in at the outlet in the kitchen to remind her that she’s not alone. He leaves her be, heads toward the bathroom. A yellow glow spills out from the crack where the door doesn’t quite meet the ground.

Spike knocks. No response.

Heat curls out like mist from a dream when he steps inside, warming his cool flesh to sweltering. The tap’s dripping again, but that’s not important. No. What’s important is the way you’re hunched over yourself in the corner by the bath, swamped in your towel as though you’ve tried to strangle yourself with it. Water makes a puddle beneath you.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, already moving.

He doesn’t care about the damp soaking through his shirt. Not when holding you feels like life itself. You turn into him as though gravity’s lost its meaning, seized by silent sobs, hours and days and weeks’ worth―a lifetime’s worth―of pain rushing out. It’s a pain he can’t fix with antiseptic or plasters. He can only catch you while you fall, banding arms around you so tightly that there’s bruises come morning.

“Take me away from here,” you choke out against his chest, cracked and distraught. “Please, Spike? I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

He presses his lips to your crown firm enough to leave a mark, letting your words tear at his unbeating heart. “This won’t last forever. Promise. Give it a bit.”

“I can’t, I can’t―”

He rocks you as though you’re a child, shushing you in low, soothing tones. Anything to get that manic sound out of your voice. His hand cups the back of your head, palm against soaked strands, and he lets your scent fill him, steadying his frayed edges. Every tremble in your frame hits him like an aftershock.

She’s safe, he tells himself. She’s safe. Just broken in all the softest places.

“I swear it, kitten, on the poof’s soul.” Can’t bloody well swear on his own. Nothing holy left in him anymore. But you believe him anyway. Always have. “If it’s still too much, if you still want out… I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

There’s a pause, broken only by the drip of the tap and the sound of your breath hiccupping against his chest.

“Anywhere?” The question is small, childlike, full of something he recognizes too well: hope, starved and shaking. “A place you’ve been?”

He nods against your hair, never loosening his hold. “Sure. Or it can be somewhere different. New. Just for us.”

You lean back slightly to look at him, lashes clumped with tears, cheeks blotchy and mouth trembling. But your eyes… there’s a flicker in them now. Faint as the first star after sunset, but it’s there.

“Not trying to erase the past,” you mumble, voice thick. That easy acceptance shatters him all over again. “Only create the future. With you. We can make memories of our own.”

He smiles, lips twitching. One hand lifts, brushing along your jaw, his thumb catching a droplet rolling down your cheek. “Never shagged a girl standin’ in the Eiffel Tower, you know,” he says, casual as anything.

The sound that escapes you is uneven, half-sob and half-laugh, but it’s real, and it undoes him. You shake your head, resting your forehead against his collarbone. “If you want. Anything, if it’s you.”

He holds you tighter at that, his cheek resting against your temple.

There’s silence in the flat. Not the kind that comes from peace or contentment, but the kind that settles when there’s nothing left to say. The heater ticks, spitting dust into the air, gold creeping through the curtains like it’s sneaking in on tiptoe.

Spike lights a cigarette at the open window, sun not quite high, and tries not to let the smoke drift back down the hall toward the bedroom. You’re asleep, cozied into his pillow like you’re trying to disappear inside it. Happens more and more. You sleep mornings, patrol nights, and talk to no one in between—mostly him and the Bit. Maybe Red, if she manages to catch you outside the house before you shut her down with a polite smile and a tighter grip on your keys. Demon girl too, when she comes ’round for a drink and a bitch, her friends few and far between. And Glinda, always poppin’ over. Nice bird.

Alright, so maybe it’s not no one. Just Buffy and the boy.

You’ve withdrawn from your Scooby meetings, from anywhere the pair frequent. From everything outside this little home, this late-night life you’ve carved out between the cracks. Once upon a time, you’d cram into Buffy’s living room with the rest of ’em to plan a demon hunt, always with popcorn to spare. Now, the silence between you and them feels sharp enough to cut.

Spike knows how it looks to those two. Knows what they’re surely whispering now he’s not there to hear: that he’s isolating you, keeping you locked away so he can feed off whatever pieces of you that still remain. Sometimes he wants to. Could picture it, too. Keep you safe, tucked away from the nasties and the harm your so-called friends dole out like party favours, telling themselves it’s love. Keep you for himself. But love’s gone and twisted him soft, hasn’t it? Couldn’t bear to hurt you. He doesn’t get them, how they can stand it.

He’d tell them they’ve got it all backwards, that you’re the one who stopped showing up, who stopped answering their phone calls, who stopped listening whenever they caught you out at night and called your name to beckon you over. That he’s the only one you don’t brace yourself against anymore. But there’s no point. People see what they want to, and they want him to be the villain.

Fine. He’s been worse.

There’s a muted thump as Gus, one of his winnings from last week’s poker night, drops from the top of the fridge and glares at Spike like he’s the intruder. Bloody thing’s barely bigger than a toaster, but it’s got fangs and attitude and a mean swipe. Spike bares his teeth at it and mutters under his breath.

“Oi. Kitchen’s my territory, furball.”

The whole bleedin’ place is, but that doesn’t matter to Gus—he just hisses in response, flicking his tail like a whip.

They tried playing for kittens once. Demon girl, couple nice Brachens, Clem and his buddies from Willy’s; good, safe company. Clem swore the fluffballs wouldn’t stick around. Lied. Now Spike can’t make his mug of blood with Weetabix in it without risking a bite to the ankle, so it’s back to chips and cash next time. You, of course, love the li’l bastard, named him after that old cartoon mouse from the pictures. Spoil him rotten, too. He’s got a little fish-shaped dish on the counter and a cushion by the space heater in the living room. Spike’s own cushion, mind you, not that he’s bitter about it.

The rap at the door lets him know that Glinda’s come by as she said she would. He waits for the sound of the spare key in the lock, the squeak of the hinges as she steps through. Sees her pop her head into the kitchen, eyes gentle. There’s a canvas tote slung over her shoulder and a shoebox tucked under one arm.

“Thanks, Spike,” she says, moving into the room. “For this. Didn’t have to leave it all by the door. I would’ve sort–sorted it myself.”

Spike nods. “S’fine. Least I could do. That everything?”

She hesitates, then sets the shoebox down. A few books, a candle, one of those horrid tea mugs with an inspirational quote on it. Things she’d left behind when she moved on. Her fingers reach out to stroke down the kitten’s back, and the little prick purrs all the while.

“Yeah.” Her gaze drifts to the hallway, to the closed door of the bedroom. “Is she…”

He exhales smoke through his nose. “Still knocked out.”

“I wanted to see her, but… I get it. She’s not up for it, huh?” From anyone else, it’d sound like pity, but the witch has more magic to her than spells and curses.

Spike sighs, watches the cat take a flying leap off the counter—brave for a beast so small—and dart away, stumbling over too-big paws. “Not these days, no.”

The corners of her mouth turn down, all compassion, but there’s no hiding the sparkle in her eyes, the creases in her face from a fresh spot of laughter. She looks more alive than she has in a good while. The weight she’s been carrying seems lighter now.

“You look happier,” he says, and it’s not a dig. Tired still, yeah, but the grief’s gone.

She grins. “I’m—I’m moving back. To the house.”

He arches a brow. “So that means…”

“Yeah.” She glances away, expression exposing the delight she’s trying to restrain. “Me and Willow. We’re… trying again.”

“Good for you, luv.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he offers her a grin. “Ain’t love grand, eh?”

Not much more to be said after that. Glinda thanks him again, picks up her stuff and shuffles on out, the lock clicking shut behind her. The spare key’s left on the counter, polished metal gleaming in the morning light. Spike lingers by the window, listening to the hush that follows her absence. Nothing sad. Not for her. It’s the sound of the world waking up after a storm, quietly relearning what it means to live. Somewhere in the flat, a sound shatters the stillness—Gus knocking something over, probably the remote. Bloody cat’s been on a warpath, especially where his boots are concerned.

The rustle of sheets draws his attention. He slips down the hall, cracks open the door and slips through. You’re stirring, bleary-eyed and slow-limbed, a little frown forming between your eyebrows as you push yourself up on one elbow.

“W’ssat Tara?” you mumble, yawning.

“Yeah.” He slips off the duster, hanging it on the stand in the corner. “Came for her things.”

You rub at your face, the edge of your voice still full of sleep. “She say anything?”

“Movin’ back to Revello,” he says as he crosses to the bed, drops his jeans. “Her and Red are givin’ it another go.”

Your lips part around a little oh, and then you nod again, lids fluttering closed as you sink back into the mattress. “Comin’ back to bed?”

Spike slides down beside you, starkers, tugging the covers back up over you properly. “’Course. Gotta get me beauty sleep.”

You reach for him, lips upturned. “Pretty for the vamps later?”

“Nah.” He lays close, hands sliding along your skin, feeling you warm and substantial in his grasp. “For you.”

True, more or less. Patrol is mostly just foreplay. Not even his job, but he started when the Slayer’d shuffled off the mortal coil and you insisted on steppin’ up. You work out some frustrations on the first couple beasties—like last night’s fledge, first stake you didn’t hesitate to drive home—then spend the rest of it watching on as he gets a nice spot of violence in. As far as you’ve come, you’re no heavy hitter, so you hang back with a cross and stake as ol’ Spike shows off for you, throws extra ferocity into each swing. Gets you all hot and wet, him rippin’ apart some poor demon, but you’re always good in waiting ’til he’s done, ’til the fire in his gut’s enough to make him feel truly alive. Bloodlust turns to randiness, then. He gives it to you hard, bent over a headstone or crowded up against a crypt wall, sets you squealing. Makes his head buzz for hours after.

Worth it. Double worth it if he catches a flash of goldilocks hair in the moonlight, Slayer scent all furious and embarrassed as it fades with distance.

Your fingers find his jaw, thumb stroking lightly over his cheekbone, and he kisses your palm without needing to be asked. There’s nothing urgent in it. Only small reassurances, familiar maps retraced.

“Love you,” you tell him. “Know that, right?”

Spike’s voice is a whisper, rough around the edges. “Love you more.”

Knows you need to hear it more than ever. Need his touch, his care, his protection. Ironic, yeah? He’s a million times better at the things a father gives his girl than Hank ever was. Hell, it was why he was turned in the first place: to be Dru's dark prince, her guardian. Now, yours.

The soft hum of the heater fills the space, and you nuzzle into him, breaths coming slower and slower. For a bit, he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, starts to sink into a light doze, but you interrupt the serenity.

“They think it’s because of you,” you say quietly. “That I’ve—that I’ve pulled away.”

“Yeah.” There’s no venom to it. Just fact.

A brief lull, and then: “They’re wrong. If I have to lose them to keep you… then I will.”

He doesn’t answer that. Speaks for itself, yeah?

Sometimes he thinks that you can read his mind. That you know all his darkest thoughts, his worst impulses. His fears. How else can you get him the way you do? Get what he needs to hear, even before he realises it himself? He’s never had faith in anythin’ before. Never could. Couldn’t trust anyone enough for that. If he had faith left to give, he’d put it in you.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he mutters. “I’ve got you.”

He feels your lips curl up against his chest, feels that phantom thud between his ribs again, the skipping of a heartbeat. Your body relaxes against his, all trust in him—in him—and you and he both let the world shrink down to this bed, this quiet, this warmth. From the living room, Gus yowls at nothing, or maybe something only he can see. Spike stays still, content to bask in what he has while he has it.

But it’s inevitable―the shift in the tide. Humdrum doesn’t last forever. It’s shattered by the ringing of the phone, of all things.

It’s a jarring sort of noise that doesn’t belong in the quiet of afternoon some days later, shrill and sudden, slicing through the peace. Spike jerks from sleep, clutching his chest like the shock of it might’ve jumpstarted his pulse. You stir more sedately, breath hitching as you push yourself up on an elbow.

Warm and sluggish still, you roll toward the nightstand and fumble for the receiver, blinking blearily. Your voice is thick when you answer. “Hello?”

A beat of static—then sound crashes through, tinny and high-pitched and hysterical. “She’s not—she’s not moving. What do I do?”

He recognizes the speaker, and his gut turns to stone. Not the bloodless kind, but deeper, the kind that belongs to the living. Bit’s voice, cracked and raw, stabs through his ribcage. Beside him, your body goes rigid as you bolt upright, hand white-knuckled around the phone.

“Dawnie?” you ask, sharp and scared, fumbling with the covers twisted up around your legs.

“I—I don’t know what to do—she’s just—oh god, she’s so cold—”

“Who’s cold? What’s happening?”

“Tara. She’s—she’s not moving. She’s cold.”

Spike’s already heard all he needs to hear, feels it like a coffin lid slamming shut. Death. Real death, not the kind that unearths itself days later, not the kind he came back from. He gets out of bed, tugging on a pair of jeans, already thinking of how to get to the girl without turning to ash. Hunts for his boots. One’s missing. Dragged off down the hall, likely.

When he returns, you’re asking her where she is, calm as anything. Always admired that, he has: how straight you are when the going’s tough.

“In Willow’s room,” Bit sobs. “I—I found her like that. I tried to wake her up and she just… wouldn’t. There’s blood. I think there was a gun or something? I don’t know, I don’t know—”

“Okay, Dawnie, okay.” You’re up now, tugging yesterday’s hoodie over your—his—shirt, scrambling one-handed into a pair of loose-fitting track pants. “I’m coming. Don’t move her. Just—stay where you are, okay?”

You hang up before she can respond, tossing the phone to the bed. By the time you’ve slipped into your trainers, he’s swung his duster on, running through ways to get to Revello Drive in daylight without charring his arse to cinders.

“We don’t have time to black out the windows,” you say, shuffling through the bottom drawer. You toss the fireproof blanket at him, heading out of the room. He follows you to the kitchen, watches you snag his keys out of the bowl. “I’ll drive.”

“You hate stick,” he mutters. More correct to say you can’t drive stick at all, but it’s not the time. No other option, is there?

“I’ll figure it out,” you say.

And you do—sort of. The DeSoto jerks and bucks the whole way, stalling at every red like it’s trying to fight you off, but it moves quick enough. Spike huddles low in the back, wrapped in a shroud, and says nothing. Every turn sends sunlight spilling through the cracks, stinging like a cattle prod, though he doesn’t complain. Can’t. Not when you’re gripping the wheel as if your life depends on it, eyes wide and wet, near unseeing. His stomach turns like it’s trying to crawl out of him at the sight of you, so small in the driver’s seat, so close to splintering. He’s seen you nervous, angry, devastated. But this kind of fear, this kind of panic? It’s new.

“Easy, kitten,” he lets himself murmur when you nearly clip a parked car taking a corner too hard. “Don’t need both of us a pile of ash.”

You don’t answer. S’like you can’t hear him at all. He wants to tell you to slow down, pull over, that he’ll take over once the sun dips—dead is dead, and speed won’t change a thing—but he keeps his mouth shut.

When you screech to a stop outside the Summers house, you don’t wait for him. You’re out of the car before the engine’s off, racing up the drive and through the front door, hair wild and loose, calling Bit’s name as you vanish up the stairs. Spike stays low, crouched under the blanket, and makes a break for the porch as fast as he can without combusting. Slips inside slow, careful. The air is thick with something cloying. Grief, maybe, already settling in the walls.

He hears your voice upstairs, muted and shaking. Hears a sob that doesn’t belong to you. He climbs the stairs one step at a time, blanket over his head, and turns toward Red’s room.

You’re huddled in the corner, braced against the vanity. Bit’s crumpled into you, clutching at your waist like a little kid, face streaked with tears and staring at the floor. He steps in, follows her line of sight, and on the carpet—

Glinda.

Tara.

She was the good one. The warm one. The first one before you who looked at him like he was… like he was a man. And now, her arms are splayed out like a doll dropped mid-play, a hole torn through her chest, already crusting at the edges. All bones and blood, leaking out on a carpet he’s walked a hundred times. A stain no one will ever scrub out.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Niblet’s whispering. Her hands are covered in blood, up her arms and smeared on her jeans. Not wiped away so easily. “The others aren’t here. I didn’t know who to—to call.”

“You did good.” You move then, knee-walking in front of little sis to shield the view. “Come on. You’ve got—let’s clean you up.”

Dawn lets you tug her to her feet, push her toward the bathroom. You tell her to start the shower, then crack open the door to her bedroom. Spike leans against the doorframe, cautious, waiting. You rifle through the wardrobe, grabbing a fresh top and skirt, body moving automatically. Nothing behind the eyes. It’s when you turn to face him, startled by his presence, that emotion bleeds back in.

“Who—who do I call?” you ask him, taking a trembling breath. “Never done this part before.”

He’s across the room before he even realises it, hands framing your arms as though his body knew before his mind did that you needed grounding. You look up at him with a red-rimmed gaze, cracked porcelain seconds from smashing to pieces. And you ask him—him—what to do. That lands harder than the body in the next room. You’re relying on him to be steady when everything else isn’t.

“Ambulance, sweetheart.” That’s right, innit? He’s the one who dropped vics, not the one who stuck around to pick ’em up. But the answer seems to satisfy you; you nod, making to dart past him. He stops you. “You deal with Niblet, yeah? I’ll do the speakin’.”

Some of the tension eases at that. He feels it under his palms. It reminds him that you’re still painfully young. Too young for all this.

“Okay. Okay.” You set your shoulders, lift your chin. Always good at that—forcing resolve. You lean in briefly, press your mouth to his chest. “Thank you.”

He wants to respond, but the words clog in his throat. You’re off again by the time he boots back up again, already speaking in hushed tones to Bit. Girl’s shut down. He listens in on you narrating each step of the process, the rustle and slip and creak as you take over washing her like she’s an invalid. Anything to fill the silence.

Downstairs, the phone feels heavy in his hand. His voice sounds strange giving the address. Feels like a cruel trick; after centuries sending people to the grave, he’s the one left trying to explain the body. He’s used to them. Seen piles of them. But this one… this one doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong to some alley scrap or battlefield. This stuff doesn’t happen to someone he knows. Knew.

It’s only when you’re urging Little Bit down the stairs, snugging her up on the couch like bundles layers might keep the shock at bay, that he realises how much time’s passed. He won’t interfere with the pair of you. Gives you something to do, the fussing. The telly clicks on, filtered sound echoing through the house, a remnant of normality. He ventures out of the kitchen, eyes your front damp and tinged pink, hands clutching Dawn’s bloodied clothes.

“Gonna start a load,” you mumble, hugging the material. “Hopefully it’ll come out easy.”

“You should change too,” he says, extracting your quarry from you. Shouldn’t be a task for you, this. “Make yourself all neat.”

Just a suggestion, but you take it like a command: let him have Dawn’s things, strip down right there in the entry, pass your own stuff over. Lights on, no one home. You wander back upstairs, naked, and he heads down, starts the machine.

You’re in the shower when the paramedics arrive, so Spike handles it. Wants to yell at the two blokes as they move Glinda about, try to find some sign of life. There’s none. He knows. They offer meaningless condolences, use their li’l units to call in to the coroner, tell him someone’ll be by to pick her up. You’re all done by the time the next lot arrive, hair damp and stare vacant as strangers poke through your mum’s room—Red and Glinda’s room—and take their pictures. It’s all very clinical. Callous. He wonders how this detachment isn’t a sort of evil, too. Only nice thing about them is that, by the front door, they unzip the bag, let you say your last goodbyes.

Niblet weeps and hugs the body, plastic crinkling as she squeezes tight. He tugs her into the crook of his arm when she steps away, letting her cry. You stroke Glinda’s hair back, fix the flyaways. A wistful smile ghosts across your face as you lay your lips against her forehead.

“Love you, Tara,” you whisper.

His turn. Can’t say anything. He’s surprised at himself. Never got all that close. But there’d been… a quiet kind of truce between them. Respect, maybe. She saw more than she said, was warm and kind in that quiet, seeing way that made him uncomfortable. When he reaches out and brushes her shoulder, she doesn’t shy away. It’s the first time he’s ever touched her, he thinks. First, and last. Bit was right. Feels like ice under skin. He sees them load the gurney up, slam the back of the van shut, start the engine, but it’s just background to him. All he can feel is the absence of that heat, that life, long after her body’s taken away. Her soul’s probably long gone by now, but he hopes she felt it—him—somehow. Hope she knew that he was here, right ‘til the end.

Afterward, you ferry Dawn upstairs, tell her to pack a bag. The light’s faded out, giving way to a dusk that paints eerie shadows across the walls. While you’re busy, the washer downstairs beeps its little tune. Done. He sticks the clothes up on the line running under the basement stairs, just finishing up with a sock as the front door bangs open.

Voices crash in: the Slayer, sharp and frantic, calling out for Dawn. Xander’s right behind her, heavy footsteps and ragged breath like he ran the whole way here. Spike sprints, intercepts them before they can stampede up the stairs, ruin the tenuous calm you’ve created.

“She’s upstairs,” he says, tone low and measured, “gettin’ her stuff.”

Buffy halts, halfway to shoving past him. For once, she doesn’t look like she wants to dust him where he stands. Just stops, looking lost. “Where—where’s Tara?”

“Gone.”

The stairs creak behind him. He turns to see you coming down slowly, drawn and hollow, borrowed clothes hanging off you wrong. Big sis’s wardrobe suits you poorly.

“Spike called it in,” you add, knuckles cracking against the banister, speaking in that oddly flat cadence. “Coroner came.”

Buffy exhales unsteadily, eyes glistening. Unsurprised. She knew, then. So did the boy, if his lack of shock’s anything to go by. He frowns, pained-looking, gaze sweeping over you and then up, like he’s trying to will it all to be a dream. Spike’s torn by the urge to throttle the pair of ’em—who the bloody hell leaves a pair of teen girls to clean up after a corpse?—‘til he sees you sag against the newel post. He reaches for you, steadying you before your knees give out. You fall into him like it was inevitable, like you were always going to seek him out, reflexive. His arm spans your waist, hand slotting into its natural place at your hip.

“She was—Warren.” She glances down at her shoulder, at the splotch of rust-dark drying on her jacket. Swallows. “He was… aiming for me.”

Spike jerks his chin toward it. “Didn’t just miss, then.”

“You alright?” you ask softly, all worry. Instead of going to her, though, you shrink into him. The other two notice. Wants to be smug about it, but the victory feels empty right now.

“I wasn’t. For a while, I wasn’t.” Her voice catches, like it hurts to speak it aloud. “I don’t even remember falling. Just… black.”

Spike’s jaw tightens. You flinch beside him.

Buffy’s hand drifts toward the stain, brushing it lightly. “It should’ve been over. It was over. But Willow—” She swallows. “She saved me.”

A chill rolls through the room. You stiffen in Spike’s arms, breath snagging on a sharp inhale. He feels it. Your fear. Not of death, but of history, of the way it keeps repeating like a curse no one’s figured out how to lift.

“She brought you back again,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Buffy says, quiet. “She didn’t even hesitate.”

No one speaks for a moment. Even the house feels like it’s listening.

“Using again, then?” Spike asks. Tries to keep the rattle of fear out of his voice. “Magic.”

A dumb question, but he has to hear it for himself.

Buffy nods. “Yeah. She was here. When—when it happened.”

Bleedin’ Christ.

Spike’s throat works around a tightness he can’t name. He thinks of how your body’d feel, lifeless beneath him. Thinks of the Bit when he found her with Glinda. Thinks of Red reaching past the veil without blinking, again and again, destroying little pieces of herself every time.

He’s been on the wrong end of her rituals and incantations before. Nearly got hitched to the Slayer ’cause of her. Forgot everything and thought he was a tosser named Randy Giles for a bit, too; only lucky part of that whole cockup was the li’l photo of you an’ him in your purse, no mistaking his connection to you. You might’ve ripped his bollocks off if he thought himself attached to one of the other birds. And both those times were the result of her mistakes. Accidental magic. A helluva witch, to be able to chalk up the bending of reality itself to mere misfortune. On purpose, she’s performed feats that anyone else might call impossible: re-ensoulment, enjoining, resurrection…

How much more can she take before the world breaks for good? he wonders.

Zeppo only adds to the worry. “She’s not herself,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face. “She’s after Warren.”

Spike’s no idiot. Body upstairs when he got here means Red couldn’t revive her. If Red’s back on magic—back doing stuff as powerful as patching up bullet holes in a Slayer’s shoulder after weeks without so much as floating a pencil—then what the bloody buggerin’ fuck is gonna happen next?

You’re tense beside him, probably thinking the same thing as he is. “Think she’s turned to black arts again?” you ask.

“Most likely.” Buffy all but stares you down. “I’ve never seen her like this. Not even… not even then.”

That sits out in the open for a bit. Spike lets himself consider it. He was there, wasn’t he? A favour for the Slayer when she stopped by, asked if you or he’d seen Niblet or the witch. He figured helping out with the search might force her to speak to you proper. Didn’t. Not when faced with what Red had done. The car. The demon. Her, eyes black, off her face high. Sobbing on the ground. Thought that was the lowest she could get.

“We—we’re going after her,” Buffy continues. “We have to…”

“You have to stop her.” You meet her eyes straight on. “Should we come with?”

“No!” Big sis shakes her head vehemently, hand reaching instinctively toward you. He knows where this is going. Steps back a little. Buffy flashes a look at him, acknowledgement, and takes the space he’s offered. “Take Dawn with you. Keep yourselves safe. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

That last bit, she directs at him. Message’s clear. ‘Protect them.’

He doesn’t need a request to shield you or Bit from anythin’, but he’ll accept the peace offering. Dips his head. ‘I will.’

“Okay,” you whisper.

It draws her attention back to you. She focuses in on your face, demeanour melting as her palm brushes your cheek. When you lean in, her eyes brim, her aura of strength diminishing. She’s not the Slayer right now. Just a girl. She draws you into a hug, chin settling in the crook of your neck, her frame slumping. You don’t recoil, don’t falter―you rest your head on her shoulder, hands linking around her middle. Muscle memory.

“I almost died again,” she murmurs against your temple. “And I just… God. I’m so tired of being this person.”

“I know.” Your voice is muffled. “We’ll deal with all that later.”

Time seems to halt for as long as you share the embrace, an endless instant. Spike doesn’t know how long passes―only sees the laxness in the curve of her mouth as it grazes your forehead, the scrunch of her brows like she’s savouring this final manifestation of love between siblings. Wonders if she’s expecting this fight to be her last, again. Then she’s gone, bolting up the stairs. Spike hears Little Bit’s sobs start up again, Buffy’s voice shushing her, trying to soothe.

The boy shifts forward then, arms half-raised like he’s unsure if he’s welcome. If it were up to Spike, he’d toss him out on his arse. But you’re too good for grudges. You don’t stop him, let him fold around you like he has the right to seek comfort after all he’s done. No surprise, no forgiveness. Just tired, the sort that’s bone-deep. Spike can see it in the way you slip your head under the boy’s chin like a kid clinging for warmth―that you need this, too. When Xander pulls away, he nods in Spike’s direction and trudges up the stairs after Buffy. Solidarity, or perhaps recognition. Could never be gratitude. Not from the likes of him.

And then it’s just the two of you again.

As activity ignites above―drawers opening and closing, plans being made, digits being plugged into someone’s mobile device―you turn back to Spike. Something in your expression is breaking open, giving way.

“Is this the price?” you ask, plaintive. Reminds him of little sis, the way she hangs on his words as though he’s some sort of prophet. “For loving you? Everyone else suffers?”

Sounds like something he’d think, and that’s what stings the most: watching as your light’s snuffed out time and time again by the cruel hands of fate. Like looking at you and seeing his own face―young, human, still worth something―staring back at him. His fingers itch to break something, but not you. Never you.

“Nah, baby.” He gathers you up, tucks you close. Imagines that if he’s solid enough, broad enough, he might block out the rest of it. “It’s not the price for loving me. S’only the price of livin’. Gets heavy, even hurts… but it’ll pass. Always does.”

You don’t respond. Just settle into him, pressing your face to his chest and letting your breath even out against him, accepting what little he has to give.

He should’ve bloody well known better.

Spike took you both back to the flat―two traumatised girls, barely speakin’, blank-eyed and morose. Made him uneasy. Not used to grief. Spent more years than not kickin’ about with Dru, and sure, Angelus getting a soul shoved in him and subsequently abandoning his family was a knee to the bollocks. That was more rage, though, the hurt dressed as a pressing need for vengeance against the ones who cursed him. Spike’s grandsire. He hunted down the lot of ’em, down to the last child, but didn’t change nothin’. And yeah, deep down, it still stings. The rejection. Being chucked away by the one who made him who he is. But that? Not the same as this. because at least Angelus wasn’t really gone. Not like Glinda.

He was the one fixin’ the bedding this time, settin’ Bit up on the sofa, pattin’ her goodnight on the head. He was about to turn off the light when the phone rang; not the one in the bedroom, but the cordless landline in the kitchen. Shrills loud since you dropped it in the sink the other week, stuck itself on speaker mode and won’t work otherwise. Snatching the receiver off the cradle, he barked, “What?” before it had barely rung thrice.

“Spike?”

The Slayer. Figured.

“Yeah.” Tried not to sound pissed off. Niblet had just closed her eyes, but the noise got her all wound up again, sitting up like she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning.

“You know that warlock―Rack—the one who got Willow hooked.” Buffy’s voice was tight and breathless, as though she’d been sprinting for miles before finding a payphone. “How do I find him?”

Shite. Dawn’s heartbeat picked up behind him, rabbit-quick. He was tempted to disappear down the hall, take the conversation away from prying ears, but there’d been no point. Could’ve heard it from two floors down, probably. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why―lookin’ to score?”

“Not funny,” Buffy snapped. “It’s important. Willow broke into the Magic Box. She’s―”

“Lemme guess.” He hummed, unimpressed. “Nicked all the bad mojo?”

“Absorbed it,” she corrected grimly. “All of it. Anya said the books disintegrated in her hands.”

You appeared at the bedroom door, face stricken as you ventured up the hall with light footsteps. Thought you were asleep. Must’ve been wrong.

“After,” Buffy continued, “Willow, she―she found Warren. We were too late. She…”

Spike finished the sentence for her. “Killed him.”

“Worse.” She didn’t elaborate. He was glad for it, what with present company listenin’ in. “We… we think she’s gone to Rack. He gave Warren some… some protection thing-y. Made her really mad. She has to be―stopped.”

Before he could respond, Little Bit sidled up beside him, blanket and jammies ’n all.

“Rack’s place is cloaked,” she said quietly. When he arched his brow at her, interrogative, she added, “Willow took me there. That time. There’s some kinda spell―she said only demons and people with magic could find it.”

He nodded, eyeing you as you moved toward her, took hold of her arm. She leaned into you, awkward with the height difference. Little sis towered over you.

“Try Clem, Slayer,” Spike said. “He’ll know. Won’t get you inside, but he’ll take you to the door. Tell him I sent you.”

“Okay.” Distorted whispers undercut Buffy’s voice, delaying her next words. “Spike… Thank you.”

The line clicked dead.

No worries, then. Didn’t get a chance to say it aloud. He replaced the receiver with a thunk, the only sound other than the typical sputtering pipes and humming heater being the low purr emitted by Gus on the pillow in the corner.

“You okay, Dawnie?” you asked, drawing the girl back to the makeshift bed. “Need anything?”

She was a little too quick with the reassurance, now he thinks about it. Insisted she was fine, that she just wanted to sleep. Dream the horror of the day away. He could blame you and the way you took it at face value, patting her back and fixin’ the covers over her when she asked to be alone. But really, he should’ve known better―shouldn’t have allowed you to drag him to the bedroom, coax him into lying down next to you, dressed ’n all. Shouldn’t have shut his eyes and let the thud-thud of your pulse lull him into oblivion. Should’ve known it was suspicious.

That’s probably why he’s not surprised right now. Furious? Sure. But waking up a couple hours into nightfall to utter quiet―not soundless, but instead, the kind of quiet that just doesn’t happen when you’ve got an extra human in the joint―he only feels the curdling of disappointment in his gut. Disappointment in himself. Feels blisteringly hot, or maybe that’s the urge to rip her foolhardy head off.

Still, “Niblet?” he calls. No answer.

You stir beside him, but he’s already up and at ’em, prowling about the place, tryin’ to uncover some sort of clue that’ll tell him where she went. As he moves about, you’re rolling off the bed, cracking the sleep from your limbs and shuffling after him gracelessly. You get with the program quick, confusion turning to panic as your cries of her name grow to a fever pitch. He barely registers it, too busy cataloguing the obvious: Little Bit’s ransacked backpack. Missing keys. Shoes gone.

Spike has to move the bloody cat off the kitchen counter before he finds the folded note, the familiar chicken scrawl American schools teach kids in this century:

Gone to find Willow. I have to try. Don’t be mad.

– Dawn

He crumples the note in his fist, yellow bleeding into his eyes as he lets out a snarl, turning abruptly. Gus skitters off, tail swishing angrily. “Bloody stupid, stubborn, heroic little snipe.”

You blink at him, ashen. “What? Where is she? Has Willow taken her?”

He tosses the note in your direction; you fumble as you catch it, unfurling the paper and reading its contents. What little blood’s left in your face drains and you look back up at him.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, tiny breaths coming fast. The note falls from your fingers. “Oh my god. We―we have to go, we have to find her, before―”

“No,” he snaps, cutting you off before you can reach your coat. “I’ll find her. You’re stayin’ here.”

Shoving at him’s no good. Too strong, especially compared to your human frailty. He remains unmoved, captures your wrists and brings them to his chest, holds ’em firm. After a bit of struggle, you slump, defeated.

“Glinda’s dead. Red’s gone ’round the twist. Bit’s disappeared.” Can’t help easing his grip, reaching for you good ’n proper. His hands trace a line down your back, settle at the dip in your spine. He tries not to let the desperation colour his tone. “Won’t lose you,” he murmurs. I’ll dust meself, he doesn’t say. Rather die than see you dead.

The hard line of your mouth softens, muscles relaxing in his grasp.

“Spike. Honey.” Pet name always gets him. He shudders, melts like wax against the heat of your fingers sweeping up the ridge of his cheekbone. “I understand, I swear I do. But”—your eyes become flinty—“you can either know exactly where I am, or you can spend the rest of the night wondering.”

For a second, he thinks about grabbin’ the handcuffs from the bedside drawer and shackling you to the bars on the window beside the sofa. Then he thinks about what you’d do to him when he came back and released you. If he came back. Nah. A losing game, there. He growls, torn between his fury and a grim sort of admiration, though the display of his temper doesn’t scare you. You give him no reaction. Not in that pitying way the others look him up and down when he bursts out in anger, but simply undaunted blankness—the kind of daring that comes from a lifetime of pushing past fear just to be seen and heard for who you are.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But you bloody well stay behind me. Got it?”

You nod, taking advantage and darting up on tiptoes to press your lips to his jaw, relief flickering across your face. You’re already pulling on your boots by the time he grabs his duster from the peg, though you let him help you button your coat over your nightwear.

“Come on then, kitten,” he says, listening to your heart thudding like a war drum. “Let’s go save the Bit’s stubborn hide.”

It’s not hard to find the place. Spike starts by stickin’ to what he remembers from talk around town, lets his nose do the rest. Should be near impossible to get to, but the air tastes wrong tonight. There’s a buzz to it, makes his gums ache like his fangs’ve torn through in the midst of a vicious kill. Magic. Thick, crackling, ripe with rot—and it’s everywhere. It coats the back of his throat.

You walk beside him, hands fisted in your pockets, the set of your shoulders stubborn. Determined. Part of him hates it. The grit in you. Not ’cause it’s ugly—never that—but ’cause it means you’re about to do something far too dangerous, all in the name of love. And he gets that; oh, he gets that. But he wishes you didn’t understand him so well that you’d pull the same suicidal stunts.

“You sure about this?” he asks you anyway, the third time since you left the car parked two blocks down the road.

You don’t answer―just shoot him a look. He can tell what it means: that you’ll be going with or without him, and that he should shut up about it already.

“Yeah, alright.” He kicks at a bit of loose gravel as you round the corner. “But if she’s found Red―if the witch is there―you run. No cleverness, no speeches. Just run.”

“I’m not leaving you,” is your response, matter-of-fact ’n subject closed. He doesn’t argue. What’s the point? Not gonna win.

Halfway down the alley, he pauses. The heat’s gone, the usual whisper brushing across the back of the neck whenever he gets near particularly dark mojo. When his eyes adjust, he can see it―the door, nestled in among the dinky back entries of shops long since closed. Blacked-out windows, sigils sprayed in grime on the glass. S’not a place he’s supposed to be able to observe with his own eyes… which means the wards are broken. And a nasty like Rack ain’t the type to bring ’em down willingly.

There’s a subtle shudder in the ground as he nears―shadow-magicks, rippling through the threshold. He grabs your wrist, yanks you close. “You hear that?”

You dip your chin once in acknowledgement, head tilted. Listening. A muffled voice, familiar, but the tone is cruel, sneering. With some focus, his enhanced senses pick up the thread of conversation.

“… the one where you lie to your friends when you’re not trying to kill them? And you wreck everyone else’s happiness just so you don't have to be so miserable alone? And insane asylums are the comfy alternative? This world? Buffy, it’s me.”

The witch. The Slayer.

Red’s still going. “I know you were better off when you were in the ground. Ah-ah, Dawnie―”

Niblet.

He doesn’t wait. One solid kick and the door splinters. His body moves on instinct, dragging you in by the arm, shielding you as the power inside the room slams into him like a train. Red’s warping space, bending reality in on itself, folding sharp corners where there shouldn’t be any. Light refracts sideways. Gravity pulses. Every cell in his body screams.

Red turns her head.

Christ. Any other time, he’d find the new look delicious: black-eyed, skin ash against tar-dark veins creeping up her neck, across her face. Hair dyed to pitch by sheer force of will. The magic she’s swiped coils around her, fogging up the air like mist in sub-zero temperatures. Unnatural. Profane. Exactly his type, once upon a time. But it’s only a mirage, a crutch she’s using to hide from her pain.

“Great,” she says, sighing. “More of you. Can’t you all just mind your own business?”

Spike doesn’t answer. Dawn’s beside her, wrist held loosely in her grip, frozen. Girl’s face is white, tears glimmering in her lashes but not falling. She’s not struggling―just staring at him, you, Buffy, something like grief in her expression.

“Bit,” he calls, free hand reaching out. “Come on. C’mere, luv. We’ll take you home.”

He hoped there’d be enough of Willow left in the witch to let her go. Instead, Red laughs, bubbling up oily and sweet and mocking. Not a sound that belongs in a human mouth.

“What’s wrong, Spikey?” she asks, pouting exaggeratedly. “Scared of a little magic?”

He wonders what she’s pulling ’til he sees the world around him begin to shift, to blur into abstract colours. Room’s vibrating hard enough to make his eyeballs itch. He’s the only one who can feel it: neither you nor your sisters are showin’ any discomfort beyond the emotional.

“I keep forgetting,” she continues airily, picking up on his uneasiness. Can’t tell if she’s just good at reading people or if she’s picked up telepathy. “Trip’s kinda rough, huh?”

Something locks into place―everything sharpens, settling into a new configuration. A new location. Familiar smells: candle wax, dust, the faint trace of incense. His ears ring as his vision levels out, taking stock of his surroundings. The Magic Box.

Red steps forward, grinning. “Well. If you’re not me, that is.”

The effects of her spell finally hit―you fall, knees buckling, and Spike barely catches you as your legs go out. Across the room, Little Bit’s collapsed, the Slayer rushing to with a cry of her name. The witch ignores it all, turning to eye the shop’s other occupants: Zeppo frozen behind the counter, the two rawboned geeks at the table, sweaty and wide-eyed. She smiles.

“Jonathan. Andrew. You boys like magic, don’t you?” Her words seem to conjure violet energy so ferocious it whips her hair into a froth, lightning crackling. She lifts her hands. “Abracadabra.”

Spike braces himself for the release, crouching over you to shelter you from the worst of it. The magic explodes forward, hurtling toward the boys―but it never reaches them. Something’s blocking it, a flickering dome flaring around them.

Red stops, darkly amused. Might be worse than frustration; means she’s still playin’. “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

The pair seem just as confused as she, cowering in their seats.

“Aw. You guys wanna take it slow? I can do that.” The witch’s mouth is still curved up, still light. A cat playing with its prey before going for the kill. “Ask Warren. Oh. Wait.”

Beneath the roaring of her renewed attack, Spike hears a soft stream of chanting. Sumerian, he thinks, though it’s heavily accented. American. Demon girl, hidden somewhere in the room. “Gurumē ninginme, nugul-gula, gurumē ninginme, še-me dul-dul-e. Gurumē ninginme, nugul-gula, gurumē ninginme, še-me dul-dul-e…”

Somethin’ about shields, protection from black arts. Smart bird, he thinks, but says nothing. Doesn’t want to give her away. Meanwhile, the geeks are scrambling up out of their chairs, shoving at each other.

“Let’s get out of here,” one of ’em exclaims. Can’t tell which.

They run toward the open back door, which slams shut on them.

“Come on,” Red says, strolling toward them all casual. “Stay a while. We’re just getting started.”

While she’s distracted, Spike takes his opportunity. “Let’s go, kitten,” he mutters, nudging you along. “Gotta move.”

You stumble to your feet, barely keeping up with the speed at which he pushes you to the counter, to where Xander’s hiding. Slayer’s takin’ his lead with Dawn, and you grab little sis’s hand as the pair of you converge on each other, huddle down where you can’t be seen. Buffy turns to him, locking eyes. ��We’re fighting,’ her look says, and he lets himself nod in response. Understanding. An accord. They move into the danger zone, a buttress against the witch―who’s still yappin’, high off her own power.

“Doesn’t matter, really. I’m just curious.” Shrugging, she points to Jonathan and Andrew. “But just ’cause I can’t do magicks on you, doesn’t mean I can’t do them on myself.” She bends her head, muttering, “Da mihi vim.” Latin. Give me strength.

Spike tastes it before he sees it. The magic rolls like a storm front, thick and dirty, acrid as burnt ozone. He feels it rattling like dying breath as a pillar of swirling light surrounds her, sending him and Buffy to the ground. Gettin’ real sick of this li’l trip, he is. From the floor, he watches as the spell dissipates, as Red looks at her own hands and grins.

“Alright. Now, I’m pretty sure I’m strong enough”―she nearly glides as she heads straight for the geeks, grabbing hold of the table they’re using as a barrier and sending it flying across the room―“to beat you to death.”

The Slayer darts into the witch’s space, blocking her path before she has the chance to act.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” she says.

Red responds not with words, but with a punch so hard it sends Buffy crashing through the candle rack. “Not a problem.”

Right, then.

He’s already moving, letting the skin of the demon ripple over his body. Knows this is gonna hurt―if not from the chip, then from the brawn she’s imbued herself with. She smirks, gaze trailin’ up and down like she’s assessed him and found him lacking. He recognises that look. Doesn’t matter who it’s aimed at. Just a blind need to destroy.

“You up next?” she asks, flexing her fists teasingly.

But he’s not payin’ mind to her. Should be, but can’t―because he sees it. You. Moving out from behind the counter, twitch in your arms and catch in your breath. Knows what you’re about to do. His stomach drops. He lurches in your direction, but it’s too late. You bolt from where he hid you, all reckless and stupid with your palms raised in surrender.

“Willow!”

Fuck.

“Willow,” you repeat, soft and pleading, sticking your fingers straight into the flame. Behind you, Xapper’s taken control, herding Little Bit and the other two toward the edge of the room. “Please,” you say. “You don’t have to do this.”

For a second, he thinks he sees a glimpse of her. The girl. Computers, books, fuzzy sweaters. Timid, human, too much heart and not enough boundaries. Only a second—then she vanishes, replaced once more by something vicious, meaner. Her sneer brims with lashed fury.

“You know what I hate about you, kitten?” she says, head tilting as she examines you. “You think you have all the answers. That you can fix everything with a few high-and-mighty words.” Her eyes glint obsidian. “But you didn’t fix Ta―fix her. So much for that superiority complex, huh?”

You stand stock still, lower lip wobbling once. Then nothing. “I know… Willow. I know you’re hurting. But this isn’t—”

“Oh, please.” Her voice drops, thick with venom. “You don’t get to pull the sweet little sister routine on me. Not when you’ve got him”—she jerks her chin toward Spike—“on your leash.”

His gaze meets yours, sees your terror before some kind of resolve pushes the weakness out. He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

A warning, a plea―but it doesn’t stop you. Your steps are cautious as you pick your way through the debris, stare sliding back to the witch. He feels the heat of you next to him. There’s defeat written in the tense jut of your shoulder-blades, the anticipation of certain doom. You meet Willow’s gaze head-on, even as everything in Spike tells him to get you out.

“This needs to stop.” You sweep your hand through the air, motioning to all the chaos surrounding you. “Do you think Tara would’ve wanted this? That she’d be happy about any of—”

“Shut up!” Any trace of laughter is gone at the utterance of that name. A curse. Red stalks forward, veins seeming to darken and spread their terrible poison, intent on exacting justice for invoking her lover’s ghost.

Spike’s in motion before he even thinks. Doesn’t matter if it fries him, doesn’t matter if she tears him limb from limb, if it means you live. He’d take it a thousand times over. He’d crawl across glass, dive into sunlight, rip himself apart to keep you breathing. And you’re in her sights, in mortal peril, and he has to move―

His instincts clamour, putting him between you and her in half a second. Shoving you back, he bares his teeth, reflex driving him onward. Not elegant, not smart, but it’s all he’s got. All that matters is shielding you, stopping Red’s wrath from touching your skin. Almost feels the pain before it hits, just waiting for one wrong move to sink its teeth in him. But he’ll do it anyway, because it’s you.

He doesn’t even feel his fist connect—only the detonation behind his eyes. Through a wall of static, he hears you scream his name.

White-hot fire cascades through his head, sizzling down his spine like the aftershocks of an explosion. Roaring, he drops, clutching his head. Something liquid drips from his nose. But it’s almost secondary to the fear―because if this chip kills him now, who’s left to protect you?

You collapse beside him, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders like you could physically hold him here, anchor him to this world by touch alone. “Spike. Spike!”

It was always going to end like this, wasn’t it? All the strength in the world, and he still can’t do the one thing that matters. Still too weak to protect you.

Red straightens slowly, rubbing her cheek and looking down at him with unholy delight.

“Oh, Spikey,” she purrs. He barely hears it. Can tell she’s gettin’ closer, though. “Still trying to play Big Bad?”

Like a wounded, snarling animal, he hisses, tries to rise. But his body won’t obey.

“You’re so pathetic,” she adds. “You think this―this―is love? You and her?”

‘Know it is,’ he’d say, if he could remember how to make words. But there’s nothing. Nothing exists outside the agony.

“You do realise she’s going to die, right? Maybe not today, but someday. You’ll outlast her. You’ll lose her. Maybe that’s what you’re really in love with: that pain. Figures.”

Your fingers clench down on the neckline of his shirt, involuntary. He can’t tell if the stab of nausea’s from her li’l speech or from the repeated zapping in his skull. Either way, he thinks he might bring up the blood he forced down earlier. Still, his body tries to rise. Through cloudy eyes, he sees the witch’s arm raise, point straight at him.

“Here,” she says, lips peeling back like flesh from bone. “Since you love pain so much―let me help you feel really loved.”

Her fist snaps closed.

For a breath, Spike’s numb―then it hits, so sharp that his senses flatline. Not a bomb, this time: an entire universe, collapsing in on itself as the sun eats each planet whole. Someone’s poured acid into his brain stem, crushed his skull to pulp. He’s been tossed in acid-soaked barbed wire, the corrosive wet of it pouring down his chin and out his ears. Can taste it, the metal. Barely hears his own scream, guttural, shorting out in staccato beats. He convulses, seizes, everything he knows blinking in and out in flashes. White, red, black.

Chip’s never felt like this before. Not just pain. It’s punishment.

There’s shouting―yours, maybe his, maybe both―but it’s underwater. Endless infinity rolls itself into seconds, millennia passing in instants. Can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t―can’t tell if he’s on fire or if he’s been got for good. But he knows where you are. Feels you. Smells you. The weight of you flung over him, touch on his face like a whisper through smoke. He promised. He―

“Stop! Willow, please, stop!”

Your voice streams through like water to a man dying of thirst. You’re crying. Because of him. Because he was too slow. Too old. He wants to reach for you, tell you he’s okay―but even his thoughts are unsteady, falling like teeth from a shattered jaw. His eyes roll as the next spasm takes hold. Through it, the blur of your face, pink ’n tear-stricken, streaks of pale crossing up over him as he’s grabbed at. Dragged along the ground, voices fading, fading.

Can’t die, he thinks muzzily. Not yet. Not while the witch could still…

He swore he’d protect you, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. But now your hands are slick on his chest and he’s going under, failing again. Would rather die than see you dead… and now it’s you watching him slip away.

Spike tries to speak, to say your name, to tell you he loves you one last time, but his mouth won’t work. And then—

It’s all gone.

He wakes to the taste of copper. Not blood, not quite. It’s watered down, dragged through a rusted pipe and sour on his tongue. His head feels like it’s been split open, stitched up with silver thread and set on fire for the fun of it. He groans.

Am I dust? he wonders. If he’s gone to ashes, then this has gotta be hell. No other place for a demon like him. But where’s the eternal suffering? The rack, the flogger, the echoes of screams in the distance? Little anticlimactic, all things considered. Blinking up at the ceiling, he’s struck by how familiar it looks. Been here before. Can’t remember, though. Can’t…

Movement beside him. Rustling fabric. The sound of slow, deep breaths. An arm draped across his ribs, heart thudding to the beat of sleep nearby. Your scent. You, curled into him, mouth parted. Alive.

Thank Christ.

Relief shudders through battered muscles, throbbing but responsive. Good. He forces his neck to arch so that his eyes can settle on you, tucked against his side on the bed, hair messy and clothes mussed. Safe. Can smell blood, but it’s not yours. Overlapping that scent is the familiar vanilla-smoke of the flat, the prickle of cat hair in his nostrils, the sting of the disinfectant you use to scrub the bathroom. Home.

Spike tries to ground himself in his own body, lets himself feel all the li’l aches and twinges that come with wakin’ up after a cosmic thrashing. Forgot what it felt like to be in control. The witch can’t have had him under for long—but pain has a way of transcending time. Could’ve been a moment, could’ve been an age. His gaze wanders, taking in the dim light from the lamp in the corner, Gus at the foot of the bed. Across the room, in the threadbare armchair by the blacked-out window—

Giles.

“Watcher,” Spike rasps, all cracked like gravel run over by a compact roller.

Man doesn’t startle; just looks at him, newspaper lowering to his lap. His face is busted up, expression unreadable. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah. What gave it away? The moaning, or all the moving around?” When the old boy doesn’t rise to the bait—instead, keeps on staring like he’s found an interestin’ specimen locked up in a zoo—Spike grunts. Didn’t come for another round of beat the vamp, then. He changes tack. “When did you show up?”

Giles’s nostrils flare. “From what I can determine, not long after you were… rendered unconscious.”

“Right.” Rendered unconscious. Nice way to put his whole being-almost-dead. “An’ Red?”

“Dealt with.” At Spike’s eyebrow raise, he clarifies. “She—briefly—attempted to bring about another apocalypse. Suffice to say, she did not succeed.”

Huh. Must’ve been a hell of a plan to talk her down from that ledge. When Spike asks, though, the bastard smiles. It’s not a happy thing.

“Xander,” he says softly, eyes misting over. “Xander got through to her, in the end.”

Spike rolls his eyes. Hell, even that hurts. “Really. Zeppo?”

“He is not so useless as you believe,” is Giles’s response. His tone’s a shade cooler this time. Figures.

“S’pose he was bound to get it right eventually,” Spike offers, reluctant.

Giles makes a vague noise of agreement.

There’s a lull after that. Spike’s not blind—throughout the conversation, he noticed the man’s stare linger a bit too pronounced on you, on the way you’ve wrapped yourself around him so obviously in your slumber. He’s clearly gearin’ up to speak his mind, seeing as he’s the only one who hasn’t weighed in on you and Spike yet. At least, not in person; he’s surely pestered you over the phone at some point, but you’ve never mentioned anything of the sort.

Spike takes the chance to observe you a little closer. You’ve shuffled around a bit what with all the noise he’s been makin’, but that’s about as far as you’ve got to being awake. He can see your face now: dark circles beneath your eyes, pallid skin, lips dry and cracked. There’s the faint tang of dried sweat, the musk of unwashed hair. Not unpleasant in itself, but for what it means—that you’ve been running yourself ragged.

“She’s scarcely moved from your side for days, now.”

He glances up to see Giles leaning forward in his seat, hands clasped. Pensive.

“There were moments when it seemed… likely that you would not survive,” he adds. “But she refused to accept it.”

Spike feels his mouth lift at the corners, throat tightening. “Stubborn girl.”

Giles nods. “Quite. She’s been feeding you. Human. She persuaded Buffy to procure it from Willy’s.”

That explains the smell, then. And the crinkling whenever he moves: blood bags strewn across the mattress, drained to emptiness, a matching crust smearing his chin.

“Didn’t think the Slayer gave a toss,” Spike murmurs.

“Oh, she doesn’t.” Giles chuckles, a short, grim sound. “But she would do anything for those she loves. It seems that is a Summers trait.”

Gotta be. Spike doesn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest—not a physical one, but the pangs of old wounds scabbing over. Strange, for someone to care enough about him to… to push their limits, to risk their peace, to do whatever it takes to keep him around. Always some ulterior motive, like the Slayer settin’ him up for your sake. But you? S’not explainable. Not in the language he understands: violence, trickery, egotism. It upends belief, to have stumbled his way into love. Real love. Wild, passionate, dangerous, yeah. Bein’ all broke in this bed’s proof enough of that. But it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t break away bits of himself ’til there’s nothing left. Instead, it makes him whole.

“Yeah,” Spike says finally, a little choked up.

Giles sighs. “I admit I… this. It’s not what I expected.”

“No?”

“I thought it was the same as everything you’ve done previously. Manipulation. Obsession. Perhaps a ploy for leverage.”

Spike expected the jab, but it’s still a sore spot. He can’t help himself. “That’s the problem with you lot, yeah? Always expect the worst of me. Really any wonder that I feel the way I do—when she’s only ever seen the best in me?”

Rather than incense the man, it seems to make him thoughtful. A moment passes, and then he murmurs, “Indeed. You nearly died for her.”

“’Course.” Spike’s jaw clenches. “Not lettin’ anything hurt her.”

“You attacked Willow,” Giles says carefully. “A human. With your chip still active. You had to know what that meant.”

“I knew,” Spike says. “Didn’t care.”

There’s another beat of silence. Giles looks older, worn down. Less righteous, somehow.

“She loves you,” he says at last.

Spike’s eyes flicker down to you, the flash of an unwelcome voice resounding: “she’s going to—” He swallows. “I know,” he says.

“And you—”

“I’d burn the world down for her.” Simple. Not even a second’s thought. The Watcher’s clearly surprised by it. “Haven’t you figured that out?”

Giles’s lips part, then press shut again. Like he wants to argue, but the words have abandoned him.

“Demons cannot love without a soul,” he says. It’s not cruel—it’s fact. Stated like someone raised on a single version of the story.

Spike barks a laugh, dry and humourless. “Yeah? And you’d know that how? Just ’cause you spent a couple hours as a Fyarl demon a while back don’t mean you’ve got a clue what I feel.”

Giles doesn’t answer.

“You don’t get it,” Spike says. His voice lowers, something fervent bleeding into it. “It’s not some game. Not about possession, or revenge, or any other shite you lot try to lay at my feet. It’s…”

It’s quiet days in. Laughter. Watchin’ Passions ’cause he likes it, even if you don’t. Listenin’ to him ramble on about knocking off those Slayers, or the biggest beasties he’s slaughtered. Cleaning his duster, bleaching his hair for him, and getting his brew right. Beggin’ him to write you poetry, melting adoration when he reads his measly scrawls aloud between kisses, spreadin’ your thighs for him in the moonlight.

It’s you, lookin’ at him like he’s hung every star in the night sky just for you.

It’s… it’s bubbles.

That’s not what he says, though. Some things are meant only for you and him. Sacred. “It’s wanting, all the time: her smile, her happiness. It’s waking up thinkin’ of her. Feelin’ like… Like I don’t exist without her. Love, true as it gets. I’d tear out my fangs if she asked me to.”

Giles studies him. Reminds him a bit of how his grandsire would look him over, intense and unreadable. Usually ended in a sneer and a beating. At least this old man treats him with a scrap of respect. There’s nothing judgemental in the Watcher’s stare. It’s the look of someone who’s built his life on doctrine that doesn’t hold up. It’s as if he’s trying to reconcile something he’s never seen before. And honestly? It probably is.

“I watched Tara love Willow that way once,” he says finally. “Not with your flair for theatrics, of course. But with her whole heart. And Willow lost herself in that.” A pause. “You’ll forgive me if I fear that sort of love is something no one survives.”

Almost an acknowledgement, innit? A sign that one of the more hostile of your mates might come around. But even as that possibility makes itself known, so too does the flash that threatened before. The memory.

“You do realise she’s going to die, right? Maybe not today, but someday. You’ll outlast her. You’ll lose her.”

He’s thought it before. But the witch’s words brought it all back into the light, a raw nerve with a cattle prod plunged straight into it. All the more powerful in its cruelty.

Words stick in his throat. What can he say? No nobility in him, let’s be real. He knows he’s too selfish, too soulless to attempt to swear off you if it means you’ll be safe. There’s a hundred other routes he’d take before givin’ you up, a thousand deals with the worst scum on the planet he’d rather make than to watch you walk away from him. He won’t promise it—not even as a lie.

Giles takes pity on him, then. Sees the truth he won’t hide.

“She deserves joy,” he says. “Not tragedy. Not… all this.”

“Then I’ll make damn sure she gets it.”

The Watcher nods. “See that you do. Because if you ever hurt her—”

“You won’t get the chance.” Spike doesn’t shy from strength of Giles’s stare. “Trust that.”

The man exhales. A fragile accord settles in the room. After a moment of stillness—then two, three—he rises, joints popping. “I’ll give you both privacy.”

As he limps toward the door, Spike calls after him. “Watcher.”

Giles pauses.

“Thanks. For not stoppin’ her from loving me.”

Giles glances back, hint of a challenge in his eyes. Not threatening, though—more sardonic. Playful, even, if that were the sort of thing he shared with Spike.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t try,” he says. “But I’m not blind.”

He exits, door clicking shut. Gus starts purring as soon as it’s you three left.

Spike lets his eyes fall on you once more. Brushes a strand of hair from your cheek with shaking fingers, weak and clumsy from the way Red took him apart. That hollow buried in his ribcage swells again, the kind he’s only ever known with you. Because of you. He’s never had anyone watch over him like you’re doing. Not Dru. Not Angelus. Not even his mum, too sickly to risk her own fragile health to care for her only son. Nobody’s ever sat vigil like this. Nobody’s ever cared enough to choose him like this. And that’s love, isn’t it? Not burning or consuming. It’s choice.

You can’t hear him when you’re this deeply asleep—but that doesn’t stop him from whispering, “Still here, sweetheart. Still yours.”

The next few days pass in a blur of rest, routine and restless dread.

You barely leave him be, not that Spike’ll let you go far. He’s treated to your single-minded—almost manic—focus: your insistence on feeding him, changing the sheets after the Slayer and Zeppo lug him off to the bathroom, helpin’ him peel off his casuals as he lay prone in the tub and scarcely able to move. There’s a begrudging silence that follows whenever the rest shuffle off to obey one of your orders, not resentment but something else. Muted, lacking vitriol. And he… he’s useless. Can barely lift his own arms. It reminds him a bit of the days when the chip was brand new, him half-starved to dust and out of his mind—only this time, he’s not surrounded by idiots eager to kick him while he’s down.

It's just you.

You, wiping his chin when blood spills after his lips slacken around the straw. Filling the bath with all that scented stuff you like—an’ that he likes but’ll never admit aloud—and getting in with him, less like a nurse sponging down an invalid and more like it was before. Calming. Vanilla foam and warmth. Doing your best to imbue sensuality into the way your lathered palms slide along his skin, as if it’s heavy pettin’ and not service. You, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead as the aftershocks of Red’s spell burn him up, muttering soft apologies each time he flinches.

S'not all sweetness. He can’t escape the pain he’s in, though he never says a word about it. Doesn’t tell you when the little metal wafer in his brain sparks behind his eyes, simply clenches his jaw and takes it. Feels wrong, now. Spike’s not sure if it felt like this before—like he could sense it digging in where it doesn’t belong, a splinter lodged someplace he can’t claw it out from. A ghost, branded on the inside of his skull. It flares when he dreams, sometimes. Especially when he dreams about the witch. Of you, screaming.

But, when he wakes, it’s always to the sound of your voice; to your hands on his chest, counting the seconds between tremors. To your breath, hitching when you think he’s still out.

You’re knackered, bone deep. He can see it, hear it in the rasp of each word as they tear their way from dried lungs. The tremble in your fingers when you bring him his blood, only half-heated because you didn’t leave the bag in hot water long enough before pouring. Skin’s too pale, eyes sunken, limbs too thin. You sleep next to him, but never well, jerking awake if he so much as shivers. Makes him want to yell at you, tell you to bugger off for a while in the hopes one of your sisters might get you to lie down and have a proper kip. For a half-hour, he intends to go through with it. But then you come in clutching the mug like it’s solid gold, steps slow and careful, face—tired, haggard, beautiful—beaming with pride.

“It’s perfect this time,” you tell him, sticking one of your curly straws in and swirling the contents once. “Pinch of burba weed, heated ten minutes, and a dash of water to make it go down easy.”

You look so proud of yourself. He can’t do it. Can’t crush the genuine joy glittering in your expression, even if it’s for your own good.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs instead, heaving onto his side so he doesn’t risk choking like he did a few feedings back. “Just how I like it.”

And when you grin in response, all teeth and radiance splitting through fatigue, he gives up on the idea entirely.

So he lets you fuss over him, and not only for your sake—but for his own. He might make gruff comments, roll his eyes and find it hard to muster up a smile, but he never pushes you away. He drinks what you bring. He takes the meds Buffy forced on him—strong enough to knock a human out, though it only gives him the tiniest relief—and allows you to micromanage every inch of his life while he’s recovering. You joke about it only once, saying, “Don’t get used to this, or I’ll have to start charging by the hour.”

You don’t laugh, and neither does he. It’s not funny. There’s too much love in the silence to pretend.

But the flat doesn’t stay quiet for long.

Once he looks marginally less like roadkill, Little Bit drops by. She bursts in like old times—clearly coached—with arms full of snacks and DVDs she swears aren’t nicked. Thank God. He’s not up for playing moral compass. Chattering loud enough to wake the dead, she gives him a once-over, says nothing about the ruptured vessels spiderwebbing his face. Nah―she kicks off her shoes, flops next to him, starts rifling through DVDs.

“Don’t worry,” she says, flashing him a crooked smile. “All G-rated. You’re all scrambled, and she’s sleep-deprived. No emotional damage allowed.”

Spike’s lips twitch. “No flayin’? No disembowelment? Thought that was our thing.”

She snorts, fluffs his pillow. “Not this week, Brain-Burger.”

Meanwhile, Rupes stops in only twice more before catching his flight back to England, back to keep an eye on Red. She’s doin’ some magic rehab plan with some coven near Devon, last Spike heard. Watcher’s vague on the details. Too soon to put words to everything that happened, maybe. He doesn’t say much after that initial conversation, simply making small-talk and dropping off books he thinks you’d like. But, on his way out, he sets a hand on Spike’s shoulder.

“Whatever this”—he waves aimlessly at the room, but there’s no mistaking what he means—“is… it’s changed you.”

Spike meets his gaze. “For better or worse, you reckon?”

Giles smiles, brittle and strange. “We’ll see.”

Somehow, that’s not the dodgiest shift from the lot of ’em. Xapper goes from wordlessly hoisting Spike from the mattress to guiltily shuffling into the bedroom, empty-handed.

“I, uh… don’t do the whole Florence Nightingale thing,” he says, awkwardly adjusting the chair near the foot of the bed.

You’re sprawled on your belly next to Spike, dosed up to your eyeballs with the melatonin Niblet swiped from the medicine cabinet back at hers. Crushed it up in your cocoa like a proper little partner in crime, wheedled you into drinking it all up before she left for the night. Clearly works: he’s shaken you gently a couple times, but there’s no rousing you. In her defence, he was the one who asked for help getting you to stay asleep.

The boy glances at you, relief clear to read in the laxness of his mouth. “But I figured,” he continues, “that I could do moral support. Or something.”

What self-respectin’ vamp lets that stand? Pity, ’n from an idiot human, no less. Spike opens his mouth—maybe to bring up the fact that Xapper ain’t exactly a paragon of comfort or conviviality—but that’ll only start a row. He’s more interested in seeing how far he can push this weird period of indulgence. Instead, he lets the pointed arch of his brow do the talking. Xander picks up on it, huffs.

“Still alive, huh?” he asks awkwardly after twiddlin’ his thumbs a bit.

“Yep. See you are, too,” Spike replies. “Heard what you did.”

It’s as close to a compliment as he’ll ever give the boy, and Xander knows it. He nods. “Yeah. It… it put some things into perspective. Made me realise”—he shakes his head—“well, that doesn’t matter. But I guess the world’s ending a lot these days. Might be… nice, having someone around who’s a little less breakable than me.”

Perfect opportunity to toss in a dig about Spike’s laid-up state. He doesn’t take it—just leans back, sprawls himself out and gets some shut-eye, leaving Spike to his own devices. Eventually, Spike feels tired enough to slip into unconsciousness with you. Each time he wakes, tormented by the fire ricocheting in his skull, the boy’s there. Silent. Watchful. There’s a sort of security to it, knowing he’s there.

When the faint glow of gold seeps through the very top of the curtains, Xander stands, knees poppin’. Sighs, stretches. Turns. As he leaves, he pauses at the door, looking back at Spike.

“I’m not saying I like you,” he says. “But she does. And it… maybe that’s okay.”

It’s the closest thing to a truce they’ve ever had.

But the biggest surprise is Buffy. She takes the longest to come ’round, though when she does, there’s none of the awkwardness of Zeppo or Rupes. Only that rigid saintliness she wears when she thinks she’s bein’ particularly self-sacrificing.

There’s no fanfare, no incitement. She hovers in the entry like a storm cloud trying not to make rain, watching him intently as you help him hobble slowly to the couch. Took him longer than usual to get on his own feet, though it’s far accelerated compared to a human. When he’s dropped onto the sofa with a grunt of effort, she hands over the customary brown paper bag from Willy’s, mumbles something about type O and sealing lids tight. Her arms cross, as though she doesn’t trust herself to relax around him. Even then, she lingers.

It’s after you leave to go rinse out one of Spike’s mugs that she makes her move. Stays behind. For a second, he thinks she’s going to say something sharp. Tension’s there, taut across her shoulders, jaw clenched. But instead, her eyes track over him—the fading redness, the hollows of his cheeks filling out from an abundance of blood. Wavers, like she’s not sure if she should voice what she’s thinkin’.

“Y’know,” she says at last, “I used to believe you were some sorta… roach that wouldn’t die.”

Spike snorts. “How touchin’.”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “Still kinda do. You’re annoying. Evil. And so, so gross.” A pause. “But…”

He tilts his head. “But?”

“But… it wasn’t just that.” She lowers her gaze, something small and vulnerable taking the place of the woman who’d faced off against gods and won. “You… being with her. It—I thought I could pretend. That I hated it ’cuz you’re a vamp, or because you’re you. If I’m honest, though? It’s— Truth is, I guess I never thought you’d stop being there.”

Spike stares. Not so long ago, this girl tried to stake him mid-rant. Now she’s confessing her worst fear in his living room.

“Not like that!” Buffy’s quick to say. “I didn’t, like… want-want you. I just—got used to you. How you looked at me. How I could be awful, and you’d still be around. Waiting for me. It’s stupid”—she huffs, shakes her head—“but sometimes I thought you were the only one who would. Stay.”

She shifts her weight, eyes flicking to the ground, then back up. “So… yeah. It stung. That it all stopped. That you moved on, didn’t look back. Like I was a—a placeholder while you searched for something better. Story of my life, huh? Everyone leaves.”

Spike swallows. “Wasn’t like that.”

Never really had an honest chat with her before. He’s assumed a bunch, generalised based on what he knows. Sure, this li’l confession ain’t out of left field. And yet, it strikes him as strange. Startlingly mortal. He forgets that, sometimes: that there’s a person beneath all that superpowered brawn and go-getter destiny.

“I know,” she says, surprising them both. “I know. She’s it, or whatever. Your person. And you… love her. Maybe it’s not the same as what people feel, but—I get it, now. That I was being unfair. Just ’cuz Angelu—” She chokes on that last bit, unable to force the rest of the word out. He doesn’t blame her. Grandsire screwed her up good an’ proper. “But, uh… yeah. It’s real, for you. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt a little.”

There’s a long silence after that—not hostile, but heavy. Bittersweet.

Then Buffy lifts her chin, a shadow fading from her face. “I won’t stand in the way anymore. Of you, and her. If—if she wants you, and you fight for her the way you did… then I guess I’ll support that. You and her, and the whole togetherness thing.”

Spike can barely process it. He blinks, taken aback. “Slayer—”

“Don’t confuse things, though,” she interrupts snappishly. No heat to it, though. “This isn’t some—some declaration of friendship. You’re still you. But you’re… alright. For now. Just don’t hurt her.”

Last bit sounds more like a plea than a statement. It makes the sanctimony of it all a bit less grating. That, or he’s tired. He was made for the fight, yeah, but there’s no victory where he winds up winning. If he keeps you despite Buffy’s vitriol, then it means you lose her, means you’ll never be happy. And if he can’t keep you… Then it’s simple, isn’t it? Means he’ll dust himself. End it. What’s the use in anythin’ if he’s not with you?

“Don’t hurt her,” she said.

“Never,” he replies, voice hoarse. And maybe he could tell her all the things he’d rather do than ever risk your happiness, your safety, your love—but he’s done explaining. Done defending.

Buffy seems to accept that without speaking. Nods. That’s it. There’s no teary apology, no promise to be someone she’s not, no demand for the same from him. Only truth laid bare, once and for all. A sort of poetry to it, to mending fences with someone who’s hurt him as much as he’s hurt her. It ain’t forgiveness—they’re both too proud and too jaded for that—but it could be a new beginning.

For a good while after that conversation, he sits there, pretends to doze off for a bit. He hopes it’ll force you to stop hovering so much, get a chance to catch up with big sis properly. Works, somewhat. When you come back, he hears you settle in the ratty armchair, the frame creaking under the slightest weight. There’s more shuffling, then a brief lull.

“You emailed them, then?” you ask Buffy suddenly, tone light. There’s an edge, though.

She lets out an exasperated noise. “Yes! I said I would, didn’t I?”

“And?”

“They’ll do it. They’re in—” She cuts herself off. Spike feels that tingle of awareness, the sense that eyes are watching him closely. S’possible she’s caught onto his act. “I’ll just… write down the address.”

“Good. Thanks, Buff.”

“Yeah. I only… I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Buffy leaves it at that, quickly changing the subject before he can begin to figure out the context. He feels the temptation to grill you—bein’ cooped up’s made him nosy, ’n you’ve got an unwitting penchant for getting into trouble—but that means coming clean about the faking, and you get proper shirty when he listens in on stuff that ain’t his to hear. Not worth it. All he can do is heal himself up and wait for whatever you’ve got planned to reveal itself. Besides, topic’s turned to plans for a morale-boostin’ shopping trip, and that’s easy enough to tune out. If only he hadn’t trapped himself in a situation of his own making.

With nothin’ else to do, he thinks about earlier. About the Slayer’s words, turning over and over in his mind. She didn’t want him—just liked being wanted. Yeah. He understands that a bit too bloody well, if he’s honest. Stings a little, that old hurt. Never good enough, never worth the risk, a tool to be used until discarded. It’s the principle of the thing, though. Not the girl herself. No fresh wounds from it, but a faint, detached pity, the kind you feel for someone wandering blind. Must be terrible, to be so alone.

That, more ’n anything, is why he keeps up the lie. Keeps his eyes shut, drifts to the sound of voices in his ear, your pulse thrumming through his skin. Doesn’t keep track of the time. He’s only barely aware of the shift—rustling, farewells, door opening and closing.

What’s left is the low hum of the fridge, Gus’s paws scratching at the mat outside his litter box, the sound of your breathing. What’s left is relief, and the peace of finally letting go.

Usually, he’s stickin’ his head out the kitchen window and finishing off his cig at this time of day. You in bed, the light arcing over the curtain headings to dapple the ceiling. Close as he comes to seeing the sun, and it never comes low enough to burn him.

Bit different at the mo’, what with the near deep-fryin’. Can’t be bothered with the effort of it all. He might be walking alright now—mostly—but not for too long, and even now his fingers struggle with the lighter. Has to make do with getting his nicotine fix through patches or those bloody stupid inhalers. It’s not forever, though. The aches and pains are gone; his head throbs only rarely; he doesn’t get tired as quick.

For now, this is his new normal: lyin’ in bed, watching you reading or doing one of your little crosswords, thinkin’ about stuff. Today, he’s takin’ stock of all the changes to his social life—namely, the Scoobies. How they’ve stopped treating him like a ticking bomb, like he’d explode if they so much as let their guard slip.

Not all the way, of course. He’s not daft. They’re wary, but the edge has dulled, glares softening into sidelong glances and jokes lacking their usual bite. Almost… banter, ’til they realise who they’re palling around with. And that realisation doesn’t come with upset or horror, or any of the old defaults—more a shy nervousness, as if they’re worried about his reaction. As if they’re waiting for him to turn on them. As if he’s the one with the upper hand. Dawn and Anya remain more or less unchanged. Guess when you start out fond of a monster, the bar’s lower to begin with.

Annoyingly, earning the esteem of the others seems to have come with a hefty price: they’re over his all the buggerin’ time. Can barely go a minute without hearin’ someone banging cupboards, or callin’ across the place, or screwing around with his stuff.

Little Bit’ll eat all the food and put her sugary crap on the shopping list so that her supply doesn’t run out, hog the bathroom and keep leavin’ her tweeny-bopper CDs all around for him to trip over. Walking’s already hard enough at the mo’—when he yells at her, she’ll smirk and say, “Bite me, buzzkill,” and cackles when he snarls. Demon girl seems determined to open a new magic shop straight outta his kitchen if the rancid smells are anything to go by, and spends the rest of the time updating him on the latest goings-on with the locals or ranting about the couple wishes she granted while he was out. It’s oddly touching, even if it is bloody irritating. The boy takes delight in putting on his science fiction shite, content enough to sit in silence beside Spike for hours racking up the electricity bill. Angel’s cross to bear, innit? Not Spike who has to cough up the goods. In fact, that tidbit seems to put as much a smile on Xapper’s face as it does on Spike’s. And Buffy? Well, she’ll never be comfortable around him. Too much history. But the forced ease and measured civility she brings to bat whenever she’s in company is a sure step up from breaking his nose every time she sees him.

They have their little meetings here now. There’s no apocalypse to stop, no big evil to slay—only regular ol’ vamps and the kind of fledge-tier riff-raff that’s inevitable when living on the Hellmouth. Perfectly doable for the Slayer and her merry band of misfit children. And yet, there’s awkwardness in the air, though for once it ain’t because of him. No one says it aloud. But it’s obvious, innit? The empty spaces. Holes, left behind by the witches that should be here. That aren’t.

Spike hasn’t asked, not once. At first, it was just survival, everything else on shut-down mode while he fought to stick around. Then, it was ’cause he couldn’t face the memory of it—the call. The house. Glinda. Blood everywhere, Niblet sobbing. You. Almost tempted to let the silence continue, let time deaden the sorrow like it always does.

That’s not who he is anymore, though.

He clears his throat, waits for you to shut your book and set it down on the bedside table. “What… what happened? With Glinda?” he asks.

The look on your face—it’s not shock, or anguish. More a quiet, resigned sadness, a waiting that��s come to fruition. Your breath hitches, brows furrowing as you seem to search for the right words. The lull stretches on, too long for comfort.

“Do anything?” he asks, tryin’ to help you out. “For—to send her off?”

You hesitate, then shake your head.

“We, um. Buried her. Said goodbye. You were—Clem sat with you for a bit.” He grabs your hand, squeezes. You get worked up thinkin’ about those first few days. “But,” you continue, “there hasn’t been anything detailed. Felt wrong without Willow.”

“When she’s back, then?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He knows you’re nervous about that, ’bout Red returning. The rest of ’em are already planning on how to manage her when she gets home: supervision, restrictions, therapy. But you? You think he’s chomping at the bit to get his own back after she tried to turn him into sludge. Explained it before, but there’s some things that language can’t express right. He’s done worse himself, hasn’t he? Gone dark, let love curdle into something ugly. Difference is, she came back from it. Just like he’s trying to. And violence doesn’t stick to demons the way it does to humans, ’specially when it’s among allies. Nothing to do with keeping score. It’s hierarchy. Power. Red had it, he didn’t, and she showed ’em all that fact. Sure, he’s brassed off by her arrogance and her choice to put you in danger, but seems like she’s learned her lesson if the snippets he’s caught are anything to go by. Sick with guilt an’ nearly took herself out when she realised what she’d done.

Not the point. The point is that he doesn’t care a whit about the witch comin’ back, provided she’s screwed the lid tight on her megalomania. Not interested in having a repeat of all this.

Beside him, you turn the lamp off and shuffle under the covers properly. His arm doesn’t hurt anymore, so he relishes in folding it around you, letting you burrow into his chest with a sigh. His chin settles to the top of your head, the scent of vanilla shampoo wafting pleasantly.

“The others are grateful, you know,” you murmur, cutting through the quiet. “For what you did for Tara. Means a lot to them.”

He says nothing in return, kissing your crown.

Doesn’t have it in him to complain after that, though ponderin’ on it too long makes his pride wilt. Bloody mother hen, isn’t he? Adopting all these sad li’l orphan chicks. Lettin’ them run all through his coop like they own the place. If the big bads could see him now, they’d laugh so hard they pissed blood.

And yet—

It’s far more than he ever thought he’d get, this unsettled acceptance. They’re not his friends—never will be, not properly—but the war’s over. And that’s something.

Healing’s always been odd business as a demon. Wounds don’t last long, so it doesn’t hurt much, either. Broken bones right themselves in a matter of days, the occasional scrape or swelling even less. And the more blood drunk, the quicker the whole thing goes.

Spike’s more familiar with it than most—get beat on, drain a vic, sleep it off and Bob’s your uncle. No aches or pains when you wake. Mightn’t be fully up to form, but at least it ain’t lyin’ around for weeks and waiting. Only real difference is if the hiding’s less one-on-one and more a mob deal, or if magic’s involved. Got plenty of history with the former, with Dru after that mess in Prague. Now, thanks to Red, he’s got experience with the latter, too.

Different, innit? Less passive. It’s like he can feel the damage she did, feel the grey matter reforming from mush into something resembling brain again. Whole body copped it, too, what with the seizing. There’s an awareness there he’s never had before, as though he’s actively paying witness to the knitting together of what was undone. More or less finished now, though a phantom flashing remains. A memory of what it was to be brought low, turned into a hunk of char-grilled meat.

But with recovery comes clarity, comes noticin’ stuff he hadn’t before. Or maybe things he was too wrapped up―in you, in the newness of attachment, in excitement envisioning some kind of future where you’re always there―to see.

Like how easily you trip on thin air or drop things, always coming away with some new cut or bruise in your attempt to catch them. The underlying scent of infection coursing through your blood when you forget to apply mercurochrome to open wounds. The wince you think he doesn’t catch when you move from one side of the room to the other, the slight limp from that old track injury of yours. So fragile. So breakable. So temporary.

Red could’ve done away with you with next to no effort. Any creature worth its salt could take you out quick. And that ain’t even countin’ all the regular human ways to go: slippin’ on the stairs at Revello Drive, gettin’ hit by a car crossing the street, drownin’ in the tub. Droppin’ dead for no reason at all, just because. Happens, doesn’t it? Humans stop, sometimes.

In the blink of an eye, you’ll be gone. A name in a county record, words on a headstone. All that stubborn, brilliant fight that makes you so bloody glorious―gone. But Spike? He’s forever.

Never had to deal with it before. Dru’s the same as him, and he didn’t really get enough of a shot with the Slayer to worry about it. But it’s more and more clear as the days go by that, eventually, the difference between you and him’ll catch up.

His first impulse is to go for the immediate fix. He can’t be human again, but you could be like him. For a second, he imagines it: your eyes glowing yellow, ridged brows and razor-sharp fangs, fast and strong and safe. That idea’s tossed away almost immediately after, though. Knows all too well that turning’s a gamble. Might not get the same girl back at the end of the road, and that defeats the whole point. S’you he wants to keep, not your body.

If only there was…

Catching sight of you, he immediately loses his train of thought.

You’re standin’ in front of the mirror, midway through stripping off for your shower. Started it as a tease months back―undressin’ in the bedroom instead of right before hopping under the stream, gives you the chance to strut starkers up the hall ’n give him a good show―but now you do it out of habit. He lets himself ogle: smooth skin, the flare of your hips, the dip above your arse. The good bits are covered, hidden from view by your practical, full-coverage underthings. Pale, girlish pink. Not one for fuss and frills, you are. Makes him feel as barmy as his sire, all that cotton innocence. Cute. Wreckable.

“Think I’m all better,” he says from his place on the bed, sprawled out with a cocky little smirk that hasn’t made a proper appearance in ages. His stare sharpens, blatant, when you turn to face him, eyes lingering on your exposed body. No mistakin’ his meaning. “Mm. Much better.”

Your nostrils flare in amusement, though you arch a brow at him. “You still flinch when the cat jumps on you.”

“Bastard’s got needles for claws,” he mutters, transfixed by the spill of your tits as they’re released from your bra. “You get your bollocks shredded by that furry li’l demon, see how casual you are.”

That makes you giggle. “Sure”―the humour fades into something more sober―“but you nearly died. It’s not a good idea to risk it. Set you back.”

“Bit o’ rough-and-tumble won’t knock me flat, kitten.” He might be erring into begging territory, but that’s no knock on him. Doesn’t take much convincing on his part to get you to cave on most things, ’specially if he’s clear he’s desperate for it. “’Sides,” he adds, “I’m a vampire. Near-dust experiences come with the package.”

“Not when it’s because you tried to fist-fight a witch hopped up on dark magic.”

“That counts,” he insists.

“You had seizures.”

“Yeah.” He pushes himself up onto his elbows, playfulness vanishing from his voice. “But I didn’t lose my bloody mind. And―most importantly―I didn’t lose you. Worth it all, for that.”

You soften slightly at his words. He pounces on it.

“Tell you what,” he says, eyes gleaming as he settles back, folds his arms behind his head. “If it’s too soon for a good, proper shag―how ’bout a lazy one? You on top, I don’t have to move a thing.”

You shake your head. “You’re impossible.”

Sure, he’ll cop to that―but he’s noticed that you haven’t moved to the open drawer yet. Haven’t picked out your night wear, or shuffled out the door. He grins. “Not what you were saying last time you were ridin’ me like I owed you money.”

“Jesus Christ, Spike,” you hiss, blushing furiously.

Easy to read between the lines, though: that bolt of shocked pleasure whenever he reminds you how hot you get for it, how deep you throw yourself into the feeling of your body under his, him inside you. Still got a smidge of that prissy shamefulness. Used to get all tangled up in guilt over spreadin’ out for him, ’til he started reminding you that the best girls are always ready to go for their bloke. Ramps up the overachiever in you like nothin’ else.

“C’mon, baby. Just a little ride. You set the pace.” He spreads his legs a bit, lets the line of his prick straining against his sleep pants emphasise his intent. “I’ll even let you finish first.”

Sighing, you slip your knickers down, kick them off onto the floor. Padding toward the bed, you say, “S’pose I should thank you, huh? For saving me.”

“Mm. Thought you might say that.” He drops a hand to his waistband, lazily palms himself through the thin fabric. “Deserve some gratitude, I do.”

You kneel between his legs, slow and deliberate, fingers ghosting up the inside of his thighs before tugging down his sweats. His cock springs free, hard and already weeping, ruddy from his earlier meal. It’s been too long since you last touched him, since he’s felt you wrapped ’round him. Hell, he misses it. Misses you.

You take him in hand, leaning forward.

“Oh, I’ll give you gratitude,” you say with a grin. “But if you start seizing mid-thrust, I’m taking your wallet and leaving town.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Deal.”

Your grip is confident, the right side of too-much as you gather spit in your mouth and part your lips, letting saliva trickle onto him. He curses under his breath as he watches you coat him in it, slick him up, lickin’ ’round the head like Lolita with her lollipops. Right sight more sinful, too. You open wider, sinking down. Warmth surrounds him, pressure, and wet, velvet suction. Your tongue flattens against the underside, lashes fluttering as you take him in bit by bit. Gotten better at this―so much better―but he still brushes the back of your throat too fast, and you gag. Your eyes water, hand tightening around the base as you draw back with a gasp.

“Not perfect yet,” you rasp, stifling a cough. “You’re too big.”

It’s said almost accusingly, like it rankles you to be anything less than immaculate. He doesn’t have the words to tell you how that’s the whole point, the part that makes it so bloody superb. Instead, he groans, all shaky pride.

“Beautiful,” he croons, sincerity couched in lewdness. Reaches down, curls his fingers through soft strands. “Li’l human mouth wasn’t made for it, yeah? But you try anyway. Look so gorgeous when you choke.”

You glare up at him―cheeks flushed, no real ire to it―then go back in. Slower, less force in the pull of your cheeks. Sucking and swirling, your tongue teases the slit, fist working what you can’t take. Spike sinks into the mattress like he’s been shot. It’s too much: you, your mouth, the way you moan around him like you’re the one getting off. He hisses, fangs brushing his lower lip. Wouldn’t take much to let himself go, but he doesn’t want that. Wants more.

“Up.” He tugs you off his prick with the hand in your hair. “C’mon now. Get that cunt on me.”

“You’re lucky I’m into you,” you say, mouth red and swollen, climbing up to straddle him. You brace yourself, rub your slick folds against his shaft, grinding slow and rhythmic. A tease, but not much of one―your arousal’s written all over you, soaking him, making him twitch beneath you.

“Christ,” he grits out. “So wet I could slip right in. Don’t need prep at all, do you?”

A lie, that last bit, but one that’s fun to tell. You knot straight back up if he’s not gotten inside you for more than a day, and it’s been a fair while longer than that. Makes you huff, though, bite your lip like you’re not sure if you should melt into him or tell him off. He jumps his hips once to catch at your entrance, just enough to let you feel the breadth of him there. Like he thought, you’re sealed up like a vault, barely givin’ ground.

“Not too fast.” He slides his palms up your thighs. “Been a while.”

Nodding, you reach down, angling him in one-handed. A pop of pure heat surrounds his tip, forcing him to curl his toes hard to keep from grabbing at you too tight, keep from taking over. You wiggle onto him, sinking an inch, two inches—then you stop, panting.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low and careful.

“Hurts a little,” you whisper, wincing. “But—I like it.”

That gets him: his control fractures, his nails digging into your flesh, and he can’t tell if his head’s pingin’ from the chip or if it’s the phantom twinge that’s hit periodically since waking up. Nerves misfiring. Either way, he’s too distracted to worry ’bout it. Too focused on the iron band of your inner muscles squeezin’ on him as you work your way to the base, the way your brows furrow and your lip catches between your teeth each time you pause. He might blow just from this.

“God, baby.” He stifles the bestial noise threatening to rumble from deep in his gut. “So tight ’n hot. Gonna tear you apart on me.”

“Yeah.” You’re trembling as you rock in increments, easing him in. “I want that. Break me, lemme feel it—”

“Then take it,” he says, thumb pressing circles against your clit. “All the way. Show me how bad you want it.”

When you finally settle with a sharp cry, it’s with some measure of his cock left to go, no room to fit. Should’ve licked you open, maybe. Got you off. Would’ve relaxed you, made sure you could take him whole. S’no matter, though—you’ll open up. As it is, he can barely think. You’re a bloody vice around him, wound as far as you can be, insides fightin’ his presence with everything they have. Rippling, wringing. It’s torture.

He groans your name as you brace your hands on his chest, dragging up and dropping down leisurely, gettin’ yourself used to the stretch. You don’t lift high―just enough to push a little noise from your throat each time you fall back. Best part of this position is watchin’ you move: hips winding, tits bouncing, head tippin’ back like you’re seconds from passing out from the pleasure-pain of it. Tremors run through your thighs as you work yourself, sweat coating you in shine. You lean forward a bit, and on your next downward plunge, you swallow up his remaining length with a low whine.

“Good girl,” he says, grunting when the praise makes you flex ’round him. Always loved that: how hot you get for his approval. “So sweet, jus’ look at you.”

You moan, deep, as if it’s come straight from your cunt. The flush is spreading down your neck, painting you bright, and the corners of your eyes glisten, overwhelmed. He's right in to your cervix. Can feel the little bump of it right at the head of his prick, threatenin’ an early finish each time it rubs up against him. Shooting zaps fizzle in his brain every time you bottom out, but the ache ain’t stoppin’ you; if anything, it’s fuellin’ you, making you ramp up. Your pace is gettin’ a little clumsy, less steady and more lurching, like you need it more than you can bear it.

Beautiful. Beautiful, perfect girl.

“Got the best li’l snatch, baby.” His hands are unable to settle on any one place, trailin’ down your spine, cuppin’ your arse, grippin’ your thighs. He wishes he had more of ’em, could touch you all over ’n leave no place uncovered. “Feelin’ nice, yeah? Hurtin’ good?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, mindless, arms shaking with each stroke. Your legs are quivering too hard to hold your weight for long. “Please, Spike―”

On the next thrust, you lose your balance, pitching straight toward him and just barely bracing beside his head with an elbow.

“There we go,” Spike purrs, voice honey-thick and wolfish as he catches you. He bends his knees, plants his feet against the mattress to roll up into you, teeth bared in a smile. “That’s it. Can’t even hold yourself up, can you?”

One arm around your waist, other palm at your arse, he pulls you up higher ’til your tits are in his face, nipples within reach. He wraps his lips ’round the nearest, sucking slow, almost sweet. Makes you keen, back arching to push yourself into the pressure of it. Takes a couple deep pulls, tongue swirling around the hard tip―then bites, hard enough to make the saltwater spill from your eyes, get you pulsin’ around him.

“Oh―oh, god,” you call out, warbling, hips moving wildly now. “I―’m gonna―”

He doesn’t stop, keeps hummin’ round your nipple, worryin’ it between his teeth and letting his hand drift between your legs to stroke where you’re swollen and sensitive. You shudder in his grip, heartbeat racing and breath coming in short little bursts, whole body starting to tense up.

All it takes is one firm pinch to your clit, and you break.

You grind down onto him as your cunt spasms, drawing him in even further. A flood of wet soaks him, burning hot and coating the air in richness. You crumple fully, slick and wrecked, wracked with convulsions.

Spike snarls. “That’s my girl.”

He flips you, your limbs pliant and uncontrollable, and your lips fall on a gasp as you hit the mattress. You barely have time to blink before he’s buried in you again, pressing your thighs to your chest as he drives into you hard and fast, his pelvis all but crashing against yours. The sound is filthy: skin slapping, lush squelching as your cunt continues to throb around him, your cries comin’ thick and loud. He can feel the demon showin’, his fangs digging into his lower lip as his face twists with pure, animal hunger.

“You like that?” he asks, hips snapping into yours. “Daddy’s cock makin’ you feel all messed up? Nice ’n deep?”

Regrets it for a mo’―remembers how unsure you’ve been when that name’s slipped out during past romps, the way you cried for days after Hank’s visit ’n avoid bringing it up since―but you either haven’t heard him or you don’t care anymore. You nod frantically, incoherent with sensation, fully weepin’ now. His cute li’l crybaby. “Yeah, yeah, I love it, love it loveitloveit…”

He grits his teeth, pounding at you even harder. The bedframe slams against the wall with every motion, threatening to crack the drywall. He feels the chip spark in warning, but he pushes through it. Doesn’t stop. Won’t. Not when you’re squealin’ and beggin’ like this, nails scratching into his shoulders and ankles digging into his back like you can hold him here just with that.

“Gonna wreck you,” he pants, hammering in ’til he hears it punch the air from your lungs. “So bloody sweet for me, takin’ it all even when it hurts.”

Tears streak your cheeks and he licks them away, growling against your jaw. “Such a good girl, lettin’ Daddy have you like this, all stretched out and sobbin’ for me―”

Your cunt flutters at that, and his control finally shatters.

It hits him like a bat to the bollocks, blinding and all-consuming, every nerve firing up as he comes. With a guttural groan, he thrusts one last time and holds, grinding in as he spills inside you. The pleasure is too much, too big for his barely-healed body, and he nearly howls with the force of it. Still buried to the hilt, he slumps into you, chest heaving despite the fact that he doesn’t need oxygen. This close to you, the thud of your heart feels like it’s his own.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move―just breathes you in, all salt and sweat and tears and heat, quiverin’ beneath him. Then, finally, he reaches up to cradle your cheek, soft to counter all the roughness. His nose nudges yours, staring into your half-lidded eyes, lingering there before leaning in to kiss you. It’s not hurried, not greedy like the rest of him’s been. It’s slow, careful, his tongue gliding past your lips to taste the tiny sounds you’re trying to catch your breath around. There’s a hint of him, too, bitter beneath the sweetness of those lollies you’ve been swiping from little sis’s stash all day. Your fingers twine into his curls as he licks into you, drawing him closer, and he lets a sound from low in his throat loose.

When he finally breaks off, he lets himself brush his lips along your cheekbone, press firm against the corner of your eye, your temple. All that earlier boldness has melted. You’re soft now, quiet in that way you get sometimes, like you’ve been undone to your foundations and all that’s left is the barest version of you: fragile, small, safe.

“You did so good,” he murmurs. “So brave.”

You hum, a little dazed. “S’nice. Full.”

His chest swells. “Know you like it when I make you feel like that.”

Nodding, you say, “I like bein’ yours.”

Gently, he folds you back out, massages your legs to get the blood flowin’ properly after being pinned up over his shoulders. Doesn’t pull out, though―not when you’re like this. Makes you sad ’n pouty like a little girl. But he rolls you back on top of him, arranging you all proper so you’re comfy. You sigh, wriggling about until your contours fit his perfectly. He wraps his arms around you, holds you tight, listens to your pulse return to a leisurely rhythm.

You go silent for a long stretch. He thinks maybe you’ve nodded off.

And then you sniffle loudly.

“Hey, now,” Spike says, instantly alert. He cups the back of your neck. “What’s all this?”

You bury your face into him, shaking your head, but you’re trembling, and this time it ain’t in a fun way. He shifts you up a bit so he can see your expression, see what’s botherin’ you so much. His palm strokes your spine.

“Sweetheart. Talk to me,” he says.

Your voice is tiny when it comes. “I… I thought I lost you.”

His breath catches.

“I―I didn’t say it. Didn’t let myself think it, but… you weren’t waking up, and I didn’t know what to do, and I was so―so scared, Spike.” You hiccup on a sob. “You were shaking and bleeding and you looked dead-dead, and I had to keep pretending it’d be okay so no one else would panic. But I thought―I thought you were gone.”

“Oh, baby.” He hugs you closer. Your fingers clench against his shoulder like he’s a lifeboat on stormy waters. “I’m here now. I’m alright. Don’t have to hold it in anymore.”

“I did, though,” you whisper, voice thick. “I didn’t cry. Not once. Not with Tara, not with you. I just… kept going. Couldn’t fall apart.”

“You were brilliant,” he tells you, kissing your forehead. “Strongest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“I didn’t want to be strong,” you whimper. “I wanted you.”

Christ, that stings. He pets your hair, soft as he can manage. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

You pull back enough to look at him, eyes glossy and red-rimmed. “Thought you were gonna leave me. Like everyone else.”

His throat aches. His heart―whatever’s left of it―twists violently.

“Never,” he says. “Not me.”

Red was never gonna stop him from being at your side, but he can’t put into words how far he’d have been willing to go to make sure of that. Wherever vamps end up after they’re dust, he’d have crawled limbless out of there just to get back to you. Nothing to hold him back: not death, not pain, certainly not a bit of metal or a witch.

You blink hard, and then it comes. A weak, uncertain whisper.

“Daddy…”

It’s the first time you’ve used it yourself. Never thought you would, and he was fine with that. Can’t help what you can’t help, and it’s not your fault that Dru’s obsession with Angelus―with her daddy―warped him irreparably. A need to be someone else’s everything, the way Spike’s grandsire was her everything.

But here you are. Callin’ Spike Daddy. Accepting everythin’ he’s been dyin’ to give.

Something in him shatters.

His voice catches at the end as he murmurs, “Daddy’s here, princess. So proud of you. Not goin’ anywhere.”

That’s a promise he’s willing to swear by everything he is. Blood and guts and filth and rot. Vampire, man, killer, poet. It’s all yours.

Your cheek is wet where you nestle into his neck, damp lashes tickling. Your breath is still shaky, puffing hotly against his flesh. “Gonna be with me forever?” you ask.

He squeezes his eyes shut, thinks of crystal pools and sun-warmed hotel beds and train rides down the coast. Thinks of demons and spells and impossible wishes. Thinks of your hands in his hair, smile direct at him and the way you always choose him, even when you shouldn’t.

Forever. Somehow, he’ll find a way to make it true.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says, letting his chin alight atop your head. “We’re forever.”

You nod, cling tighter. And Spike? He lies there, wrapped around you, anchoring you to him like a prayer―because that’s what you are. An invocation of all his most desperate desires. Hope made flesh. You’re his future.

Eventually, your tears subside, and you drift into slumber. He stays awake for a while longer, staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine a future that doesn’t end.

The first thing Spike notices is the stillness.

You’re asleep beside him, curled into a loose sprawl that hasn’t shifted in ages. One arm’s nestled under the pillow, the other draped across the bed like you’d reached for him and forgotten to pull back. Breathing’s even, heavy. No crease between your brows, no twitch in your fingers. Purely rest.

That’s new.

He watches you for a long while―longer than he should, probably―but he can’t help himself. You look softer, lighter, like something inside you’s been unhooked. There’s no hovering or fretting, no rattling off questions about whether or not he’s finished his blood or reminding him to nap. Been annoying, yeah, but he realises now that you’d never really stopped moving. Not once. And it wasn’t simply about taking care of him. It was armour, wasn’t it? The only thing keeping you from unravelling. Gotta keep going, stay useful, stay in control.

Should’ve known. How many hits have you taken already? Lived a fraction of the time he has, and yet you’ve faced so much loss, so much pain. Bloody hell. You’re just a baby.

The bedsprings creak as he eases out from under the covers, tugging on yesterday’s jeans and heading barefoot to the kitchen. Floor’s cold, early evening givin’ him the barest hint of light to see without switching the overhead globe on. Gus is sunnin’ himself on the windowsill, soaking up the last dregs of heat before night comes; little prick stares at him for a second before apparently deciding he ain’t worth the fuss, immediately closing his eyes again and noddin’ off.

He opens the fridge, grumbling a bit when he sees there’s only one egg left. Still takes it out, though. Bread’s nearly gone, too, so he chucks the last two slices in the toaster, fishes ’round the cupboard for a saucepan. Cracks the egg and scrambles it with a pinch of salt and a splash o’ milk, bit of pepper over it like he’s seen you do a hundred times.

While he’s waiting, he examines the list on the little notepad you keep stuck to the fridge door.

Tea (English breakfast) Soap (vanilla) Blood―go to Willy’s Chocolate Plasters Crushed garlic

Unclipping the pen from the top of the pad, he crosses out the last one with a mutter of, “Oi,” and then writes underneath:

Eggs Milk (cow’s, not oat) Bread Juice

Satisfied, he returns to his task. He gets out the crockery right after turning off the burner. Butters the toast, piles on the egg, pours the rest of the orange juice. He carries the plate into the bedroom and sets it down gently on the nightstand, glass next to it.

The smell rouses you―you make a little sound, eyes opening a smidge. Hair’s wild, face all scrunched like a sleepy kitten.

“Time s’it?” you ask.

“Half-past too early,” Spike says. “Made you breakfast, so you’re not allowed to complain.”

You blink at him, then smile. A real one. He notices the difference: how it doesn’t waver at the edges, doesn’t look like it’s trying too hard to seem put-together. It’s the first proper smile from you he’s seen in ages.

“You cooked?” you ask, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. No mention of what happened before you went to sleep. Probably for the best.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a kept man now.” He settles back on the mattress beside you, nudging his thigh against yours. “Got responsibilities. Grocery lists. Toast mastery.”

You giggle, craning your neck to reach his lips. He brings himself down to you, tucks a finger beneath your chin, presses his mouth against yours. No need to deepen it―not about lust. It’s unhurried, drawn-out, a silent declaration of love. When you pull away, you say, “Thank you, kept man.”

More loaded than it needs to be. That’s how he knows you don’t just mean for breakfast―but for last morning, too. For all of it, maybe. Stayin’. So he gives you a smile of his own and looks on as you reach for the plate, tuck in to the grub he’s made you. Sees how the last few shadows drain from your face, nothin’ left but light and laughter, the way it should be. You don’t even notice when he brushes your hair out of your face while you guzzle from the glass, heavy-lidded. Just sigh a bit when his mouth brushes your temple, contented.

“Eat the rest, princess,” he says. “Can’t have my girl wastin’ away.”

Your lips curl up at the edges, drowsy and grateful, and you mumble a thank-you. Don’t comment on how natural it sounds, how gentle his bossiness is. It’s just fact. He remembers what the Watcher said: joy, not tragedy. This? This is joy, innit? The kind you do whatever it takes to keep. The cavity in his ribcage feels weighted, like there’s a balloon expanding past bone and muscle. Not painful, but full.

He doesn’t tell you ’bout the thoughts in his head. The ideas, half-baked, gathering like mothballs. The rumours passed from other continents that promise the unattainable. His wish, turning and turning itself over, tryin’ to figure out a way to become real. Immortality, no drawbacks, no complications. Just you, and him, and whatever stretches beyond the end of the world. But none of that’s for you to hear, not yet.

“After breakfast―wanna talk about that holiday?” he asks instead. He’s already planning it. Not in the way you think, though.

You nod, all happy and golden. Clueless.

And Spike—self-proclaimed monster, eternal outsider—grins like a man who’s finally found a cause worth fighting for.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64531855/chapters/165726460

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aethon-recs · 5 months ago

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This Month (January) in Tomarrymort (1 – 31 January 2025)

So many wonderful fics and updates were posted in January! The Tomarrymort tag on AO3 is officially at 15,508 fics at the time of this posting — after hitting 15,000 only just in mid-December. That’s so many new fics in the last month and a half — congratulations to all the writers in our (no longer so) little ship on all their hard work!

This post got a bit long and unwieldy since it’s been a few weeks, so I’ve split it up into two parts (Part 1 - completed fics + one shots; Part 2 - ongoing fics). Be sure to check the reblogs or click here for Part 2 (Ongoing fics). I’m going back to a biweekly update schedule after this, sorry to everyone for the delay 🤍

Tomarrymort Completed Fics

friend of the devil (a friend of mine) by @shyinsunlight (E, 28k, complete)

There’s something very unsettling about Tom Riddle. Whether it’s the way he moves, all long limbs and eerie fluidity, the dissecting gaze he follows them with, or the way he speaks, with an accent that doesn’t match his manners. Maybe it’s how he drinks in Harry’s presence like a religious zealot, or how his eyes wander over Harry’s body as if he’s seen the skin and flesh underneath before.

the horror and the wild by @boyneptunee (NR, 21k, complete)

Time travel AU where there's an antique shop that acts like a portal, a ghoul that behaves like a cat and an armchair that could possibly be a puppy. OR: Harry and Tom find themselves in the middle of a string of murders that threaten to pull them under. They must find the culprits before it's too late.

Lovely Bitter Water by @pagesinmylife (T, 30k, complete)

After stabbing the diary, Harry is haunted by the ghost of sixteen year old Tom Riddle. Unfortunately, he seems to be the only one who can see him. OR: Tom Riddle decides to haunt Harry Potter in order to fill his need for attention and validation. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

Time Stumbler by @wintumnly (T, 126k, complete)

When the enigma named Harry Potter stumbled into his world, Tom couldn't have been more unimpressed. That’s not about to stop Harry from adopting him and changing both of their lives. Harry's mission to stop a future Dark Lord’s murder spree and return to a better future and Tom’s pursuit to rule the world and achieve immortality inevitably clashes, and they’ll end up changing the world together. Hopefully, in Harry’s favor.

Touch of Death by @moontearpensfic (E, 9k, complete)

"I don't want to die," Tom informs Death. After a particularly harsh winter at Wool's, Tom Riddle wants to live forever. He calls to Death to bargain for immortality.

An Exquisite Tomarrymort Corpse 2024 by @exquisitetomarrymortcorpse (NR, 35k, complete)

A collection of 21 artists’ and writers' works spanning almost a year, seamlessly stitched together to create an exquisite Tomarrymort corpse. An Exquisite Corpse is a game in which each participant adds to a fanfiction in sequence by only being allowed to see the end of what the previous person contributed.

Tomarrymort One Shots

One Shot | strong-armed and dangerous by @duplicitywrites

One Shot | Eternal Hunt by @metalomagnetic

One Shot | pruning shears by @boyneptunee

One Shot | Kill his darlings by @sri-verse

One Shot | The Faculty of Sight by @duplicitywrites

One Shot | housewives' club by esotericmuse

One Shot | Tom Riddle And The Case Of The New Eye-Phone by anonymous

One Shot | say my name (and every color illuminates) by lilacscented

One Shot | 1 in 10 people you know may be an eldritch being by @izharmilgram

One Shot | 5 Reverse Tropes + 1 Trope (OR: The time Tom seduced Harry) by epi_tome

One Shot | tomorrow contains tom by @octoir

One Shot | Ravenous for the Ravishing by @bubbleversity

One Shot | all that is conquered (where we revel in our verities) by @inarticulateimbecile

One Shot | Sell the Sinner the Sins by @neurowriter14

One Shot | Stalker with Benefits by @unrealexistence

One Shot | The Pre-Flight Mile High Club by @moontearpensfic @duplicitywrites

One Shot | you chain me, i chain you by RajaMarika

One Shot | The Manor by @se7enriddles

One Shot | sulphur by @cealesti

One Shot | Beloved by @moontearpensfic

One Shot | How to lose your dignity in 4 steps: Tom Riddle edition by Hina_97

One Shot | I was born depraved (hungry) by lovelycatharsis

(These following fics updated December 20-31, but I wanted to include these here just in case anyone missed the updates!)

Chapters 66 and 67 of draw me after you (let us run) by @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger

Chapter 4 of Crush by @chiocchi

Chapter 2 of Of a Feather by @officialsporkintheroad

Chapter 2 of Reign by @syntheticsoulmates

Chapter 2 of Time Traveling Tomfoolery by @corpium

Chapters 42 through 53 of Terrible, But Great by @isalisewrites

Chapter 44 of Of Monsters, Of Men by @ca-xan-dra

Chapter 6 of Goodbye Evergreen by @v33r00

Chapter 21 of with eyes like these (who sees anybody else) by @cealesti

Chapter 1 of Anything You Like (Within Reason) by @ramabear

Chapter 65 of Holly & Yew by @lovely-lotus

Chapters 1 and 2 of Igual a morte by Limerencia_Obscura

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #tomarrymort recs #aethon recs #tomarry recs #ao3 recs #fanfic recs #hp fic recs #harrymort recs #tomarry weekly #tomarry monthly #this month in tomarrymort

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bumblebeeonthistle · 1 month ago

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Sparring with Levi

Excerpt from my Levi X Reader fic:

Tags: Levi/Reader, slow burn, private training, canon-verse

Summary: On orders from Erwin Smith, you have received private training lessons with Levi since you started as a cadet. You haven't told anyone yet, though. That quickly changes, however, when Levi asks you to spar with him in front of all the other military recruits.

The Instructor’s eyes scan over the cadets before finally landing on…

“You!” the Shadis yells, striding towards you.

You have to restrain the urge to snort “me?” in return. Instead, you just salute with a “Sir?”

“You would do well to remember that I’ll be grading you on your actual performances and not what I believe you are capable of. I’ve been trying to get you to get your ass moving these past two years, but I’m no longer putting up with your bullshit. Unless all those private lessons with Captain Levi have been a fucking waste of time, I expect you to up your game in the future instead of holding back like a scared damsel in distress!” he bellows, his face so close to yours that you can feel small droplets of spit land on your face.

Meanwhile, the forest has gone silent. Or maybe, it’s just the ringing in your ears drowning out every other noise.

Oh no.

Oh hell no, Shadis didn’t just say that in front of the whole Cadet Corps. And the representatives from both the Scouts, the Garrison, and the Military Police.

You feel the eyes of every person present staring at you as you struggle to keep your face neutral. Your hands, which are currently curled into fists and placed above your heart and behind your back, are shaking ever so slightly with pent-up fury.

At one point, you can’t help but glance over to where you know Levi is standing. He isn’t looking at you, but at Shadis, as if he could burn the Instructor down with his gaze alone. You’re surprised the Instructor has the guts to blatantly ignore him.

If Levi had been looking at you like that…you shudder mentally.

“So, brat,” Instructor Shadis continues, eyes narrowing as he stares you down, “I suggest that you prove to me right now that you haven’t been half-assing your training, otherwise, you’re not fit to be in the military!”

The silence that follows next is so heavy you could choke on it.

You feel your anger turn to dread – because of all the threats, all the insults, all the whispers and rumours that you’ve had to endure ever since enlisting as a cadet – none of it has really affected you like this specific threat does. The threat of being thrown out of training.

The threat of being thrown out, while Eren stays and eventually joins the Survey Corps where he’ll have to venture outside the Walls.

Without you.

It’s unfair, you think. Yes, you hadn’t given it your all today but you’d still placed first – with the most kills and the best technique and the fastest completion of the course out of all two hundred plus cadets.

What more could Shadis ask for?

You’re just about to ask when someone clears their throat. That someone being Levi as he steps up and speaks.

“She’ll prove to you that she hasn’t been half-assing her training, Shadis.”

The Instructor raises his brows.

“And how will she do that?”

Levi stares up at the Chief Instructor, his former Commander, with an almost unreadable expression. It’s only the small glint in his eyes, the almost imperceptible tilt to his lips that tell you that he’s up to something. But you doubt anyone else has noticed.

“By fighting me.”

By fighting me.

Levi’s words echo over the training grounds as he pauses, waiting for Shadis’ reaction.

“Next thing on the program is sparring, right?” he asks rhetorically when Shadis still doesn’t say anything. “So, we’ll start off with a demonstration. Me against her.”

Another long pause.

And then, after eyeing Levi coldly for what feels like multiple minutes, Shadis lets out a snort.

“Alright, it’s settled then – although, you better not go easy on her.”

Levi’s lips curl into a small smirk.

“I never do.”

And that is how you now find yourself standing before Levi in the middle of the training grounds, surrounded by cadets, instructors, and representatives alike. You feel cold-sweat coating your palms – not because of the prospect of fighting Levi as you’ve done that on multiple occasions before, but because of the masses of spectators. It doesn’t help that you can hear the muttering among your peers – some sound excited, some dubious, and some are even placing bets on how long you’ll last against Humanity’s Strongest.

The only thing grounding you right now is Levi’s gaze, his grey eyes never wavering from your own.

“Ignore them,” he mumbles to you for the second time today. “Just focus on me, like you always do when we spar. I know you can do this.”

You don’t know what it is, but quiet encouragement grounds you. Everything else fades into the background – visual details, sounds, smells – and all you focus on is him. The ways his grey eyes bore into yours, as if they’re trying to look into your very soul. The ways his chest rises and falls calmly, the way his pulse flutters at his throat. The sound of air entering and leaving his lungs, the beating of his heart. The smell of tea leaves and fresh laundry and that earthy scent you’ve come to associate with him.

You straighten your spine and roll your joints, your mind wandering into that calm space it always does just before a fight.

“On the count of three!” Instructor Shadis bellows.

“One!”

“Two!”

“…three!”

You don’t hesitate, but jump, trying to land a roundhouse kick to Levi’s face, so fast that the spectators have a hard time following your movements.

But because it’s Levi, he doesn’t have any problems matching your speed.

He reaches out to grab your ankle and fling you to the ground, but you’ve already anticipated that. So instead, you twirl in the air and aim to kick him in the back instead. Levi swivels around to block you and, while you’re out of balance, goes for throwing you to the ground again. You manage to twist out of his grasp, and while he is slightly off centre, you bring down your elbows to break his spine – a very risky move had this been normal practice with one of your fellow cadets, but you know Levi won’t let you hurt him. And besides, Instructor Shadis had told you to prove yourself, so you might as well give it your all.

And, as you had expected, Levi effortlessly dodges your move before going on the offensive again.

It’s Levi who gets the first hit in – of course it is, you’ve only managed to land one single hit on him the entire time you’ve been training together, after all. He also gets the second, the third, the fourth, and the sixth hit in.

But he still hasn’t managed to incapacitate you.

Maybe, it’s because you know the stakes are so high this time, or maybe, it’s because you know hundreds of people are watching you, but you’ve never lasted this long in a sparring round with Levi before. And you can tell that it isn’t just because he’s going easy on you – you can see beads of sweat forming on his forehead and the slight crease between his eyebrows telling you that he’s concentrating.

And then, your chance at victory arises. Some loose gravel makes Levi lose his footing for a split second. And in that split second, you move. It is as if time slows down as you jump, landing a kick right to his solar plexus.

Someone whoops in the background – probably Hange, if you had to guess.

Levi grunts and hunches over in pain, but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing your leg and throwing you to the ground – for real, this time. The two of you roll around on the ground, first with him on top, then with you, then him again.

You know it’s the end for you when Levi finally manages to catch you in a headlock – the same one you’d used on Reiner and taught to Sasha and Connie.

Your back is pressed against the hard planes of his chest, one of his arms wrapped around your throat. Fingers, which are normally cool, but now hot to the touch, press against your pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt, but still firm. Almost demanding.

His hair tickles your ear as he leans forward to whisper in it.

“Do you forfeit?”

You sigh, ignoring the way your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice, hoarse and a little throaty.

“I forfeit,” you mumble.

After a moment, Levi lets go of you. He gets to his feet before offering you his hand. You take it, letting him pull you off the ground.

It’s first now, when the fight is over, that you truly feel how exhausted and battered-up you are. Using the last of your resolve, you salute and wait for Instructor Shadis to pass his judgement.

To your surprise, the faintest ghost of a smile plays around Shadis’ lips as he gives you a single nod of approval.

“That’s all I wanted to see,” he says, and you can almost hear the smugness dripping from his voice.

And you realise that he’d never intended to throw you out of training. He’d just been goading you. Riling you up. Forcing you – and Levi, who has been covering for you so far – to show your true colours. To show what you’re capable of.

That…that scumbag.

And to think you’d been worried.

You can’t believe you fell for that.

Anger simmers just beneath your skin as you glare at the Instructor.

“Ehem.”

You, Levi, Shadis, and the rest of the spectators turn towards the MP representative who’d let out the sound. His beady eyes are darting back and forth between you and Levi, an overbearing smile plastered on his face.

“How do we know that Levi here didn’t just go easy on the girl?” he challenges, now fixing his gaze on Levi. “It’s clear that they have a relationship that goes beyond what is appropriate for a teacher and his…protégé.”

Your anger flares, this time directed at the MP. Your fingers twitch as you feel the urge to break his nose well up inside you.

Any idiot could see that Levi didn’t go easy on you.

But before you can tell the MP lizard to shut his big fat mouth, someone beats you to the punch.

“That’s Captain Levi to you, my dear MP fellow!” Hange tuts as they stride over to where the MP is standing, slinging an arm over his shoulder jovially. “You’re welcome to fight the girl yourself if you suspect foul play here.” The MP visibly pales at this suggestion. “Or,” Hange continues innocently, “you could also just file a complaint to Commander Erwin Smith himself about how you think his best soldier, Humanity’s Strongest, is neglecting his duties in training new recruits?”

The MP mumbles something unintelligible.

“That’s what I thought,” Hange muses before finally letting the MP go.

Your anger dies down. He isn’t worth it anyways, you think as you send one last look of disdain in the direction of the MP.

Then, you turn your attention to Levi.

“Damn. Didn’t know Hange could be that scary,” you mumble under your breath.

“That’s because you haven’t seen them in their lab,” Levi answers, quietly enough for only you to hear.

“And with that out of the way,” Instructor Shadis continues, as if you haven’t just gotten your ass handed by Humanity’s Strongest in front of the entire Cadet Corps, “Pair up and start training!”

You groan.

Does the Instructor really expect you to spar again, after what he just put you through?

Read the rest on ao3: call my name || Levi X Reader

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avatar-anna · 2 years ago

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Champagne Problems

so...this is super long, the longest fic i've written in a hot minute. like 18.k words long. i wasn't going to post it until part two was underway, but i'm kind of excited to share it. here is the aftermath of champagne problems...

Part Two

*.*

"Don Perignon, you bought it, no crowd of friends applauded, your hometown skeptics called it Champagne problems."

Your fingers moved across the keys of the grand piano as you mumbled softly to yourself, only loud enough that the voice recorder on your phone would pick up on it. This wasn't your typical method of songwriting, you weren't even sure there was a song to actually write; but the melody had been haunting you for days, pressing against your mind until you finally sat down and played it.

It wasn't often you thought of the events that occurred a year and a half ago. You usually did everything in your power not to think about that night, knowing that nothing ever good came out of dwelling on that particular wrinkle of your past. You only looked forward, sometimes hoping that if you didn't think about what happened, your memories of the worst night of your life would eventually disappear from your mind altogether.

But there was something about this melody that brought that night to the forefront of your memory. You'd played it over and over on the piano for a few minutes, waiting for the words to come. Your mind kept circling back to the past, and after trying to avoid it, you finally let emotion win out. No one was in the studio with you anyway, it would be safe to unlock that particular box. Just for a few minutes.

"She would've made such a lovely bride, what a shame she's fucked up in the head," you said to yourself, the last part coming out as an afterthought. You laughed a little to yourself, remembering the disapproving stares and the whispers behind your back that people always thought went unnoticed by you. "But you'll find the real thing instead. She'll patch up your tapestry that I shed."

Despite knowing that leaving your would-be fiance was the right choice for you, breaking up with him was the hardest thing you'd ever done. It still hurt to remember that night, to recall the look of absolute devastation on his face when you stopped him from reaching into his pocket for the little velvet box you knew was in there. He didn't deserve to be wrecked so thoroughly, especially by someone like you. He had been sweet and kind and gentlemanly. He treated you like a princess and defended you to his family when they didn't approve. He was everything a man should've been to you and more.

And all you could do in return was prove his family right.

You stopped murmuring lyrics for a moment, letting that last thought float through the empty room on somber notes. You thought about your ex now, wondering where he was now and hoping he was well. You hoped he was in love and happy, that he'd forgotten all about you. He deserved all the best things that love could grant a person. You wanted that for him. You wanted someone who had the capacity for the kind of love he wanted to give.

Repeating the last few lines again, the next few thoughts came pouring out of you, the words carrying a bittersweet taste to them.

"Your mom's ring in your pocket, her picture in your wallet, you won't remember all my Champagne problems."

The song tapered off soon after that, and you realized there was nothing left in you to say. You felt lighter afterwards, as if pushing some of those long-forgotten memories out of you and onto the grand piano eased the weight you'd been carrying around on your shoulders for the last eighteen months. Quickly stopping the recording, you set a reminder on your phone to listen to it tomorrow and write down everything you'd said. The recording itself was lengthy, long pauses stretching between lyrics as you worked through your memories and attempted to vocalize them. Hopefully something was there to actually mold into verses and a chorus, if not, it was a rather odd but surprisingly satisfying therapy session.

Gathering your things into the bag at your feet, you stood up from the piano, stretching your arms above your head. It was easy to get lost in a good melody, but your poor body always paid the price if you spent too much time bent over a guitar or piano.

It was as you stretched that you realized someone was at the door. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching as you shouldered your bag and slipped your shoes back on your socked feet. He didn't say anything as you walked over to him, just stepped out of the way so you could walk out of the studio. Harry normally wasn't this quiet, in fact, he could be quite the chatterbox if the mood struck him. But his silence told you he'd probably heard more of your session than you would've liked. Because one thing Harry liked to do in all his chattering was pepper you with questions about yourself, which was annoying since you were constantly trying to have him not get to know you.

"Coffee?" was all he said as you walked toward the elevator at the end of the hall. The sleeve of his patterned sweater brushed against your arm, and you resisted the urge to lean into him. He always wore the coziest clothes when in the studio, and it made you want to walk just a little bit closer to his side, for no other reason than the feel of soft material on your arm and not the person wearing them.

Nodding, you said, "Sure."

Harry qucikly pressed the button when you reached the elevator, and you couldn't help but laugh a little. In the time you'd spent not getting to know him, you discovered that he was the kind of person that just had to press the elevator buttons. It didn't matter how many people he was with, it was like he took joy in something as simple as getting to press a button and watch it light up beneath his finger. He'd actually speed-walked to get ahead of you a couple times just so he could press the down button. It was kind of annoying, and perhaps a little childish, but you'd surprisingly grown to find it endearing. A quirk of Harry's that just made him who he was.

The ride down the elevator was quiet, and it wasn't until you were out on the street that he finally spoke. "I'm thinking about getting a pet."

You'd been bracing yourself for the inevitable questions about the song you'd been recording, and when they didn't come, your shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, though you were sure Harry noticed. "Really?"

"Yeah. All my friends are disgustingly in love," Harry said with a playful shudder. "I'm feeling like a third wheel most days, so I thought I would seek companionship of the furry variety. Wait, that came out wrong. I didn't mean—"

You chuckled at his stuttering, at the flush creeping up his neck and warming his cheeks. "I know what you mean," you said, sparing him any more embarrassment. "So what are you thinking then? Dog? Cat? Hamster?"

"Well, you see, that's the thing," he said, quickly recovering from his chagrin. "I'm not sure I have the time necessary to devote to training a puppy, but I'm also worried about getting a cat and it absolutely hating me, and..."

You listened as Harry explained in great detail the pros and cons of each kind of domestic animal one could have. He spoke animatedly with his hands, looking at you with those big green eyes of his, as if to make sure you were following his train of thought.

You never planned on befriending Harry, and even now you weren't sure that whatever was going on between you was considered a friendship. You'd always been the type to keep to yourself, especially after what happened with your ex. You'd not only lost him after the break up, but friends too, friends who thought that what you did to your ex was despicable and reprehensible and not worth keeping a friendship over, picking sides when you hadn't realized there were any. It hurt to lose so many people in one fell swoop, and you decided soon after that you were better off alone. Except for your brothers of course, but all of you kept so busy that it was hard to keep track of one another on a good day.

Outside of them, you realized it was hard to hurt someone when there was no one around you to hurt.

But Harry was different. You'd seen him around the building where you worked on your songs—in the hallways, waiting for the elevator (after pushing the button, of course), at the vending machine, on your way out of the studio or while he was entering it to start his session. The first thing you noticed was that he was never alone. Well, that wasn't entirely true. The first thing you really noticed was his smile, how it lit up his entire face and showcased the most adorable dimples you'd ever seen. But since you refused to admit that, the first thing you noticed was that he was never alone.

Harry was always coming and going with one or two or sometimes three people around him. He was always engaged in some kind of conversation, his head always turned as he listened aptly to what his friend was saying. It seemed so odd to you that he was hardly ever by himself. It was like a foreign language to you, and you imagined your constant solitude felt the same to him.

"Anytime you want to weigh in here would be great."

"If you want a pet, get one," you said simply.

Harry rolled his eyes as he held open the door to the coffee shop a couple blocks down the street from the building where you both worked, as if he was expecting anything other than your usual direct way of speaking. "If you don't keep this conversation going, then I'm going to have to ask about that incredibly depressing song you were working on, so please, indulge me in the great pet debate of twenty-eighteen."

For the most part, Harry was a pretty easy going guy. He had no problem carrying a conversation, and knew when not to pry. As the months went by, though, he knew how to get you to talk, how to find trap doors in the fortified walls you kept around yourself before you even knew they were there. It would be frustrating if his questions didn't always come with an endearing smile.

So you shrugged, eager to steer clear of any topics regarding your past. "I don't know, I'm a little biased. I've always been a dog person. Buddy's my best friend."

"First of all, I'm offended by the fact that I am not your best friend, and second, since when do you have a dog?"

The conversation paused while you and Harry went up to the counter to order you coffees. Both of you went there enough that the staff knew what you liked—dirty chai for you and an americano for him. It also meant you didn't have to deal with the barista having a mini-freak out at the realization that Harry Styles was in their coffee house. People tended to interrupt your conversations with Harry regularly—on the street, in line for coffee, at the table—but he never seemed bothered by it. He always smiled and indulged in a couple minutes of conversation and the occasional picture before waving goodbye. He always apologized to you afterward, but after the first couple times it happened, you waved him off. None of it was actually his fault, and seeing him interact with his fans became something you actually enjoyed watching. And it was perhaps a very small reminder as to why you preferred to just write songs for other artists, not perform them. You didn't need that kind of attention. For Harry, he seemed to come alive like a flower in bloom.

You? You would probably just wilt.

When you and Harry sat down with your drinks, he raised his brows for you to continue. Wrapping your hands around your cup, you shrugged again. "I've had Buddy for about a year now."

"What kind of dog?"

"Mostly pitbull, I think. I found him in an alley behind a restaurant once, and I know what shelters do to pitbulls, so I adopted him."

You'd come to think of the whole thing as Buddy finding you.

"And you named him Buddy?"

"Yeah, I don't know, after Buddy Holly I guess." You'd grown up listening to classic rock because your brothers did, and the name just kind of made sense to you. And he was just so cute, he was your little buddy. Big buddy now, you supposed. You thought he deserved the cutest name for the cutest boy in your life.

The rest of your time in the coffee house was filled with chatter, mostly from Harry. He talked a little more about the Great Pet Debate, then about the project he and his team was working on. An album, though they were only just getting started seeing as Harry just came back from tour. He tried peppering you with the occasional question, knowing if he asked too many you'd clam up and shut down. It was almost like Harry knew that you were fighting getting to know him, but that it wasn't just him, it was everyone. He was patient with you for some reason, though, seemingly content to chip away at the brick walls around you. Even if all he had was a spoon.

"So...What were you working on at the studio?" Harry finally asked.

You knew it was coming, so answering didn't seem so daunting. "I'm not really sure. The melody had been in my head for days, and I finally decided to play around with it."

"A perfect non-answer from Y/n L/n, everyone," Harry said, though you knew he was joking. His eyes were crinkled with mirth as he hid behind his cup, his brows raising to give you a knowing look.

Nothing about your past was easy to talk about, so you just didn't. After your breakup, you didn't even tell your brothers the finer details, not wanting to relive it or face all their questions. It all brought you an overwhelming sense of shame and despair. But maybe there had been something cathartic about your session today and it left you feeling lighter and open because you found yourself sharing more with Harry.

"It...reminded of me and my ex, so I kind of just let it all out. I'm not even sure what I was doing constituted as songwriting, but," you looked down at your mug. "The melody dredged up some old memories, I guess."

"It sounded painful," Harry said, his voice taking on a soft, sincere tone.

You knew he meant well, but the sympathy made you skittish. "It's fine. It was a long time ago."

"Right, of course," Harry said, catching on to your mood change. "Well, um, my friends and I are having a little get-together of sorts this Saturday. You should come."

"A party?"

"No. A get-together. Very different," Harry corrected.

It made sense, the last time Harry tried to invite you to a party his friend was throwing, you politely declined, claiming they weren't really your thing. They weren't, but it was more that having friends wasn't really your thing.

You wanted to say no again, but when you met Harry's eyes, something in you hesitated. His expression was open, earnest, like he would genuinely be upset if you said you wouldn't come. You didn't quite understand why he wanted to spend time with you so much. Maybe you felt a little bad for always pushing him away, or maybe you were actually warming up to him.

"I, um...that might be fun," you said, not sure if it was nerves or excitement swimming in your belly.

The way Harry's face lit up made saying you would come worth it.

After a few more minutes at the coffee house, you and Harry went your separate ways, but not before he made you promise to join you on one of your morning walks with Buddy Holly. Something must've been in the air today, because you found yourself nodding before heading down the street away from him.

On your way home, you got a phone call from your oldest brother Evan. "Hey, Evan. How's life treating you in the Big Apple?"

"Just fine. It'd be a lot better if I got to see my kid sister more often. Are you still coming for Thanksgiving?"

Of your three brothers, Evan was the one who checked up on you the most. Perhaps that was the nature of being the oldest of four, but he had always been the most responsible, the one to keep you and your other brothers in line. Well, mostly your other brothers. But Evan had always looked out for you. He was the only one you told at length about your breakup. You'd confided in him all your life, and he was coincidentally the only one of your brothers you could count on not to go and beat up on your ex or his family.

"Flight's booked and everything," you told him. "Not sure if I can swing a trip to the lake house, though."

Despite your less than ideal upbringing, you and your brothers had all done pretty well for yourselves. No thanks to your parents, seeing as you all shared a dad who never liked to be with the same woman twice. But you and your brothers all stuck together through thick and thin, supporting and celebrating and sticking together despite the differing parentage between the four of you. And now you were all scattered, your brothers Andrew and Hayden were professional athletes and Evan was a bigshot lawyer. Once you moved out of your hometown, you really only saw your brothers for holidays. And the occasional surprise visit from Andrew, though that hadn't happened in a while.

"That's okay," Evan said. "Next time."

"Next time," you agreed. Then, "How's the family?"

"Good. Sammy's gotten so big. And Laura's already showing."

You grinned as you imagined Evan's family. He deserved a happy ending with a loving family after raising you and the idiots you called brothers. "Another team member for the family football game."

"Speaking of the family football game," Evan said, and you mentally cursed yourself. "Laura's been dying to know if she should set an extra spot at the table."

Immediately, your mind went to Harry, but you quickly whisked that thought away. "Nope. Unless Hayden's got a new girlfriend."

"Really? No one?"

You narrowed your eyes even though Evan couldn't see your expression. "Why are you fishing? Gossip is Andy's thing."

"What? I'm not fishing!" Evan spluttered, but you just scoffed and waited. Evan might've been a shark in the courtroom, but he'd always been terrible at lying to you. "Fine. Laura was reading one of her gossip magazines, and you know I don't pay attention to those, but you know, I might have seen someone who looks an awful lot like you pictured alongside a former boy band member."

Well, shit. You knew that was a reality of being Harry's acquaintance, but you'd always done your best to not pay any attention to it. So far it had done a good job, but now it was coming to bite you in the ass.

"It's nothing, Evan. He's an artist. I'm a songwriter. We work in the same building," you said.

"Fine! Fine," Evan said, and you could just picture him holding his hands up in surrender the way he'd done since you were a teenager. "I just thought I'd ask now and try to soften the blow. I'll just leave you to the wolves."

"Damn you, Evan," you muttered. Evan was the easy brother. It was Andrew and Hayden you had to look out for. They would interrogate you relentlessly, or worse, squeeze the life out of you until you caved. Sighing deeply through your nose, you said, "I will ask if Harry has plans for that weekend. And that is it."

"See? That wasn't so hard!"

You rolled your eyes. "I'll talk to you later."

"You love me!" Evan called just before hanging up.

The call ended just as you pulled up to your apartment. You sat back with a huff, marveling at the strings your brother managed to pull from thousands of miles away. But deep down, you knew Evan was just looking out for you. After everything that happened eighteen months ago, he'd been keeping a close eye. As close an eye as he could all the way from New York. But that was how things worked between you and your brothers. You all looked out for each other, and your older brothers acted as personal security guards to any and everyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way. It was both endearing and very annoying.

Very annoying. Now you had to invite Harry to Thanksgiving. Evan was so going to get it.

*.*

On Saturday, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror longer than you normally would've. Harry had used the term "get-together" as a means to ease your nerves, but now that the dreaded day had come, you realized you weren't sure what that meant in terms of dress code. Was this thing laid-back? What if casual still meant dressy to Harry and his friends? Harry usually walked around the studio in jeans and faded t-shirts, but he was still a celebrity. He could see this as an opportunity to dress up.

You looked at all the clothes spread out in your room. You'd changed an embarrassing amount of times now, but nothing seemed fitting for the occasion. I could always text him, you thought, biting your nail as you surveyed the tornado of clothes around you. Harry had given you your number earlier this week so he could text you his address. You hadn't wanted to, as it would open the flood gates for conversation outside the studio, but you eventually gave it up when he stared blankly at you after offering your email as an alternative.

Before you could think too long about it, you picked up your phone and sent a quick text. Before you even had a chance to set it down, Harry sent a reply.

Harry S: We're just chilling at my house. Dress as comfortably as you'd like :))

Well, that wasn't helpful at all, you thought, but didn't say to Harry. You went back to rummaging through your pile of clothes, creating a spot for Buddy when he ambled into your bedroom from the kitchen. In the end, you settled on something simple: jeans, platform shoes, and a colorful fleece jacket over a plain shirt. It felt silly to have wasted so much time on your wardrobe when all you were doing was going to see Harry. And his friends. And that was...intimidating.

The anxiety of meeting Harry's friends, of meeting anyone new, crept through you. You didn't want to go and face the inevitability of disappointing them. Your track record with friends was pretty abysmal. But you found yourself kissing Buddy's head and promising you wouldn't be gone long, and then you were getting in your car and plugging in the address Harry had given you.

The music playing in your car calmed you some. Etta James' voice was both familiar and comfortable, welcome feelings as you pulled up to Harry's house. House was a bit of an understatement, though. Maybe a villa, or an estate. The LA version of those sprawling castles that were all over Europe. Your shoulders were tense as you cruised up the long driveway, though your anxiety eased a bit when you saw that had seen about as much life and mileage parked up front as yours did.

Music was playing inside the house, you could hear the trill of soft guitar and the low hum of a male voice from outside, and you worried if anyone would be able to hear you as you knocked on the door. Thankfully, you only stood on Harry's doorstep for a minute or two, then Harry's familiar grin greeted you.

"You made it!" Harry said, pulling you over the threshold and in for a quick side hug. He looked down at you for a moment, his cheeks flushed and green eyes bright, perhaps from drinking. He shook his head a little before pulling you further into the house. "Come in, come in, everyone is just through here."

Harry led you further into his home, giving you a chance to look around. Despite the grandeur of the outside, Harry's house was actually quite cozy and inviting. Everything was in warm tones, and potted plants and bookshelves piled high with a mix of books and records with titles you couldn't read from this distance. His house looked actually lived in, which couldn't be said for some of the other celebrity homes you'd been in. It didn't happen often as you preferred to work alone, but you occasionally dabbled in writing sessions with other artists. Their homes looked much more modern, and much more cold, than Harry's did.

"My home in London is much smaller," Harry said, noticing your craned neck. Then he shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "But I liked the look of this place. It reminded me of a house I go to in Italy most summers."

"It's beautiful," you said. "I've always wanted to go to Italy."

"You've never been?"

You shook your head, admiring the arch leading into an open kitchen. "I was supposed to go for—"

For my birthday, you couldn't bring yourself to say. Gavin had planned a summer trip to Italy for your birthday, but that never happened. You surprised yourself by revealing that much, and by the way Harry's eyes lit up, you'd taken him by surprise too.

But he didn't press you to finish your thought. He just smiled and led you further into the kitchen. "Come on. You need a drink."

Harry talked while he fixed up your drink. He'd tried to persuade you to take a shot of tequila with him, his eyebrows wiggling up and down, a look on his face that you'd seen one too many times on your brothers when they were trying to stir up trouble. You declined with a laugh, opting for a glass of wine instead. Maybe a boring choice, Harry definitely thought so as he teased by saying, "Booooring!" but you needed to be sharp, and tequila tended to have the opposite effect, so red wine it was.

"Everyone's through here. I hope you like games because Kid brought a new one over and everyone has become quite invested."

Games? Is that what Harry Styles did on his evenings off? Play board games with his friends? Before you could ask, Harry led you into his living room, where everyone was in fact sitting around a rather spacious coffee table, a board game and playing cards spread out around it. It was a small group of about five or six. For some reason you expected more people, even though Harry said otherwise. They were all talking amongst themselves, talking strategy, you presumed, as you recognized the game as one of those territory-winning ones.

All the talking stopped, however, when Harry introduced you to the group.

You felt their eyes on you, judging, picking you apart where you stood. You began to curl in on yourself, wilting at the attention. Involuntarily, you took a step back, but Harry's hand was on your lower back, warm and comforting against you. You should've pulled away, but you didn't, thankful for at least some kind of familiarity among all the new.

It had been so long since you'd had to meet new people in a non-professional setting. You'd met with producers and artists and other industry people all the time, but there was always a wall of professionalism between you and them. You knew how to navigate that space with ease, but here, where people were sitting on pillows and holding playing cards, where you stood as the outlier among what was clearly a tight-knit group, you felt very much like a fish out of water. A fish in space.

"H—Hello," you managed to say, giving everyone a small wave.

One person got up. A young woman with short brown hair, winged eyeliner marking the corners of her eyes. Her smile was surprisingly warm, but what had your eyes widening even more was when she pulled you in for a hug, squeezing tight.

"I'm Sylvia," she said. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Finally?"

You probably shouldn't have said that, but you weren't expecting such a warm welcome.

"Harry talks about you constantly. I swear sometimes he purposely keeps you from us."

"That is not—That is not true," Harry said, speaking to you for a moment. He sounded serious, but his eyes were filled with amusement as if he was used to Sylvia's teasing.

Everyone else introduced themselves, and you tried to keep a smile on your face as you committed their names to memory. They were all part of Harry's "team" except for Sylvia—writers, producers, musicians. "And you?" you asked her as she pulled you down to sit next to her. Sylvia had insisted you be on her team while you learned how to play. She seemed nice, eager to get to know you, but you didn't trust it. Not yet.

"I'm a full-time mom most days, and a part-time life coach to this one," Sylvia joked. She seemed too young to be a mother, but you supposed they came in all shapes and sizes. "But I'm Harry's nutritionist. And friend when he's not being a pain in the ass."

There was a wry grin on the young woman's face that told you she was fond of Harry, and fond of teasing him, if said grin grew when Harry said, "Hey," was anything to go by. It eased your mind a bit, her kindness and obvious fondness for Harry. She spoke animatedly as she caught you up on the rules of the game and gossip from her yoga class. "They're all in love with that one, of course. Can't take him anywhere," she said with a nod in Harry's direction.

When you agreed to join Harry tonight, you figured you would spend your time with him. But Sylvia kept you occupied most of the evening, and he and his friends were rather invested in the game. You were content to watch, enjoying the playful bickering and shouts of surprise and celebration. It was interesting to see how they all interacted with each other. Harry and his friends sat and drank around his coffee table while you nursed your drink, observing with the sweet feeling of nostalgia swimming through your veins.

"Y/n?"

You jumped in your spot on the floor, your wine sloshing around in your glass a little. Thankfully, nothing poured out. You would've been mortified if you'd spilled red wine all over Harry's most likely exorbitantly expensive carpet.

Eyes flicking to a man with short blond hair, you said, "Sorry?"

Kid, you were pretty sure his name was, asked his question again. "Did you first start writing here in LA?"

"Uh...no. Nashville, actually," you said. "I lived in Nashville for a while before moving out here. But I...grew up in a small town just outside."

"You never told me that," Harry said, sounding both intrigued and a little hurt that you'd never shared that with him before.

Emboldened by your near-empty glass, you said, "You never asked."

That earned a few chuckles and a raised brow from Harry as if he'd just accepted a challenge you hadn't meant to create. But you read that look in his eyes with ease. Any look was quite easy to read from Harry. He was expressive, an open book. He was going to take this as an opportunity to ask you all the questions he'd been witholding.

Throwing back the rest of your wine, you avoided his eye and ignored the excited flip in your belly.

*.*

If it wasn't for your dog, you were pretty sure you wouldn't be able to keep up with Harry Styles and his impossibly long gait.

He'd kept to his word, insisting that he join you on one of your walks with Buddy Holly. It wasn't until a few days after you went to his house for the first time, but one morning before you usually headed into the studio, he texted and asked if he could join you for your morning walk with your dog. It took some convincing, which really only meant a series of uninterrupted texts until you finally relented.

Buddy took to Harry immediately, of course, though that wasn't a surprise, seeing as your dog was friendly with everyone. But it meant a lot to you that he seemed to like Harry so much. Buddy was a rescue, and you couldn't imagine the awful things he'd been through before you'd given him a proper home.

Now he walked on the sidewalk excitedly, pulling you on his leash as his stubby tail waved around wildly. Harry walked beside you, his curly hair pulled back with a little black claw clip, some of it sticking up in a cute tuft. As he walked beside you, you took the opportunity to study him. There was a little scruff on his cheeks and jaw, creeping down the nape of his neck. His jaw was strong and angular, his cheekbones sharp. Harry really was beautiful. You understood why so many people went so crazy for him.

"See anything you like?"

Warmth flushed your cheeks as you quickly looked ahead, even if the damage was already done. Harry rarely, if ever, caught you staring at him, mostly because it didn't happen often. But in the last few weeks, you'd found yourself admiring him more and more. The movements he made with his hand as he told a story, the mischievous glint in his eye when he made you laugh, the way his arms moved beneath his shirt, how his lips curled around a smile. You cataloged each mannerism, each vocal inflection, and after just a few weeks following that night at his house with his friends, you felt like you knew him quite well.

Shrugging, you feigned nonchalance as your eyes darted back to Buddy, who had stopped to sniff a tree.

You could feel Harry's gaze on you, but you tried not to squirm. His gaze pricked your skin, making you feel things you absolutely shouldn't have been feeling. It was uncomfortable and exhilarating, and you didn't like how much you were warming up to him.

Used to your wordless answers, Harry moved on. "You're making me rethink my decision to get a cat."

"You decided, then?"

"I think I'm more of cat person," Harry said. "Well that, and I think I've found the one, but I'm worried about all the traveling."

"It can stay with me," you said, eyes widening when you did. But it was true, you realized. You were close enough to Harry to promise that kind of thing.

"Well, in that case," Harry said, and you finally looked over to him.

His grin was wide as he looked down at you, and though you couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses, you knew they were more than likely squinted with mirth. You liked that smile, you realized. It was uninhibited, full of warmth and good intentions. You wanted to trust it, to give in to the friendship Harry was offering.

But you couldn't. Harry didn't deserve the abysmal companionship you offered in return, and you felt bad for leading him along when you knew you'd eventually fuck things up. You always did.

Your phone buzzing thankfully pulled you away from your thoughts. Looking at it, you saw a text from your brother, Hayden. You think Laura will be cool with a few football players in her house for Thanksgiving? it said, and you shook your head as you typed a quick reply, a small grin spreading across your face.

Hayden was only going to be in town the day of Thanksgiving, as he had a game the day after. You didn't think he would make it at all, seeing how full his schedule usually was, but he managed to squeeze it in. Apparently his game wasn't too far from Evan's house. As long as he, and his teammates now, didn't drink too much, they would be just fine.

You: I don't think so. Laura might put y'all to work around the house though.

Hayden: Seems fair.

Hayden: Are YOU bringing anyone home?

Hayden: Because I can sit you next to one of my teammates.

Hayden: I take that back. Forget I said that. No teammate of mine is going near my sister.

Rolling your eyes, you stuffed your phone in your back pocket. Harry was looking at you with a curious gaze, and you scrambled to explain yourself. "My brother," you said. "Apparently he's inviting some of his football buddies to Thanksgiving this year."

"Does he play at university?" Harry asked. You could almost hear the eagerness in his voice at the opportunity to learn more about you, and while sharing in general made you squirm, your brothers were fairly easy to talk about.

"He did. He's in the NFL now."

"Oh nice You must be—Wait what's his name?"

"Hayden?"

Harry stopped walking for a moment. When you tried to stop too, Buddy protested, tugging the leash, and the wrist you had wrapped around it pulled uncomfortably. Murmuring a quick apology, Harry kept walking, keeping pace with your energetic puppy.

"Your brother is Hayden L/n?"

You nodded. "I'm guessing you've heard of him then?"

A bark of laughter slipped from Harry's lips. You'd never seen him so caught off guard before. It was strange, but also a relief to know that someone as steady as Harry wasn't so unflappable all the time.

Rubbing a hand over his mouth, he said, "I think everyone has heard of him. Any other famous brothers I should know about?"

"I don't know how you quantify fame, but my other brother is in the NHL. He plays for a team on the east coast."

Andrew was the youngest of your family. Despite that, he still considered himself your older brother, which had always been annoying growing up, especially when you were taller than him for a few years. He was rather sweet for someone so aggressive on the ice. He spent a lot of time with his mom, but was still close to you, Evan, and Hayden. It was hard not to be when you all shared the same deadbeat dad.

Outside of Evan, you probably talked to Andrew the most. You were the closest in age and grew up going to school together, and while his main focus was hockey, whenever he was in town, he'd go with you to concerts to see whatever indie band you were into or treat you to tickets to a show at the arena he played for.

"You have a third, right?" Harry asked, and you weren't even surprised that he remembered even though you were sure you'd only mentioned it once or twice.

"Evan. He's a lawyer in New York, but he lives in Connecticut with his wife and daughter," you said.

Now would be the perfect opportunity to invite Harry to Thanksgiving. You were looping back around on the trail, heading back to the park entrance where you'd met Harry this morning. Evan would pester you about it until you did, or worse, get Hayden and Andrew involved. You just had to throw it out there, be as casual as possible. Easy. You were all about being casual.

"So, um, he—Evan—he, um, said if I wanted I could invite a friend to Thanksgiving. If I wanted to."

"Oh yeah?" You weren't looking at him, but you could hear the grin in his voice.

Swallowing thickly as you willed your cheeks not to flush, you continued to look at Buddy as you spoke. "You probably already have plans, but I just thought I would ask if you wanted to come. Laura, Evan's wife, is a great cook, and it's usually pretty low-key until football gets turned on. But no offensive aunts or uncles or anything like that. Just us."

That was definitely too many words, but the amused look in Harry's eyes didn't feel antagonizing. "I would love to, but um, I already promised my mum I would go home that week."

"Oh." You didn't mean to sound disappointed. It was a good thing that Harry was going home to see his mother. And him meeting your brothers for the first time all at once probably would've scared him out of talking to you in the studio, so really it was for the best. It was for the best. "That's okay. You must be excited to go home. How long has it been?"

"London? Not too long, but I'm headed back to Manchester, and my mum has not been shy in letting me know that it's been too long since..."

You listened to Harry the rest of the walk back, trying to fight off the disappointment gnawing inside you that he'd said no. You didn't want that feeling in you. You wanted to be indifferent. It's for the best. You repeated it over and over until you convinced yourself it was true.

*.*

"You had a speech, you're speechless. Love slipped beyond your reaches. And I couldn't give a reason, Champagne problems."

You scribbled in your notebook, crossing out words from the original recording and replacing them with better ones. You hadn't planned to go back to this song. After recording it on your phone, you figured it wouldn't see the light of day again. But something kept bringing you back to it. So you worked on it between other projects, playing around with the lyrics and melody in small doses so that the past wouldn't overwhelm you.

Guilt seeped into your bones as you recalled what happened eighteen, almost nineteen, months ago. Sometimes you wished you could forget everything you'd done, but other times you decided being forced to remember was part of your penance for causing so much pain. Gavin was a good man. He was so kind and so smart, he didn't have a cruel bone in his body. And you'd taken his goodness, you'd welcomed all his kindness, and crushed it in your hands.

Wiping away a tear, you shut your notebook definitively. Your session in the studio was far from over, but you were done for the day.

On your way out, you kept your head down, not wanting anyone to see your watery eyes. You could feel the tears building, and you hoped you could at least make it to your car before you turned into a mess. It was so hard sometimes. Some days you felt great. You would write good songs, take Buddy for a walk and teach him a new trick, you would get coffee with Harry and laugh, and everything would be fine. But then there were days where the mere thought of the past sent you careening off course, leaving you with nothing but the intrusive thoughts you thought you'd learned how to keep at bay.

Today happened to be one of those days, and you hoped you could escape and wallow in self-pity unnoticed. But before you could even make it to the elevator, you bumped into something solid and warm. Arms wrapped around you to hold you steady before you could spring back, and against your better judgment, you looked up, an apology poised on your lips.

"Y/n, are you okay? What's wrong?"

You should've known that you would be unlucky enough to run into Harry on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Blinking rapidly, you shook your head and stepped out of his grasp, though that didn't make you feel any better. "I'm fine."

"You can talk to me," Harry insisted. His brows furrowed with concern, but he didn't come any closer. There was a bag slung over his shoulder and a hat covering up his hair, with only a few stray curls sticking out beneath it. He looked like he was just going into the studio for a session.

"I'm fine, I promise," you lied, not wanting to be the reason he was late for studio time. "I'm just leaving for the day."

You tried to step around Harry, but his hands fell down on your shoulders. His gaze burned, but you couldn't make yourself look him in the eye. You knew the moment you saw the sympathy swimming in them you'd burst into tears.

"Please let me go," you said, but it came out as more of a squeak, your voice breaking on the last word.

To your surprise, Harry did, and even though that was what you'd asked for, what you wanted, you somehow felt worse. Shuffling around him, you mumbled a quick goodbye and bypassed the elevator, not wanting to wait awkwardly for it to come up while he was still in the hall. It wasn't until you finally got in your car that you let everything out, all the guilt and loneliness and self-loathing that you kept bottled up regularly.

So often you were able to pretend the past didn't exist. But then there were days where you were almost slapped in the face by the consequences of your actions. Negative thoughts followed you all the way home and into your bed. Not even hiding under the covers kept you from feeling everything all at once. Your mind spun as you thought of Gavin, of his elated grin crumpling into a look of betrayal as you told him you were ending it.

You remembered every detail from that night. The brand of Champagne Gavin bought for the would-be occasion, the woodsy cologne he wore, the looks on his friends' and family's faces as you hurried down the stairs to leave the party, unable to bear their shame and disapproval, or the heart you'd broken on the landing in his family's mansion.

You didn't know he was going to propose until mere moments before it happened. You had only been seeing Gavin for a few months, and things were good. He made you happy, and you liked having someone to go through life with. He liked to shower you with expensive gifts, for no other reason than to show you he cared and because he could. You didn't have the same kind of wealth he or his family did, not even with the substantial amount of money you made as a successful songwriter. But you'd write him poems and leave them places you knew he'd find them and looped your arm through his at company parties. Things were good.

Every year, Gavin's family hosted a Christmas party, and last year was the first time you'd been invited. You hadn't wanted to go, mostly because in the two weeks leading up to the party, you realized you weren't in the same place Gavin was emotionally, and you weren't sure you ever would be. But Gavin insisted, promising it would be fun and he wouldn't abandon you to his family, who had been nothing but cold since the moment he'd introduced them to you. So you went, sipping on Champagne in a glass made of crystal and wondering if the guilty pit at the bottom of your stomach would ever stop growing.

It was a couple hours into the party when you'd stumbled on a conversation between Gavin's mother and sister, one that made your blood run cold with dread.

"Did Gav really ask you for your ring?" his sister asked.

His mother nodded gravely. "He wants to do it tonight."

"What? That's ridiculous! They've barely been together a year!"

"I'm sure she would make a lovely bride, she's beautiful, I'll give her that," his mother conceded, but you could hear the disdain in her voice loud and clear. "It's just a shame that she's—"

"Fucked in the head?"

"Larissa! Language!"

"What? She is! She's a total basket case, and everyone can see it but him. She'll never make him happy. How could she? Putting a ring on it doesn't change a thing. Gavin would have a psych patient, not a wife. He deserves better."

The rest of the night was a blur, but you knew you couldn't wait. You didn't want to break up with Gavin on the night of his family's Christmas party, but if he was going to propose, you couldn't let him. The hurt would be so much worse if you had to slide the ring off your finger a week or two after the proposal.

Gavin called you for weeks afterward, begging you to help him understand. His family did too, and his friends, people you considered friends as well, but it was clear once there was a line drawn in the sand where everyone stood, and they didn't have any trouble letting you know how horrible you were for doing what you did. Sometimes when you let yourself get angry, you wondered why Gavin's mother and sister, or any of them really, were so aggressive about your break up. They'd never wanted you to be with him in the first place, and even though they'd gotten their wish, they still called you a heartless monster.

But above all that, Gavin's messages made the deepest cut. He sounded so devastated in each voicemail. And at first, all he wanted was to talk, to somehow work it all out as if it was one big misunderstanding. I know my family can be a lot, but I love you so much, he'd said in a text. We can go to Italy like we'd planned. Elope. Buy a little cottage and just start a new life somewhere else. Please, Y/n. Talk to me. I love you.

Messages like those were the toughest pills to swallow. You knew Gavin loved you, you never doubted that for a moment. The problem was you didn't feel the same. You didn't know why. You cared for Gavin a lot, and in the beginning, you had all those giddy, initial relationship feelings, but they never developed beyond that. And when you noticed Gavin's feelings growing more and more each day while yours didn't, you started to panic.

But it was when those messages turned angry, hateful even, that hurt the most. It was what you deserved after what you'd done, but to know that you'd turned one of the gentlest souls you knew into a spiteful one killed you almost as much as stopping him from getting down on one knee had.

In the midst of all your crying and hyperventilating, your phone buzzed. Wiping your eyes and nose, you lifted your phone to your face, squinting at the bright light.

Harry S: I know you probably want space, but I'm here for you xx

You shouldn't be, was your first thought, but all you texted back was, Just a bad day that's all.

Harry's response was almost immediate, as if he was waiting around for your reply.

Harry S: Well, if you ever need a friend, you know where to find me :))

You sighed, feeling another wave of tears overwhelm you. The pressure of friendship weighed heavily on your chest. All you could offer was disappointment, and you couldn't stomach the thought of letting someone like Harry down. He was too good a person to be your friend. All you could offer him was disappointment and pain. You were toxic, and better off left alone.

You: We're not friends. I don't want to be your friend so just leave me alone.

*.*

Weeks went by and you were positively miserable. Thanksgiving came and went, and even your brothers could sense not to pry about your sour mood. Evan tried to get you alone, but you didn't want to talk. You didn't want to explain how you'd fucked things up so royally. Again. You didn't want his sympathy, or Hayden's promise to fight anyone who hurt you, or Andrew's cheesy jokes to lift your spirits. What you wanted had been all the way in England and had been giving you the cold shoulder. Just like you'd asked.

Harry stopped saying hi to you at the studio, which hurt more than you thought it would. In the grand scheme of things, you hadn't known him very long, but seeing him in the hallway and watching him purposely avoid you felt awful. You only had yourself to blame, but you thought it was better to let him down early on than further down the line. You couldn't have another Gavin situation on your hands.

But this felt entirely different. Even though you'd only spoken to Harry for a month, his absence from your life was more poignant than you expected it to be. When you ended things with Gavin, you felt guilty for hurting him, but ultimately, there was a sense of relief that you weren't leading him on, that crushing weight of his family's disapproval on your chest lifted. Breaking up with Gavin was hard, but it was the right thing to do for you, there was no doubt in your mind about that.

But this thing with Harry...you'd pushed him away when you were feeling vulnerable. A preemptive measure for the both of you, but there was no relief, no justifiable sense of rightness in your gut in the days following.

Part of you wanted to reach out to him and apologize, but you worried he hated you now and didn't know how to bridge the gap you created between the two of you.

Opportunity struck when you overheard a conversation between Harry and...Mitch. you were pretty sure that was Mitch from that night at Harry's house. It was about a week after you came back from your brother's house, and all three of them were constantly calling or texting despite their busy schedules. You wouldn't have put it past any of them to have set up times to routinely check in on you. It warmed your heart some, but nothing would feel right until you fixed things with Harry. Pushing him away had been a mistake, you saw that now. You'd done it in a moment when you were at your lowest, and that wasn't fair to either of you.

"I'm sorry, mate," Harry said to Mitch. "I didn't even think to ask if you were allergic before adopting a cat. I feel like an idiot now."

So he went ahead with his plan to get a pet, then. The thought made you smile, but you held it in. You were pressed into the corner of the elevator up to the studio. Harry was definitely aware of your presence, but he hadn't acknowledged you. Mitch gave you an awkward wave, but that was somehow worse.

"No worries, man," Mitch said now, stepping out of the elevator with Harry. He was in a white t-shirt and a light brown cardigan today, his curly brown hair looking beautifully windswept. You refused to think about the current state of your hair, which was hiding beneath a blue baseball cap. "I'll just have to—"

You never found out what Mitch would have to do because they rounded a corner of the hallway, leaving you alone outside the elevator. Quickly scurrying into your usual studio, you sat down at the grand piano, letting the smooth keys cool your sweaty palms. You felt breathless, but it wasn't the usual anxiety-ridden breathlessness you were used to. This felt different, your heart speeding up at the thought of Harry's broad shoulders beneath his sweater.

"Pull yourself together, Y/n," you told yourself.

The damage was done—once again, at your hands, but you couldn't help that right this second. Right now you had work to do.

The next day, you did something you didn't normally do—venture outside of your studio. Since working in the building, you'd never thought to explore the other rooms, to introduce yourself or make friends the way Harry had with you. As you walked down the long hallway of closed and half-open doors, you wondered who was behind them, what kind of projects were being worked on right now.

Most importantly, you wanted to know which door Harry sat behind.

After a day of writing, of trying to lean into more positive feelings, the small hope you had for a brighter future. You left the studio feeling lighter after another introspective session. There'll be happiness after you, but there was happiness because of you, both of these things can be true, you'd written, forming your thoughts around a melody that was both somber and hopeful. That moment when you'd pushed Harry away was the lowest you'd felt in a while, but you didn't want to feel that way anymore. All Harry had been asking for was friendship. You could do friendship, in fact, you craved it.

So now you were trying to make things right with Harry, or at least apologize for your rude text. He'd only ever been incredibly kind to you, and you'd treated him like garbage.

You came across a door that was partially open, laughter filtering out and reaching you in the hallway. Harry's voice was mixed among them, and hearing him laugh filled you with butterflies. Going to his studio suddenly felt like a mistake. You didn't want to bring down his mood, especially if it would affect his writing for the day.

But you finally worked up the courage to knock on the open door. You'd already made it this far. The knock immediately sobered up everyone inside the studio, and you waited outside with your gift bag clutched in your hands. One of Harry's friends appeared, eyes widening when he saw you there.

"Y/n," he said. "It's good to see you."

You couldn't tell if he was pleased to see you or not, and nerves slowly began to creep in.

"I—I won't take up too much of your time, I know y'all are probably busy," you said. "I just, um, could you give this to Harry, please?"

You shoved the bag in the man's direction, forcing him to take it. "You can come in. He's just inside—"

"No, it's okay. I should probably get back to it. So, uh, see you."

You turned and fled, heat flooding your cheeks. Honestly, you were surprised you made it that far. You figured your courage would fizzle out before knocking on the studio door.

Settling back in your studio, you pulled out your journal and phone out of your bag, and opened up to a fresh page to work on a new song. On the way into work this morning, your agent pitched you an opportunity to write for an up-and-coming artist. "Something light, Y/n," she'd said, knowing you'd been writing mostly sad, break-up songs recently. "If it doesn't work out, then it doesn't work out, but at least try. You've always liked to challenge yourself."

So you were putting away the Champagne problems for now and channeling your happiest thoughts. You even brought your computer to stream romantic comedies while you worked for some additional inspiration.

You were halfway through When Harry met Sally when that inspiration finally struck. Lighter, happier words finally filled your journal, a rare, but not completely uncommon occurrence. You'd written love songs in the past, both before and while you were with Gavin. But surprisingly, Gavin wasn't who came to mind, nor was it the characters in the movie on your computer.

You thought of Harry's smile, his flushed cheeks after he'd had a couple drinks, his green eyes that seemed to sparkle when he laughed. Did you have a crush on him? You weren't entirely sure, maybe you just admired his goodness. And, okay fine, his unfair amount of good looks too. But you tried not to focus too long on who exactly inspired you, just on making sure the words kept flowing onto the page.

Perhaps you should've expected Harry to stop by, but you hadn't. His voice startled you, your eyes having been glued to the screen of your computer as the final scene of Roman Holiday played out in front of you. It had always been one of your favorites, and you decided that a brain break was needed as the final third of the film rolled around.

"What's this?"

No matter how many times you'd seen it, the ending never failed to bring tears to your eyes. Seeing the glisten of tears in Gregory Peck's eyes as he stared longingly at Audrey Hepburn's, knowing they loved each other but could never be together was heartbreaking. It had been the most tragic thing you'd ever experienced when you first watched it as a girl, and it hadn't even happened to you.

It was those tears now that you wiped away, a warmth creeping up your cheeks because this was the second time Harry had caught you crying. How embarrassing.

Looking up, you saw the gift bag in one hand, the other in his pocket as he stared at you blankly. No warmth or his usual smile, but he wasn't glaring at you, either. He just looked indifferent, and that didn't sit well with you at all.

"I...I overheard you and Mitch talking about your cat and his allergies, and I'd heard of this stuff that you can use on your pets to help people who are allergic to animals."

You'd gone out and bought it after leaving the studio the day you'd overheard the conversation between Mitch and Harry. It was your version of an olive branch, a way to express your guilt after taking Harry's friendship and throwing it in his face. You were his friend, and you wanted him to know it.

It probably seemed silly to hide behind a gift instead of saying something, considering your profession. But confrontation was almost as terrifying as love was, it was part of the reason why you only wrote songs and didn't perform them.

Harry scoffed, and it looked like he couldn't decide between laughing or rolling his eyes. "No, I know what this is, I'm asking why you gave it to me. Or not me, to my friend and then scurried back over here."

"I'm sorry about that, about everything," you said, shutting your laptop and shifting in your chair. "I was...I haven't been in the best place for some time now. It's not an excuse for how I treated you that day. You caught me in a bad moment and I lashed out."

"Thank you for apologizing," he said, his voice cool and even. You desperately wanted to know what he was thinking. What he saw when he looked at you. "Do you want to grab coffee? Maybe we can talk?"

The thought of being open and honest in the way that he was suggesting was daunting, but Harry deserved your honesty. "Sure. Let me just pack up my things."

Harry waited for you by the door as you packed your bag, jotting a couple notes down in your journal before putting it away. Your hands shook a little as you approached him, excitement swelling in your belly despite the anxiety you felt at the prospect of having to talk about things you preferred to leave in the recesses of your mind. But it felt good to see Harry again, to walk beside him and head to your favorite coffee house.

Neither of you said anything on the short walk over, and even after you placed your orders, you remained quiet. When your name was called out alongside Harry's to grab your drinks, you knew it was time to find a table, but you stayed rooted to your spot in front of the counter.

It was Larissa. Gavin's sister. She was standing next to the other end of the counter where baristas called out and dropped off orders. There was a moment when she didn't see you, and you thought you could make a break for it, even if that meant leaving Harry high and dry. But even if you wanted to, you were frozen in place, and when Larissa's gaze finally landed on you, you felt her glare even from a short distance.

"Y/n?" Harry asked, both drinks in his hands. "What's—"

"Y/n! How good to see you!"

Larissa's kind smile was anything but. You'd never trusted Gavin's sister. From the moment you met her, you knew to be wary of her, and after everything that happened, you were sure nothing good was going to come out of this interaction.

"H—Hi, Larissa. How are you?" you said, trying your best not to look at Harry, who had a quizzical look on his face.

"Oh, I'm just fabulous. I've just spent the last year healing my brother's broken heart, which you broke like it was nothing," Larissa said. "He's great, by the way. Finally came to his senses and realized what a God-awful mess you were. He realized all of us were better off without you."

Then, before you could even make sense of what was happening, a rush of cold washed over you. At first, you thought it was merely a visceral reaction to the confrontation, but Harry's, "What the fuck?" made you think twice.

Looking down, you realized Larissa had poured her drink on your sweater. Shock left you blinking at Gavin's sister, tears welling in your eyes. With shaking hands, you held the ruined sweater in your hands, then back to Larissa. "Wh—Why—"

"That's for my brother, slut."

"That's enough," Harry said, voice harder and colder than you'd ever heard him before. Even when he was upset with you at the studio, he never sounded this angry. Gently gripping your elbow, he turned you around. You hardly noticed the flashing of cameras aimed in your direction. All you could really process was Larissa's smirk and the iced coffee dripping off you onto the coffee house's floor.

When you were finally outside and a block down the road, Harry pulled you down an alley where you could have a moment of privacy. He pulled his sweater over his head and offered it to you in a bundle. You quietly murmured your thanks and took it from him, slipping it over your head. The plain black sweater was warm and smelled like him—like laundry detergent and expensive cologne. It would've been the kind of thing to flood your senses if shame hadn't currently encompassed every fiber of your being.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," you said when you felt like you could speak without your voice trembling.

"You don't have to apologize for what happened, Y/n," Harry said. He gently rested his hand on your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I think so."

You couldn't look him in the eye, not while your iced coffee-ridden sweater was now ruining his, not while he kept looking at you with such pity. You could feel it down to your toes, and it made you want to curl up in a ball and never get out of bed. But Harry deserved an explanation. At the very least, he deserved to know who he associated himself with.

"I should explain—"

"You don't have to," Harry insisted.

"I want to," you said, believing the words as you said them. You weren't sure what you would've done if Harry hadn't been with you a few minutes ago. His brows were still furrowed with concern, his thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder. His sweater layered over yours created a pretty thick barrier, but you could feel his touch as if he was caressing your skin. "We can, um, we can go back to my place."

Thankfully, Harry didn't protest, just nodded quietly. The walk back to the studio was completely silent, leaving you alone with your thoughts until it was time to part ways. He got in his car and followed you home, silently following you up the steps to your apartment, a comfortable little one-bedroom twenty minutes from the studio.

Buddy was at the door when you unlocked it, tail wagging and tongue lolling to the side of his mouth happily. He greeted you first, then Harry, who he tried with all his might to knock over by getting up on his hind legs and resting on your guest. "Buddy! Down!" you hissed, frantically holding onto your dog's collar. Harry laughed and waived you off, surprising you by lifting Buddy up into his arms. Both boys were perfectly content, and the image of your friend holding your dog in your apartment was enough to lift your spirits the tiniest bit. A small smile crept onto your face, and Harry's grin widened when he saw it.

"Nice place," Harry commented, spinning around in a slow circle as he looked around.

"Thanks." Your apartment was small, but it was in a nice neighborhood and close to the beach. You made just enough in royalties to be comfortable in a little one bedroom. "Definitely different from my place in Nashville."

Harry nodded mildly before setting Buddy back down on the floor, admiring the colorful furniture that took up the space in your living room. Shivering a little, you looked down at yourself, reminded of your coffee-soaked clothes.

"There are treats in the pantry," you said, setting your things down on the kitchen counter and nodding to the pantry in question. "I'm just going to get changed so I can wash your sweater."

Harry nodded, but he seemed content to play with Buddy and look around your apartment, and your dog seemed perfectly happy to never walk on four legs ever again.

You tried to make quick work of changing, not wanting to keep Harry waiting too long. But you gave yourself a minute or two to calm down and process everything that had happened in the last hour. Even though it was horribly embarrassing, you were glad Harry had been there. He'd been a calming presence throughout, and you could only hope that would continue as you explained why you'd pushed him away.

*.*

"I...I didn't want to hurt you," you said, looking down at where your hands were knotted in your lap. "I just...I don't have a very good track record with relationships. Of any kind. I didn't want you to be one of the people I ruined."

Harry had been surprisingly quiet while you explained everything. And by everything, you meant everything. From Gavin to the Christmas party and what you'd heard to the would-be proposal. You told him about that song you'd written a couple weeks ago and how it brought all that emotion to the forefront of your memory and that it led you to push Harry away. He hadn't said much, asking you a few questions here and there; but for the most part, he let you speak uninterrupted, and you were surprised at how you continued to fill the silence, not once feeling uncomfortable. Perhaps a little ashamed after explaining how badly you'd hurt Gavin, but you never felt discomfort telling Harry any of it.

"Y/n, I—" Harry began to say before pausing. Looking up at him, you saw his brows furrowed, a look of consternation on his face. You waited for the blow, the one that eventually led him to leave you friendless once and for all. "I don't think you're a bad person for breaking up with him. I can't imagine that kind of hurt, sure, but if you didn't love him, you did the right thing. Do you—Do you seriously believe you're fucked in the head? Or that you ruin people?"

He was referencing the song you'd written, and you flushed bright red at the idea of him hearing more of the song than you would've liked. Shrugging, you gave him the truth. It didn't seem fit to lie when you'd bared your soul to him. "I don't know."

You could tell that answer didn't sit right with Harry. His frown deepened, and you desperately wanted to see him smile again. "Y/n, everyone makes mistakes in relationships, and even then I don't think you did anything wrong in that moment. Was it unfortunate timing? Maybe, but I don't think you should punish yourself for it anymore. In fact, I think what you did was brave."

"What?"

Smiling, Harry took your hand in his. It was warm, and his long fingers curled around your hand with ease. On any other day, you would've pulled back, but after sharing so much with him, this felt good. It felt right.

"I said what you did was brave," he said again. "You didn't love him, but you could've accepted the proposal and stayed with him. And then what? Leave him at the altar? Stay in a loveless marriage? It was hard, but you did the right thing for you and Gavin. I'm sure even he would come to understand that one day. Have you tried talking to him?"

You shook your head. "He hates me now."

"I don't think anyone could really hate you, Y/n," Harry said quietly, a blush crawling up his cheeks as if he hadn't meant to say that out loud. "I know you might disagree, but I think you might feel a lot better about all of this if you talked to him."

"His family—"

"Fuck his family. Gavin is a grown man who can think for himself," Harry said. "If he can't separate their wrong opinions from his own thoughts, then he's an idiot who never deserved you anyway."

You laughed a little at the first half of what he said. It felt nice to know that someone was on your side. Squeezing Harry's hand, you said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For listening, for being a good friend when I maybe didn't deserve it. Evan's the only person I talked to about this, and even then I didn't explain everything," you said. Evan had been on your side, but it didn't really count to you. He was your brother. He had to be on your side. "I just don't have the best track record when it comes to hurting people, you know?"

Your eyes had fallen to your hand, which was still curled around his, but to your surprise, Harry's other one lifted your chin to meet his gaze. With wide eyes, you looked at him, heart beating a little wilder in your chest when you saw the look on his face. His expression was wide open, earnest and endearing, and filled with...something you weren't ready to see yet. But it filled you with warmth, and for the first time in a long time, you really believed that you didn't have to be alone.

"I don't think you'll hurt me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

His hand pushed a strand of your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. The movement made your breath hitch, lips parting as you tried to decide what Harry was going to do next, what you wanted him to do next. He seemed like he was waiting for something too, and his gaze was finally too much, like he could see your soul and was currently shuffling through every little thing you longed for and were afraid of. It was heavy with emotion, and you weren't ready for it.

"You should probably get going soon," you said, rising, with great difficulty, to your feet and putting some distance between yourself and Harry. A frown on Harry's face appeared, and you quickly explained yourself. "Your cat. You probably should head home and feed her."

Before you and Harry sat down to talk about...everything, he briefly mentioned his new kitten, Sweet Pea. "It was the name she already had when I adopted her, and it didn't feel right to change it, though sometimes she's not so sweet." She was a fluffy Ragdoll cat that was apparently quite the diva, and Harry proudly showed off picture after picture, claiming he was already in love with his new furry companion.

Now though, Harry's eyes widened as if he hadn't even thought about his new kitten since being here. "Right. Good call. I'll see you tomorrow?"

You nodded as you watched him gather his things. "I'll return the sweater tomorrow."

"Don't worry about it," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

You walked Harry to the door to see him out. He crossed the threshold but paused before heading down to his car. You couldn't read the look that crossed his face, but his lingering gave you one last opportunity to take him all in. The muscles in his arms bulged beneath the white t-shirt he wore, and his hair had grown a tad longer since you'd spoken to him last, now curling around the nape of his neck and touching the collar of his shirt. Harry was taller than you, but not by much, though standing this close, it felt like he was a whole foot taller as you craned your neck to look at him.

Then, before you could ask if he'd forgotten something, he leaned forward. It took you a moment to realize what he'd done, but the lingering traces of heat on your forehead helped. He'd kissed you. On the forehead.

"See you tomorrow!"

Harry was gone in a flash, leaving you standing at the front door of your apartment with an open mouth as you tried to decide what his forehead kiss meant. To you, it felt sisterly, and you couldn't help the disappointment that swirled in your gut. You quickly pushed that feeling away, closing the door on whatever happened just then.

*.*

For the next few weeks, everything felt like it was back to normal. Better than normal, even. Despite the awkwardness you felt at having to see Harry after the odd forehead kiss, Harry acted like it never happened, which you were thankful for. You wouldn't have known what to say if he'd brought it up. Or tried to do it again.

But it became clear, despite the teeny tiny budding feelings you might have had for him, that he merely saw you as a friend. After your long talk with him at your apartment, Harry began showing you some of the work he'd been doing in his own studio down the hall from yours. It appeared he was getting over a break up too, though you never would've guessed by how cheerful he was most days. He still was, even as he explained a little about his most recent relationship, and you realized that while you hid your true emotions behind a wall, he might've been hiding behind his happy disposition. It made you want to dig deeper, to see what lay beneath all that "fineness."

As you spent more time with Harry, you also began hanging out with his friends. The first time you returned to his house for another game night, everyone seemed genuinely happy to see you, namely Sylvia. "I'm so glad you're spending more time with H," she'd said that night. "I love him to death but he's a clingy motherfucker when he's lonely."

That thought made you laugh. You recalled a conversation you'd had with Harry a while back when he'd said his friends were "disgustingly in love." He seemed like the kind of guy who loved love, but you also didn't want Sylvia, or any of his friends, to get the wrong idea.

"Oh I don't—I mean we're not—I don't think he sees me that way."

That wasn't how you wanted to explain yourself, seeing as you weren't even sure if you saw him that way. But Sylvia must have seen your flushed cheeks and understood your floundering because she smiled at you warmly.

"I think this calls for a girl's day. What do you think?"

"Oh. Um..." You didn't expect any of Harry's friends to want to hang out with you one on one, but you'd been leaning into trying new things lately. And girl's day? You grew up with three brothers, the last time you had anything resembling that was a tea party Hayden and Evan threw for you when you were six. "Sure. I could meet you for lunch this week if you'd like."

"Lunch sounds perfect."

A couple days passed until you had Buddy on his leash, walking down to the cafe you and Sylvia agreed on. You were a little nervous, but mostly excited. It had been a while since you'd hung out casually with a friend—you weren't counting Harry—and while you'd grown accustomed to the loneliness, you couldn't help but acknowledge that it felt nice to talk to someone other than your dog.

"Okay," Sylvia said once the waiter walked away with your orders. She'd held off asking about Harry, but now the time had come. "Hit me. What did Harold do?"

"Nothing," you said, perhaps a little too quickly. When Sylvia pinned you with a stare, you looked down at your glass of water. "He just...He gave me a kiss? On the forehead? And I don't know, it just read very...brotherly."

Sylvia sighed, which at the very least vindicated your feelings. It wasn't like you wanted anything more, but the whole thing left you feeling confused. A cheek kiss would've been easier to navigate, but the forehead? It left Y/n thinking about Harry more than she should've.

"Okay, I can see where you might be confused by that, but as someone with a brother, I can confidently say they don't do shit like that."

You weren't sure what you expected her to say, or what you even wanted her to say, but it wasn't that. Sylvia knew Harry fairly well, so it was safe to say that she was telling the truth, you just weren't ready to accept what she was implying.

"I do too, and I know the last thing I would expect from any of my brothers is a kiss on the forehead, but I don't know," you said, trying to remain as neutral as possible knowing Sylvia could report back to Harry. This whole thing was starting to feel very grade school-esque.

"Just know that Harry's a pretty open guy, but he's been burned in the past so he might be a little closed off or not be as inclined to make the first move," Sylvia said, though in some ways it sounded like a warning. "He's the greatest guy you'll ever meet, and whatever you decide, just be gentle, okay?"

It was hard to imagine someone as positive and happy as Harry having a dark past, but it sounded like there was a lot more than what met the eye as far as he was concerned. It was honestly a little comforting to know that he wasn't perfect. You were such a mess sometimes it seemed unfair that people wandered through life seemingly unscathed. You knew that was rarely ever the case, but sometimes it was hard to remember when guys like Harry walked around embracing life and had smiles for every occasion.

"I will," you promised, and you meant it. You were pretty sure nothing was going to happen between you and Harry, but you could appreciate Sylvia looking out for her friend. As nice as she had been to you so far, she was Harry's friend first. Her words made you wonder if you would ever have friends so fiercely loyal to you.

After that lunch with Sylvia, the weeks began to pass by in a blur. There were days when you saw Harry frequently, and then you wouldn't see him at all. He would show up at your studio to get coffee—at a new coffee shop, of course—you stopped by his to bring him and his friends baked goods, and sometimes you would end the night at one another's houses, a bottle of wine and takeout split between the two of you. You weren't dating, at least you wouldn't categorize whatever it was that you were doing as dating, but it felt nice to have someone in your life consistently again, and you liked that Harry was that person even more.

That didn't mean you couldn't read the signs. Sometimes Harry's gaze would linger when he thought you didn't notice, or he would sit a lot closer than was maybe necessary when you hung out with his friends. Sometimes his hand would brush yours as you watched a movie as if he wanted to hold it, and yours would brush back encourgingly, and then suddenly you were holding hands. To anyone else, it might have appeared confusing—in fact, Sylvia had vocalized her confusion over the non-relationship you and Harry were engaging in—but for you, not acknowledging what was happening and not putting any labels or definitions on this thing happening between the two of you was somehow easier to swallow. And since Harry seemed to be following your lead, he didn't say anything to object.

It was around Christmastime that things began to change. You'd spent your morning writing a song for an artist's Christmas album, a feat you'd managed to avoid in the past. But since you'd worked with the artist before and liked the vision she had for this album, you decided to at least try to write a holiday song. It wasn't necessarily that you disliked Christmas or the holidays, you were just indifferent to the season in question, and after everything that transpired two years ago now, you just never felt like celebrating much.

Harry Styles, however, was a huge fan of Christmas. his studio was decked out with lights and garlands, he got him and Sweet Pea matching sweaters, which you weren't entirely sure if he knitted or not, and he'd been bugging you since Thanksgiving to come over to decorate cookies. He'd finally worn you down and you were going over later tonight, but not before putting in a couple hours at the studio, which turned into sitting in on one of Harry's sessions.

It didn't happen often, but you did like seeing the team approach to writing songs as opposed to your usual solitary method. For the most part, you watched as Harry bounced ideas off his friends, observing as they focused on one chord progression or verse until something else stole their attention away. It was a bit chaotic, but everyone in the room seemed to be having fun.

It was in the middle of a heated debate between another fun, upbeat song or beginning to work on a ballad when the melody came to you. It was just piano chords, and had you been in your own studio, you would've immediately sat down to play it and see where it went. But this wasn't your studio, and it wasn't your session, and while you knew no one would've minded hearing your input, you felt nervous all of a sudden, self-conscious.

So instead, you pulled some blank sheet music out and began to scribble, writing as quickly as possible before the melody escaped you. The melody had taken up so much space in your head that everything else faded away. You envisioned arrangements, themes, a line or two sprouting as you wrote down the next note. Something sad and somber, the exact opposite of what Harry had been pushing for since he entered the studio.

"What am I now?" you wrote on the back of the sheet music. You didn't know how it would fit, but it would. You could tinker with the words later, so long as all your thoughts were written down somewhere, you would find a way to make it happen.

"What are you working on over there?"

Harry was suddenly at your side, and when he peeked over your shoulder, you didn't try to hide your frenzied notes. You handed them over, unsure if he even read sheet music. "It was just a thought I had. I can play it for you if you'd like?"

"Please," Harry said, gesturing to the piano in the corner of the room. It was then that you realized that everyone else had left the room at some point or another. At your questioning glance, Harry explained. "Ten minute break, but it felt like you were onto something...And I figured you'd be more willing to share if it wasn't in front of a group."

"Thank you," you said, those pesky butterflies swirling around in your stomach. They seemed to appear any time Harry so much as smiled at you. "It's just a melody, really, but maybe you can use it for something.

You sat down at the piano, eyes widening when Harry sat down beside you. Shaking it off, you focused on the piano, the keys cool and smooth to the touch, a familiar feeling that felt nice among such a different work setting. You explained your thought process to Harry a little bit, telling him the direction you hoped the song would go in and possible arrangements for it and whatnot. Harry, who apparently knew you better than you thought he did, nudged you with his elbow and encouraged you to play, knowing that you were stalling.

It wasn't that you were unsure of yourself or your talent. You knew you were good at what you did. You'd collaborated on multiple albums and worked with many well-known artists and bands, or artists who were just breaking out onto the scene and did so with the help of your songwriting. The difference here was that you normally didn't play an idea for anyone until it was fully realized. You typically sent over demos and typed up lyrics, and Harry would be one of the first to hear something that you'd only just come up with. Besides Buddy, but he didn't really count.

Taking a deep breath, you began to play, letting the chords you'd only just come up with pull your focus. After having played through it a couple times, you looked over at Harry, who had a faraway look in his eyes, an idea of his own forming in his head, perhaps.

"It's fairly simple, but I think that's what's rather beautiful about it," you said while still playing. "Sometimes you don't need much to get a response from someone, and I think a melody like this really allows an artist to shine, you know? Whether that's through their lyrics, or their vocal range, or both. And obviously it can be changed to a different key, this is just the one I wrote down, but...yeah, that's what I've got."

You finally stopped playing to hear Harry's opinion, though you wished you hadn't. Now your hands didn't really know what to do, and it took a lot of effort to keep them knotted together in your lap. Harry still looked pensive, as if he hadn't even heard your rambling, though now you were even more curious to know what he thought.

"Harry?"

Blinking, Harry turned toward you, his knee bumping against yours on the piano bench. His eyes cleared up as he remembered he wasn't alone in the studio. "Hm? Sorry, just thinking."

Offering him your pen and a fresh page in your journal, you said, "Did you maybe want to write it down?"

After that, you and Harry wrote hundreds of songs together. At least it felt like a hundred songs. Whether it was in the studio, or at each other's homes—mainly his because he had a home studio and a guest room for when sessions went too long—the two of you were almost always writing together. It wasn't always for his album, either. Sometimes Harry would help you with projects you were working on for other artists, or you would just write songs for the sake of writing them.

And it just worked. It felt like you and Harry just clicked. He was able to vocalize what you were trying to say to his producer, and you knew what he was thinking before he said it or the sound he was going for based off a couple descriptors. You'd never known someone so intimately before, or understood them so completely, Not even Gavin.

Harry was witty and smart and kind and genuine. He felt things deeply, and kept a lot of his darkest secrets and deepest insecurities incredibly close to his chest. You realized at some point that he was even more guarded than you in some ways. As you wrote together more and more, you obviously realized that there was more than met the eye when it came to your friend, but outside of songwriting, he wouldn't divulge much. He'd been through a breakup recently, that much you could tell, and while you wanted to know more, you respected his privacy and the desire to leave the past exactly where it was. Unless it came to the music, of course.

"So...you're what? Friends without all the benefits?" Sylvia asked you.

You met with her pretty regularly now for lunch during the week. Harry wasn't typically the topic of conversation, but on this occasion, Sylvia was giving you the third degree.

"We're co-workers. And friends," you added as an afterthought. Saying you were merely co-workers didn't seem right to you anymore, and you knew Harry would be upset if you thought otherwise. "I don't know what other benefits I would need outside of his companionship."

"Bull. Shit." Sylvia pinned you with a stare that made you blush. "Last weekend he had you practically sitting in his lap, and you're trying to tell me nothing's going on?"

"Not really. I don't think either of us are in a place to be in a relationship right now." It was the same line you fed to Andrew last week when you went to see one of his games. He thankfully bought it, or maybe he was just used to you keeping your love life to yourself, but Sylvia wasn't having it.

"What makes you say that?"

You shrugged. "I mean I'm definitely not, and I can just tell he's not there yet either. I mean, obviously, I've learned about his most recent relationship by working with him, but outside of that, he doesn't tell me anything. I don't even know her name."

You weren't offended that Harry didn't want to share about his ex. You wouldn't have told him about Gavin if you hadn't been put in that particular situation. But you understood better than most about that kind of pain. Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe his feelings were getting all jumbled up between the past and the present. Or maybe he just didn't like you that way. The last theory hurt more than you cared to admit, but you were more scared of another potential relationship going up in flames than finding out the truth, so you decided ignorance really was bliss.

Sylvia nodded, understanding. You realized she must've known his ex, though you didn't ask for details. That was Harry's story to tell, not hers, and you were pretty sure Sylvia would say the same if you did ask. "I guess that's fair. But so, you're just...friends who kiss occasionally?"

You nearly choked on your sip of water. "What? No! Of course not. We don't—We—"

"Let me save you the struggle of coming up with an unconvincing lie," Sylvia said. "I've seen you."

"When?"

"Christmas party," she said, raising one finger as if she was about to list a few occurences.

"That was mistletoe. It was innocent," you said with a dismissive wave of your hand, even though said hand was suddenly clammy.

"New Year's."

"Everyone kisses at the end of the countdown!"

"At game night when he kissed your neck?"

"Why are you paying that close attention to my neck?"

"And," Slyvia said, pointedly ignoring your last remark. "I have it on good authority that Harry kissed you at the studio last week. Don't try to hide it, Y/n."

Sighing, you said, "So what's your point, exactly?"

"My point is that y'all are just pretending you're not in a relationship when you are!" she said, looking at you as if you had two heads. "Look, it's clear you've been through some shit and Harry has too, I won't deny that. But are you really going to put your happiness on the back burner because of it?"

Your cheeks burned at having been caught. It wasn't like you'd planned to kiss Harry any of those times. Each kiss came as a surprise, leaving you more and more breathless than the last and hopeful for another. What Sylvia didn't know was that you and Harry had kissed a lot more than the handful that she'd rattled off. Sometimes when it was late and you were over at his house working, he'd get this look in his eyes that would turn your whole body molten. He'd lean in close, nudge your nose with his, and then his lips were on yours and time suddenly didn't exist.

You liked kissing Harry. A lot. You liked the way his fingers gingerly held your jaw, you liked that kissing him gave you free rein to touch him wherever you wanted—his hair, his arms, beneath his shirt. Sometimes it felt like you couldn't get enough, but it always ended with one of you pulling away under the guise that it was getting late. Your lips would tingle long after, and you'd text Harry late at night when you should've been asleep, or he would call to talk about whatever he was thinking.

To anyone else, it wouldn't make sense, but it made sense to you and Harry. There was no pressure to be more, no urgency to define what you were doing, and that seemed to work for both of you.

"I'm perfectly happy right now," you said, and you were.

It had been a long time since you'd felt this content. Your breakup with Gavin left you feeling guilty and ashamed. And deep down, you knew you already felt more for Harry than you did for your ex, and that made you feel horrible too. Part of you still felt you were being greedy by trying to be this happy, that you should just take what you were given and try not to press your luck.

Sylvia took you by surprise by taking your hand. Her fingers were warm and reassuring, just as her eyes were when you finally met her gaze. It was safe to say now that she was your friend. She'd come over to your house multiple times for wine and movie nights, you went out to bars together, you'd met her partner, who was the absolute sweetest person on the planet. You valued Sylvia's friendship, and you valued her as a person. You didn't want to lose her if things with Harry progressed and fizzled out.

"It's okay to want more, Y/n," she said gently.

It was like she saw through all the bullshit and realized what you were really scared of. Harry was the only person who knew everything regarding your past relationship, but you told Sylvia bits and pieces. When you'd told her that you broke up with Gavin the night he wanted to propose, she didn't judge you, or ask why you'd throw away a perfectly good relationship. She was empathetic, and said she was sorry you had to go through that. It felt good to confide in someone who was willing to hear your side of the story, to have them realize if you could've loved Gavin the way he loved you, you would've.

"Maybe," you said. "But like I said, I'm not the only one who has shit to work through."

Sylvia nodded, letting the subject drop. But the words she'd said, It's okay to want more, needled at your brain the rest of the day.

*.*

"You should come with me."

You had been watching Sweet Pea doze contentedly on top of Buddy, who was curled in a ball on his dog bed. The two of them were an unlikely pair, but they'd gotten along great the first time they were introduced, and now you found it adorable any time they napped together.

Harry's voice was low and scratchy in your ear, as if he wasn't too far off from sleep himself. You were huddled together under a blanket on your couch, watching the credits roll on the second movie of the night, but you hadn't paid much attention to anything since the moment Harry pulled you to his chest and tucked his chin in the crook of your neck, peppering your skin with kisses as his thumbs rubbed circles beneath your shirt.

"What?" you asked, not having really heard him. It seemed impossible, but every day his touch became more and more dizzying.

"To Japan. You should come with me," he said. "It would be like a writing retreat."

Harry had mentioned his impromptu trip to Japan over dinner. He seemed excited about it, of getting out of town for a little while and just being alone with his thoughts. Those were his words, though now he was inviting you along.

"I don't even have a passport," you said, a non-answer, as Harry would call it.

"We'll get you one," he said. "Don't you think it would be fun to explore a new city together? Just the two of us?"

"W—What about Buddy?"

"Buddy can come to," Harry said, like it was all just so easy.

You thought back to your conversation with Sylvia a week ago. It's okay to want more, she'd said. At the time, you were content with this thing you and Harry were doing. It was simple and easy and pressure-free. A couple weeks later her words still nagged you. You hadn't mentioned wanting more to Harry, but this was different. This was...big. Appearing nonchalant didn't make it so.

"What are we?" you found yourself asking, hating how cliche the question was, even if you did need the answer all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, but you knew he was too smart to not understand.

Still, you sat up and faced him, forcing him to sit on the other side of the couch to have a proper conversation. "I meant exactly what I said, H. What—What are we doing here exactly?"

Harry's face flushed, the muscles in his arm flexing as he rubbed his neck. "I...I don't know. I thought we were okay with not really defining it."

Not defining it, or not talking about it? you thought, even though that wasn't really fair. You were just as content not to ask as he was until now. Or a few weeks ago, you couldn't exactly tell when you began to want more, or when wanting more stopped scaring you.

"I know, but now you're asking me to drop everything and fly to Japan for...for how long exactly?"

Harry shrugged, and your jaw ticked. "A couple months?"

"A couple months," you repeated, trying to align your thoughts. All you could hear though was, It's okay to want more. Taking a deep breath, you said, "I think...I think if I'm going to follow someone across the world for a couple months, I would like a definition about what it is we're doing."

"It's a writing retreat, Y/n. We would be working on songs. Just like we've always done."

You weren't sure when you became the brave one. Perhaps it was your conversation with Sylvia bolstering your confidence, or maybe it was Harry's reluctance to acknowledge the situation at hand, you weren't sure, but his reply wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

"I'd have to find my own hotel," you said. "Or an apartment to rent I guess."

"You'd stay with me obviously," Harry said, and you had to resist the urge to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he started seeing your perspective.

"Co-workers don't live together, H."

"But we're not just co-workers, Y/n. We're—"

Your brows raised, encouraging him to finish, but he ended up shaking his head. Running a tired hand over his face, he said, "I understand what you mean, but I can't...I can't give that to you right now."

You nodded, then stood up. "And I can't go to Japan without it."

It hurt, but at least he was being upfront about how he felt. It wasn't really fair of you to ask for more when both of you had been content to keep things simple. But somewhere down the line, you realized you liked Harry. A lot. You were okay with leaving your history with Gavin in the past, and you wanted to look to the future now. You'd thought that the future might include a relationship with Harry, but he wasn't ready, and you weren't sure if you wanted to wait. So much of the last two years had been waiting, hiding. Now you needed more. You craved it.

You felt like you were in some kind of alternate universe. One where Harry was scared and unsure of himself and unable to admit to what he wanted. You wanted more, and you weren't going to settle for anything less. You wanted to be more than his friend whom he kissed sometimes, you wanted to hear his scratchy voice as he woke up beside you, and you knew he did too, but something was holding him back. You'd spent too much time hiding from life and love to hide with him some more. Part of you wanted to, just because it was Harry, and you cared about him a lot, but a bigger part of you knew what you deserved, and it was okay to acknowledge that.

"I understand," he said, standing up with you.

Both of you were quiet as he gathered his things. You watched his broad shoulders shrug into his coat, the lean frame of his body bend down to put Sweet Pea in her little carrier. You felt the loss of him already, and he hadn't even gone yet, but you could feel the wall going up between the two of you. Both of you were guarded in your own ways, and both of you had been as vulnerable as you could be, but it wasn't enough.

"When are you planning on leaving?" you asked as you walked him to the door.

"Couple weeks," he said. "Just have to get the logistics figured out."

Nodding, you stepped into his offered embrace, letting yourself inhale the scent of his cologne and feel his arms around you for the last time for a while. His nose bumped yours in a move that was so familiar it made your heart squeeze. You weren't sure how long you stood like that, kissing until you couldn't breathe, it was only until Buddy's wet nose nudged the two of you apart that you finally stepped away from him. Harry bent down to scratch your dog's head and let him lick his cheek a few times before straightening back up. He was about to turn and leave when you called his name.

"I don't know what happened," you said, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "If you did something or if she did something to make you so...closed off, and from one heavily guarded person to another, I'm sorry that it happened and that it made you this way. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for in Japan."

Harry grinned, but it wasn't wide enough to show his dimples. Without saying a word, he left, head bent as he walked down the hall, taking a piece of you with him.

Buddy nudged your leg, pulling away from the hall Harry already disappeared down. Your dog's eyes were big and curious and completely unaware of what was wrong, which brought a watery smile to your face. "Come on, bubba. Let's get ready for bed."

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