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evilgwrl · 9 months ago

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ExHusband!Simon x Reader

You Want a Divorce? (Two)

Note: I feel like this is so bad im sorry!!!!

CW: Angst, titty sucking, passionate asf sex, simon missed ur pussy and you very much and vise versa, breeding kink, PIV (no protection, pls use it irl), squirting, simon eats the FUCK out of ur pussy, multiple orgasms, praise, hint of degradation, possessive!simon, OVERSTIMULATION, slight daddy kink… sorry

Part One

It was a quiet ride, the subtle sweeps of cars fleeting by as Simon gripped the wheel, eyes trailing off to the side to look at you briefly. Your head was leaned against the window, your knees knocking together anxiously as your daughter babbled in the back, cooing about how Mummy and Daddy were now back together.

You tried to hide the shed of tears that filtered across your iris, every small childish mumble like a stab to the gut as you listened to the genuine happiness in her tone. You would turn around occasionally with a small smile as you reached out to tickle her foot, giggles filling the car.

Simon pulled in, the car bouncing slightly as it hit the gravel carpark, his hand swerving into a spot before he turned to the back. “You excited, baby?”

Ella’s face lit up as she fumbled to take off her seatbelt, “Get me, Daddy! Get me! I wanna see the lions!” It was refreshing knowing she still viewed Simon as her hero, no matter how distant he was in their lives. You knew that even though your ex-husband was rarely around, his time with them did everything it could to mend the time apart. Toby woke up at the commotion, the toddler having slept the whole way there despite his older sister’s constant bickering about what animals she had to see first.

Everything seemed to flash past you as you walked inside, the whir of kids and noise sending your brain into overdrive as your eyes flickered to Simon with Ella swinging around on his shoulders and Toby kicking his legs in the stroller. You looked away; breath shaky as you attempted to compose yourself. This was supposed to be a happy day, for all of you, yet seeing him with your children, something that was supposed to be normal, felt so distant and unknown. Gathering yourself, you plastered a fake smile, hands reaching out to pinch your son’s cheeks as you grabbed the stroller.

Your heart hammered in your chest for the remainder of the day, fingers tingling with anxiety that bled into your veins, consuming your lungs with what seemed like everything but oxygen. It was a series of squeals and commotions from your young ones, their elation evident through the bright glow of their face, soft red resting on the apples of their cheeks. As the day quieted down, Toby slumped in the stroller as you tucked him into the car seat, his new plush crocodile cradled into his arms, mouth wide open as subtle breaths snored out.

Ella was cradled into Simon’s shoulder, her shoes half hanging off as she clutched onto him, dead asleep. You settled into the ride home yet your anxiety only seemed to heighten. You were alone with Simon, with no kiddish voices to break the tension, brown orbs glaring into the side of your face.

“Should we talk about this morning?”

You scoffed. “You have some nerve asking to talk about this morning,” you screamed into a hush, “What you did was completely disrespectful. Not only did you break into my house and kick my date out, but you left our kids in the car! What the fuck were you thinking?”

He cleared his throat, almost like he wanted to hold back how he felt. You noticed the white in his knuckles as he gripped the wheel, right eye twitching as he stared at the squiggles of tar ahead. “I don’t want our kids growing up thinking it’s normal for parents to separate. They need their mum and dad together, y/n.”

The world silenced for a second, the screams of the wind rushing past you seemed to slow as your voice cracked, seeps of emotion pouring out as you choked on your breath, “Then you should have fought for your family, Simon. There is no us anymore, it’s just them. They’re all that connects us now.”

You felt like all the ivory had been sucked out of your eyes, endless pits of your pupil consuming you whole, blurring your vision with fog as you blinked, hot streams of liquid salt spilling onto your cheeks, brimming at the cracks of your lips as you sniffled. You could feel his hesitation as he looked at you.

His words regurgitated in his throat as he stammered, tangled limbs reaching out to grip yours as you pulled away.

“Just drop us home.”

Your eyes had dried now, soft stains of bare skin caving through your foundation as you smudged your fingers against it. Simon stuttered as he pulled up to the driveway, tyres screeching to a halt as you sat in silence.

The soft strum of fingers caught your attention as you turned around, the innocent face of Toby looking back at his parents, tongue blabbing out of his mouth. “Dadda! You have dinner?”

“No, sport. Daddy’s gotta go-“

“Yeah, baby. Daddy will have dinner with us.”

You blinked at your own words, Simon’s surprised expression meeting yours. The wrench in your heart would never subside, the entirety of the beating organ still belonging to your ex-husband, but being a mother was a sacrifice. And you would sacrifice yourself in every existence you become one if it meant your children didn’t have to battle the same internal wounds.

“They’re tucked in,” Simon said, voice soft as he noticed your withered body in the couch. Your hair was messy now, strands spitting out as you anxiously tucked them back in, smoothing them down with the dampness of your palms as you ran around all night, ushering to the demands of your children.

“Thank you.”

You felt ill, your tongue cascading down your throat as you palmed at your knees, desperate for him to leave yet desperate for him to stay. Simon stilled, keys jangling in his hand before he sat down next to you, his weight disrupting the couch as he shuffled around.

“I need you to know that I did want to fight for you, y/n. I have counted every single day since you handed me those papers, waiting by my phone every single night on deployment hoping for you to text me, call me, fuck - blow my phone up. I never wanted the temporary absence that we had apart become permanent. Everything I said,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as he looked away, “Everything I said on October 6th, 7 years ago, I meant. You weren’t supposed to get away from me - I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have let you get away from me.”

It was strange. Simon was never one for feelings, the brutality of his job allowed for any harsh emotions to crack through his fingers as he pulled a trigger, any dampness of tears would sweat through his skin as he pummelled a blade into an enemies head.

But it was you. And you weren’t violent, or any enemy, you were his wife, the person he vowed his entirety too.

Your anxious cascade cracked as you whimpered out a sob, chest heaving as you buried your face, tight with tears, into the pillows of your hands. You felt warmth spread through you, the texture of Simon’s fingers burning through you like wildfire, every ember he felt scorching through your flesh as he pulled you in.

Arms tangled together, intwining like wool as he wrapped you into his chest nimbly. A zephyr ran through you, your wrists clutched in his hands as you straddled him, the weight of you feeling like the grandest treasure upon him.

It was nothing strange, nor sexual but Simon recognised that cry, the differing pitch as you shuffled your frame into his. Simon knew you like the back of his hand, every crevice, every crease, every scar. He knew your backstory, and the one you made up to impress people. He knew the hex of the colour of your eyes and the print of your thumb. No papers would take that away from him.

Soaked eyelashes clumped into one as you looked up at him, orbs resembling once of a doe, innocence seeping through every inch of a salt-stained tear. His eyes met yours, apertures of cocoa reflecting your weary frame as you gripped onto him.

“Let me come home, please.”

Simon’s voice was desperate, it was raw, any shed of arrogance erased through the lines, eyebrows knotted together as he rubbed at the small of your back.

Your nod was subtle, but he could practically hear it, calloused hands gripping at the plush of your cheek and seeping through the tip of your spine, thumb rubbing at your earlobe as he clutched onto you.

Hot, seething pricks ran through your limbs as your lips connected, saline lining your mouth as he lapped at the heat of your tongue, rough groans leaving his lips as he savoured the taste.

Any diffidence left your body as familiarity sunk back into you. Hands pawed at the globe of your ass, gripping the flesh as anguished limbs wrapped around Simon’s waist.

With an easy tug, he lifted you, your hands wrapping around his neck as he pulled you in closer, teeth kissing. You never questioned Simon’s strength, and you wouldn’t start now as you felt your back hit your mattress.

He tugged at his shirt, the black fabric pooling on the floor as you sucked in a breath. Your eyes traced every scar, lighter flesh engraved into the skin of his torso, a short trail of hair disappearing into his pants as you stared at his burly physique.

Simon gripped at your shirt, the material practically ripping before his hands were at your chest, grabbing at your flesh desperately as you tangled your fingers into your bra, sliding it off. His mouth was hot on your chest, the sound of moans and pants filling the air as he positioned himself between your legs, teeth grazing the hard nubs, sucking with fervour as you whined, your hand at the base of his head, cradling it.

“Missed these so fucking much,” he practically whined, groping your tits as he pinched your nipples, lips sucking deep marks of possession into the soft skin. Your pants were desperate, begging him for more as you pulled his hair, fingernails clawing at his scalp.

Your hands fumbled with your pants, hips raising as he slid them off, clumsy fingers chucking them across the room as you laughed, lips connecting once more in a giggly state as his thumb pushed against the wetness of your panties.

“Missed how fucking wet you got for me. Such a good fucking girl,” he groaned, fingers rubbing at your heat through the thin cloth eliciting a pained moan from you.

“Simon - I need more, been so long.”

He choked out a laugh as his fingers hooked into the fabric, lace dribbling down your leg before he mewled at the sight of you. His hands held your thighs apart, your soaking cunt on display as it throbbed, slick folds glistening in the poor lighting.

“Prettiest fucking pussy,” he choked out to himself, placing your legs over his shoulder as he knelt down. Your back arched as you felt his tongue lick a long stripe of your pussy, his body seething for a taste of you as his lips found your neglected clit.

He lapped at you mercilessly, your cries and moans moulding into one with the filthy squelches of his mouth against your heat. Long digits circled your entrance, teasing you, before they curled in.

Your eyes rolled, pools of ivory exposed as you let out a guttural moan, your thighs tightening around his ears as he smirked against your pussy. Cocky fingers rubbed at the right spot, favouring the clench of your tight hole as he pulled every noise he could get from you.

You were barely cohesive as he lapped at your slick, the throbbing of your clit edging him on as he soothed your g-spot with the pad of his fingers. The coil you had only ever felt with Simon began to build, the familiar sensation pooling in your stomach as you stuttered out a whimper.

“Si- too much - I’m gonna-“

“That’s it baby,” he cooed, pulling away from your pussy for a second to take in your expression as you came, your face contorted with pleasure as your legs jerked, pussy wrapping tighter around his abusing digits as he fucked you through it with them. You looked down at him, saliva and your slick coating his mouth and chin as he grinned.

You stammered out a groan as his mouth attached back on your pussy, slurping up your liquid gold as you attempted to push his head away in overstimulation.

“Oh my- fuck - Simon - too much,” you whimpered your words commanding him to continue as he guzzled around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as your legs shook uncontrollably.

It wasn’t long before the continuation from your previous orgasm rose again, heat swarming your lower belly as you screamed out, your hand slapping over your mouth as you felt Simon’s spare hand wrap around your thigh, squeezing tightly.

You pulled at his hair, tugging at the ashy roots before you were gushing around his fingers and tongue again, sloshing liquids soaking your sheets as he groaned at the taste, mouth lapping it up with vigour. You whined in humiliation, the overwhelming pleasure becoming too much as you heaved.

“Si - no more -“

“I’m sorry baby, too fucking good. Will never get enough of your pussy.”

His words were filthy yet only held the truth, his continuous slurps against your heat causing your body to jerk as you relentlessly bucked your hips. Simon’s abuse continued on your pussy, your pussy gushing and coming another 6 times before he was satisfied, the sheet under you drenched in both your slick and squirt as Simon milked your overwhelmed cunt, claiming he was “making up for the months lost”.

You were dry heaving, throat dry as he captured your lips in a kiss, the taste of you infiltrating into your glands as you groaned, his hands reaching to tug at your breasts as he took in your fucked out state, legs jiggling and twitching as your pussy convulsed at the number of orgasms he dragged out of you.

You felt like you had been lying here for hours, yet you weren’t satisfied. You would only be content when he was inside you, stretching you to the brim as he pumped a load inside your worn-out hole.

“Simon - please - I can’t… I need you now,” you were practically crying, tears shedding at the brim of your eyes, bottom lip jutting out as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, slicking back the sweat on your forehead.

“I know baby, done so well for Daddy, hm? Even after all that you still need to be plugged full of me don’t you?”

You nodded as a harsh slap landed against your clit, your body jolting as you squeaked. “Yes, please,” you cried, “Please Daddy.”

His hands were like clockwork, tearing at his jeans as they released his cock, a satisfied groan leaving his body as he gripped at the tent in his pants, a sticky wet patch soaking the material before his length throbbed out, angry tip slapping his stomach as a trail of precum glistened against the base of his cock.

His dick was flushed red, begging for release as he ran it through the squelch of your sopping folds, rubbing against your manipulated clit as you moaned.

Your hands gripped his head as he leant down to kiss you, his arm holding him up while the other positioned himself at your entrance. He stilled for a moment, cock almost pressing in before he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

The words were soft yet meaningful, your eyes interlocked as he began to push inside, your mouth gasping open as you clutched onto his shoulders. It was hard when you were together all those years to get accustomed to his frightening length, and now it had been a year and the stretch was searing through you.

“I know, sweet girl, you can take it. Such a tight cunt for me, so fucking good.”

Fingernails clawed at his back as he pushed in, your whines muffled by the palm of his hand as he held himself up his elbows. “Holy fuck,” he spluttered as he bottomed out, his lips connecting to your neck as he sucked, resting inside you for a second as you whimpered.

The burn slowly faded as you rutted against him impatiently, the tip of his cock resting against your sweet spot as you gasped.

“So fucking impatient, always been such a slut for me. Haven’t you?”

You nodded, whining as he began to move, moving his hips slowly as he rubbed inside you perfectly, your mouth wide open as your head lolled back. A series of expletives tipped from your tongue as you choked on the air, Simon’s pace picking up at your dramatic noises.

“Fuck - taking me so well-“ he grunted, hands groping at your tits as he watched your pussy absorb his length. It was an obscene sight and he loved it. Every fibre of your being belonged to him and it was something he constantly craved.

“All fucking mine - shit - my fucking pussy,” he grunted, thumb rubbing at your clit as you mewled, twitching below him as he spat, “my fucking wife - got the tightest fucking cunt just for me.”

You clenched around him at his words, knowing it was true as his balls slapped against your ass, skin spanking against each other as the sound filled the room, ecstasy roaring through both of your veins as you made love.

The squelch of your pussy was taboo as he lapped in the missed sound. His eyes took in the way your body reacted to every movement, no matter how small. He took in the way your breasts bounced with each thrust, lower stomach bulging as he pounded into you.

“Fuck - Simon - oh my God,” your words were a mere blabber, barely making sense as you clutched onto him, pulling him down to meet your lips.

“I can’t pull out, baby - fuck - gotta cum in this pretty pussy. Give you another kid, hm? - shit -“

His hips didn’t falter as his pace fastened, chasing his own high as he rubbed at your clit, your breaths growing shallow as your orgasm began to build. “Gonna fill you with my cum until it takes. Need your belly round again and your tits full - such a good fucking mum, makes me so fucking proud.”

His words were the final straw as the build up in your stomach popped, your whole body convulsing as your pussy clenched around him, a loud groan leaving his throat before you felt the hot splashes of his cum pumping inside you.

“That’s it baby, milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl for Daddy, gonna break you apart everyday on my cock until you never forget who you belong too.”

He didn’t pull out immediately, his cum plugged inside you as some seeped out, rolling down the crevice of your ass below you. Your eyes shut, gentle pants leaving your lips as you felt Simon’s absence before a soft cloth was wiped gently across your sex and masculine arms were gripping onto you, carrying you into the guest room before engulfing you into a thrill of heat, Simon’s chest against your back as you fell asleep.

TAGLIST: @kiiwiipie @nijiru

Disclaimer: im sorry if this is disappointing im super tired :(((

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push-the-heartbrake · 1 month ago

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𝘼𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

Third instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Look at the poor boy, he’s got the unscratchable itch.” — or the one where you're overwhelmed and Spencer discovers he's an absolute munch.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI♡ Virgin!Spencer is back and hornier than ever. Cums in his pants, again. Oral and fingering (fem! receiving). Slight discussion about reader having mommy issues and her past (read the prior parts and it'll make sense).

A/N: It took me forever but here's the third part to the 'Home For You' Universe! English is not my first language and this is not yet fully proof read! Please tell me what you think and if you have ideas or thoughts about the future of these two lovebirds. ♡

It had been raining when you woke up.

The soft, whispery kind. The kind that worked as a lullaby. The kind that made the whole city feel like it had collectively decided to sleep in.

The only reason you’d even stirred was because Spencer had moved—just enough to pull the blanket up over your bare shoulders sometime around 8 a.m. He hadn’t been fully awake either, just instinctively attuned to your comfort. You’d watched him through slitted eyes as he settled again, his profile soft in the dull morning light.

Neither of you had said a word.

Instead, you’d nestled closer, one leg tangled between his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’d made a little noise—one he always seemed to make when you burrowed in—a little half-asleep sigh out of pure contentment.

And that’s how most of the day had gone.

The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had you. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just a tangle of sheets, long-winded conversations about nothing, and the kind of kisses that made no sound from how gentle they were.

By the time afternoon rolled around, you’d only gotten out of bed three times—once to use the bathroom and get dressed, once for a late breakfast, and once more for another bathroom trip. Spencer had gotten up four times, the extra one to grab the Sunday newspaper from his mailbox.

You were draped across him like a sleepy cat, the sheets twisted around your legs, your chin resting on his chest. His fingers traced mindless patterns on your back, barely there, a touch just shy of tickling.

“Molecules move randomly, right?” you murmured suddenly, voice low from not having spoken in a while.

The glow of a lamp flickered against the spines of his current bedside reads, casting their titles in blurry shadows. One book was yours, obnoxiously pink, wedged between dense academic texts like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. Spencer thought so, anyway. You watched his eyes linger on it for a second before he looked back at you, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. You infiltrated more of his life and home each day that passed. Even if it was as simple as an extra toothbrush on the sink or your Converse placed next to his in the entryway.

“Yes, they do,” he answered softly. “Is there something on your mind?”

You shrugged, shifting so that your cheek lay flat against him now, ear to his heartbeat. “Just something stupid a school class discussed when they visited the library.”

He didn’t press you. Just waited for you to say something. Like he always did.

You absentmindedly rubbed your leg against his, your toes brushing against his calf as you talked. “There was a kid—one of those annoying twelve-year-old dweebs with a Justin Bieber haircut and permanent marinara sauce in the corners of his mouth—you know the type?”

Spencer laughed, nodding in agreement.

“And he tried to scare one of the girls by saying that since they move randomly, oxygen molecules could spontaneously assimilate in a singular spot in a room, suffocating anyone outside of it.”

His brow lifted, bemused. “Were you the girl he tried to scare?”

“No, no,” you defended, grinning,“I just thought you could maybe rationalize it for me.”

Spencer wanted to reach out and grab you. Bite you, even.

Because he’d never seen anything as beautiful as you, lying there on his chest, curiosity burning in your eyes, waiting for him to ramble on about something that you knew got the gears in his brain turning.

He’d thought you were pretty since the first time he saw you at the checkout counter at the library. But it had been fleeting, simply registering another beautiful human in passing.

It was different now. So very different. Because he knew you, and he could read your behavior, your quirks and traits. The way your mind worked. The strange little questions and facts you collected—like air molecules grouping together to suffocate you.

He knew that you had different laughs for different situations. He cherished them all and cataloged them like rare editions.

1. The little snorts that would come out of your nose when he said something silly, usually a pun that bordered on criminally bad.

2. The high-pitched giggles that wriggled out when his fingers skimmed over your sides, late at night when you were half-straddling him in bed and desperately trying not to wake the neighbors, making the giggles even more squeaky-sounding.

3. The loud, from-the-stomach kind of laughter—the kind you couldn’t hold back even if you tried—just because something was so genuinely funny. Like when he accidentally turned all his white shirts a soft pink thanks to a rogue red sock, or when he tried to surprise you with breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the bedroom floor.

You let out one of the first snorts now as he explained, nose scrunching up adorably. Spencer was fairly certain you didn’t even notice you did it.

“It is possible, though,” he said, tone casual, trying not to sound too eager. “In theory at least. In a system of random motion, any arrangement of particles is technically possible, including extremely unlikely ones.”

You squinted up at him, suspicious. “So… I could suffocate?”

“You can calculate the number of oxygen molecules and then find out the statistical probability, but I’m assuming you don’t really want to learn that?” Spencer suggested, his hand moving to his hair, shoving curls off his forehead.

You found his hand as it landed back down on the bed, lifting it to lay next to you on his chest, your fingers intertwining with his own.

You shook your head, and he felt your hair rustle, telling him that his assumption was right. “No… I just want to sleep at night without having nightmares about suffocating.”

He gently squeezed your hand, looking down at you reassuringly. “We’re talking about hundreds of septillions of molecules that would have to randomly gather together.”

Spencer knew you had a tough time sleeping already. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue; instead it was staying asleep. You would fall asleep at a reasonable hour (for someone who mostly worked late or even night shifts), but then after a while, you’d wake up and just lay there. You didn’t need the added stress of silly nightmares, but he sometimes got the feeling they already haunted you.

“So the chance is, like, microscopically small?”

“A septillion is a quadrillion billions.”

You stared at him for a beat, eyes slightly wide as you tried to comprehend the number. You weren’t even sure what a quadrillion was. Occasionally you got the zeros confused even at a billion. The number was huge, at least. And that was comforting.

Spencer watched as you thought about it, wanting to take a picture of your puzzled expression. “You’re more likely to shuffle a deck of cards and get them in a perfect order millions of times in a row than for all oxygen to group in one spot.”

You huffed out a little laugh before you mumbled, “I can’t even shuffle a deck of cards.”

“That I can teach you. Much easier than Avogadro’s number.”

“Avocado who?”

“Amedeo Avogadro,” he corrected, laughing out loud. “Italian physicist. He’s the namesake for the constant used to calculate the number of particles in one mole.”

With a slight head shake and a scrunch of your nose, you declared that math and physics weren’t something for you. “I’d rather learn how to shuffle cards and play strip poker with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his neck before he even had a chance to react, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

Spencer was blushing—because of course he was. You always knew when you got to him. When your dirty words made his IQ split in half. You’d said it was one of your favorite things—the stupid and surprised look on his face whenever it happened. Spencer was on board with agreeing, even if the blush made his cheeks hurt.

Your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, and he let out a small, stunned huff. His hand instinctively rubbed your shoulder, your knitted cardigan slipping down from the motion, exposing the strap of your tank top—and the soft, maddening curve of your cleavage beneath it.

One (equally horrifying and fascinating) thing that Spencer had discovered about himself since being with you was that he was a boob guy. He hated to admit it—that something so primitively sexual appealed to him. But he was just a man at the end of the day.

Since seeing and touching them for the first time, he’d become obsessed.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d sometimes let him sleep on your chest, and he could unabashedly feel them as he nuzzled closer. Maybe it was the fact that your skin was impossibly soft and that your breast were somehow the softest part, squeezable and malleable, cupped in the palms of his hands. Maybe it was the way they bounced when you were sat in his lap, your hips grinding down onto his clothed cock.

Maybe that was it.

He was a boob guy. And not afraid to let his eyes linger as your cardigan fell down and your top got exposed as you pressed into the side of him.

Your tank tops were his undoing. It was simply sadistic—the way that whatever clothing brand had designed most of the tops you wore. Thin and soft to the material, a lace trim along the square neckline, and, worst of all, a little silk bow placed right in the middle. It was an evil trick, Spencer was sure of it, to make him stare down the valley of your tits.

Which he did. A lot.

He wasn’t sure if you’d noticed his little fixation, but you sure didn’t do anything to stop him from looking, almost on purpose making the tank top slide down a little as you lay on top of him, the cups of your bra now peeking out.

The ample skin moved as you pushed yourself against him, your breasts bubbling out of their confinement. Perfectly biteable bubbles. Spencer imagined putting his fingertip to the swell, just to watch the skin jiggle.

Oh Lord. This was the kind of greed they warned about in the Bible.

Despite all of this—despite Spencer staring you down like he wanted to eat you alive—you hadn’t had sex. Not yet. Spencer told himself it was a “yet.” Clung to that word like a little life raft. But he wasn’t sure how true it was.

Because you had a tendency to push him away.

It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, which Spencer had noticed. You made out a lot, kissed him whenever you got the chance, usually for hours on end. Like horny teenagers, he assumed. It was routine at this point—to watch a movie, or read together, maybe have a lazy conversation in bed after a long day—and then by the end of it, you’d end up in his lap, hands in his hair and tongue down his throat.

Spencer had gotten braver with how he dared to touch you, not always keeping his hand stiffly glued to his side. He loved to feel your skin between his fingers, whether it was your plush thighs or your soft waist. Boobs too, of course.

If he was capable of keeping it together, he’d wait for some time alone to sort himself out in the bathroom afterwards. But on more occasions than one (five times and counting), you’d made him bust in his pants. And no matter how many times you said it was the hottest thing ever, Spencer still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed to the point of no return.

And you… He’d only made you finish once. That first time on your couch on Valentine’s Day—when he’d rubbed your soaking clit with his fingers until you collapsed in his embrace. Only touched, not tasted, not penetrated.

Spencer couldn’t help but want more. And it wasn’t because of his lack of experience or lack of willingness that it hadn’t happened again.

You simply just didn’t let him close enough to even try. You didn’t show any signs of wanting him to help you out, and he was too scared to ask.

Can I go down on you? or Do you want me to finger you? were not questions that Spencer had in his vocabulary. Although he thought about saying them more than what was probably healthy. He didn’t know if it was fear from your side, or guilt, or something darker, and he wasn’t going to push.

You would only smile like you’d accomplished what you wanted when he was a panting and blushing mess with a spreading stain on his trousers, and then you’d continue on with your evening like nothing was different.

And you smiled in the same way now when you followed his eyesight straight to your cleavage.

“Any plans for next week?” you asked, almost nonchalantly.

“We’re consulting in California.” Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Cold case that’s been reopened, something from when Rossi started out.”

You hummed and nuzzled just a little closer, your nose brushing the edge of his shirt. If he hadn’t been wearing one, your lips would’ve been right over his heart. The little sound made his stomach flip, which was ridiculous because you did things like this all the time. Making sounds, that is. The very human thing that was noisemaking.

“How long?”

“Flying out tomorrow morning, then we’ll see. Maybe a week?”

A week. Seven days. Possibly more. He really should be used to this by now, but the idea of not seeing you for that long made something inside him wilt.

You exhaled through your nose—soft, but unmistakably disappointed—and your fingers loosened from his hand. They disappeared beneath the blanket instead, toying with the hem of his worn-out t-shirt. It had the Caltech logo on it and was slightly too tight on him. You’d jokingly called it a crop top once, and Spencer thought about tossing it out until you said it was sexy. A personal milestone since it was the first time he’d ever been called that.

“What about you?” he asked, voice low. “Do you have anything planned while I’m gone?”

Now, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his stomach. Just a featherlight touch. He tensed—he always tensed—but not out of discomfort. No, it was the opposite. It was the unbearable pleasure of being seen and wanted by you, and the helplessness of not knowing what to do with that feeling.

“Work. Sleep. Work some more,” you said, stretching your legs with a lazy yawn. “Help Edith set up her new TV. Maybe catch up with friends. Oh—and uh… lunch with my mother on Thursday.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “She’s in town?”

“She technically lives here,” you said, pushing yourself up onto one elbow. “Unless she sold the place and moved full-time to Baltimore with her new man without telling me.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a strange ache creeping in at the edges of his laugh. You hadn’t let him meet her yet. You hadn’t let him meet anyone yet.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

He sometimes worried he had yet to meet the real you even.

You fit in perfectly when he introduced you to the team. Socially adaptable was what Emily had called you, like she could somewhat see through that you were nervous and uncomfortable, but still doing your best to be likable. And they did like you, a lot, it seemed. Soon you’d be off on girls’ nights with them, leaving Spencer behind. He knew it.

You sat up suddenly, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. Spencer looked at you like you’d gone mad. Until you pointed at the alarm clock on his bedside table and he read the time.

“3 o’clock,” you simply said. “I have to get to my place and get ready for work.”

“Why?”

The question left Spencer like an exhale. He could already feel a coldness spread in his body from where your contact was now missing. You’d made him hate the laws of time. Every time he was alone with you, he dreaded the moment you’d be apart. And every time you were apart, he counted the hours until he would next see you.

You laughed, turning to look at him with a raised brow. “You’re asking why I have to work?”

“No, I mean—” he floundered, “Why this late?”

“Because the library is open at night?” you teased. “Where else would geeks like you spend their time?”

“But there have to be other people available for the late shifts as well.”

“I got hired because I like working nights,” you said, standing and stretching, tugging your cardigan back over your shoulders. “The qualified librarians signed up for nine-to-fives. They’ve got spouses and kids waiting for them.”

“You’ve got me,” he said, almost too quickly.

You paused mid-movement, glancing back over your shoulder at him. “Sometimes,” you said quietly. “Other times, you’re on the opposite side of the country.”

He winced. He didn’t mean to guilt you. That wasn’t fair. But you weren’t wrong.

Spencer stayed in his spot as you started to move around his bedroom, padding across the floor to his dresser where your bag and clothes were. He only shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to be able to keep his eyes on you.

The pajama pants you were wearing slipped off in one easy movement, exchanged for a pair of dark-wash jeans. You didn’t seem to care that he was watching, which somehow made it worse. That he could spot the see-through material of your underwear as you tugged the denim over your hips—doing that awkward (yet attractive) little jumping motion to get them on—made him wonder all over again about why you didn’t let him close.

Since this didn’t seem to bother you, that is.

Were you waiting for him to make a move?

He hated that his mind did that. He hated that he still didn’t know and that he was too scared to ask.

“And I have picked up earlier shifts when I know you’re going to be in town. I’ve done it so much that Elizabeth complained,” you continued, arguing your case even though you had already won.

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, as you headed back to the bed to sit down to put on socks. Little white socks with lace trims. No one would see them, but he knew the mere fact of wearing them made you happy—how the lace peeked out from the top of your shoes.

“Is Elizabeth the scary one with the owl necklace?” Spencer questioned, turning to you now that you were next to him.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

You smiled faintly and turned to pick something up from your bag. A tangle of headphones. An essential for you together with your iPod. You couldn’t go on a walk without them, needing the distraction of music blasting.

Spencer watched as you struggled to untangle them, wordlessly reaching out to do it for you. Not because he thought you were incapable of doing it yourself, but because you’d asked him for help multiple times before and seemed to like the gesture of him helping you.

He was more efficient with his fingers, anyway.

“Hey,” you said, glancing down at him, “why don’t you enjoy being alone for the evening? Watch some foreign movie without having to translate it to me.”

“I was going to suggest Bergman’s Autumn Sonata,” he murmured, handing you the untangled headphones.

Spencer watched your mouth press into a thin line, eyes flickering just slightly away from him. He didn’t understand why he mentioned the damn movie—like it would miraculously stop you from having work to do? No, it was just stupid.

He knew you loved Bergman. You talked about his work with the same kind of reverence he had for Russian literature. But you hadn’t seen Autumn Sonata. He hadn’t asked why. Not yet. But he made a mental note of it, filing it away in the ever-growing, completely normal, and definitely not obsessive folder of things about you that fascinated him.

Your fingers tightened around the headphone cord, twirling it between them as you quietly said, “I haven’t seen that one. And it’s got subtitles.”

“I know, that’s why I wanted us to see it together.”

You shook your head a little. “No, you can watch it and tell me what you think.”

“You say that like you don’t already know that you’ll love it.”

“…There’s a reason I haven’t seen that one, Spence.”

His lips parted, a question already forming—but you kissed him before he could speak. It was soft but lingering, and he felt your fingers curl slightly against the back of his neck. His brain short-circuited because kissing was still something he was getting used to. He was very aware of every single movement, every shift of pressure, every tilt of your head. Was he doing it right? Was he too stiff? Should he be—oh, your tongue—

And then you pulled away, smiling at his dazed expression.

“Will you call me before the flight tomorrow?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of any teasing edge.

You simply wanted to hear from him. Like that wasn’t a totally insane thing to say. He couldn’t believe you expected him to behave normally in front of you. Or maybe you didn’t expect it, but it would get old quite quickly if he verbally, as well as mentally, freaked out every time you showed him affection—a certain need for him that you actually had and he still couldn’t grasp.

But still—

“Of course,” he said, embarrassingly quick.

You smiled, lingering just long enough to memorize the way he felt beneath you, before you straightened up again.

“Be safe. Have fun,” Spencer said, sitting up after you, closing the space you’d created.

“Fun? At work?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I have fun at the library all the time,” he teased, so close that you felt his lips against yours.

“Shut up.” You laughed into the kiss he pulled you back into, fingers curling into his hair, warmth spreading through his chest.

Seconds later you were gone. The door clicked softly shut behind you. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment like a pin dropped.

Spencer stared at the space where you’d been, his hands still half-curled, like he was holding onto the shape of you in the air. His shirt smelled like your skin—soft and floral, and a little like the soap he had in his shower. The sheets were still warm where you’d laid, rumpled and twisted, half falling off the bed.

He let himself collapse back against the mattress with a sigh, one arm thrown over his eyes. Your absence was growing inside of him, starting from his chest and spidering out like a nervous system drawn in light. A slow, luminous burn.

And he was terrified—utterly terrified—that this feeling consumed him far more than it ever would you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The case in California was… a weird one, and not the usual type of weird. Because that was a measurable thing for the team. A normal amount of weird, an abnormal amount of weird, and then thirdly—the weird kind they’d never encountered before.

This was the third kind. Not because of blood, death, and gore. It was stranger than that. Stranger because it was stale.

A forgotten cold case dumped on their laps like an aging puzzle missing half the pieces. Files yellowed with time, reports handwritten in blue ink fading under the fluorescent lights. Evidence stuffed in mismatched cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in a converted conference room at the local PD—each one covered in decades worth of dust.

If this was one of those TV series about agents solving crimes and catching killers in the act, this would be the episode where everyone unanimously decided to stop watching because the show wasn’t worth it anymore.

No progress was being made. At all.

It was partly because the old detective was territorial and proud—only really letting in the help from Rossi—and partly because the leads went nowhere anyway.

They were most likely dealing with a copycat. It was one singular murder that had a slight connection to a series of murders committed in the eighties. The connection was: same small town in California that didn’t see many murders and the same M.O. used. Asphyxiation with a barbed wire.

They hadn’t had any reasonable suspects in the eighties, and the pool of people to look into now was even smaller. Or way too big, depending on how you looked at it. People handling barbed wire in a small farming town was a large amount.

When Thursday rolled around, they’d spent four days with this going-nowhere thing. Stuck in the conference room with their boxes, pestering old witnesses and relatives by bringing up bad memories, and at the M.E., looking at the new corpse for too long.

Maybe they would have to give up.

It was far more usual than what Spencer wanted to admit, but they couldn’t spend forever on one case when they had other ones waiting.

Rossi had gone with the detective to look at the crime scene once more. Hotch was outside of the conference room, possibly speaking with Strauss by the strained look on his face. Derek and JJ had gone on a coffee run, and Spencer and Emily were left in the conference room.

He wasn’t sure if Emily was even awake—sat quiet and still in a corner with her file covering her face for over half an hour.

Spencer had gone from standing to sitting to standing again.

He flipped open yet another file, scanning the interview transcript, but his eyes weren’t really absorbing it. Not fully. Not when his phone was sitting face-up on the table beside him, untouched since breakfast. The screen annoyingly black and the sound eerily silent.

You were supposed to have called by now.

Lunch with your mother couldn’t be a simple thing—he knew that much. He’d heard the tone in your voice whenever you mentioned her. A tightness that suggested years of subtle warfare and passive aggressiveness layered under polite smiles. Still, even the most drawn-out emotional lunches didn’t usually last past two o’clock. Unless things had gone wrong, and you were currently trapped in some kind of emotional gladiator battle over a Caesar salad.

Spencer checked his watch. 2:14 p.m.

You were never late without saying something. Not unless something had gone wrong. Which meant something had to have gone wrong.

The door creaked open, and he looked up automatically. Derek stepped in, carrying coffee and a half-eaten bagel. JJ trailed behind him, flipping through a folder.

Derek clocked Spencer’s expression immediately. “Look at the poor boy,” he muttered to JJ. “He’s got the unscratchable itch.”

Spencer froze mid-step. He’d been pacing, subconsciously. He whirled around. “I’m not in love with her.”

Derek smirked, taking a seat in his chair, leaning back. The exact kind of smirk that let Spencer know he had walked into a trap. “I wasn’t talking about love, pretty boy. But it’s very telling that you think I was.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. His face burned. Heat crawled up his neck and pooled somewhere just under his collarbone.

JJ gave him a soft, knowing look. “Then what’s wrong, Spencer?”

He inhaled sharply. “She’s not answering her phone.”

There. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. But now he was committed. He pressed on, pacing again.

“She said she would call me after she had lunch with her mother, and it’s now 2:16 p.m. That’s a reasonable time for lunch to be over, right? I mean, unless they got a twelve-course tasting menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant, in which case I would understand the delay, but they didn’t! Because they go to the same café every time, and it’s not a place that serves twelve-course meals, unless you count uncomfortable conversations as a course, which, in that case, I’d argue that—”

JJ cut in gently, “Maybe they just lost track of time? Had a lot to talk about?”

“But she doesn’t like her mother. Or maybe she does. It’s complicated—”

Emily, who’d been eavesdropping at the far end of the room, didn’t even glance up from her file as she interrupted, “No girl likes their mother.”

Spencer stopped mid-ramble. “That’s not true. I mean, statistically—”

Emily held up a finger, ticking off points as she spoke. “They might love their mothers. Unconditionally, even. But like? Like requires compatibility. And most mothers either carry a sadness that their daughters became something they never did, or they carry disappointment that their daughters became less than they expected.”

Spencer was momentarily thrown. He had a degree in psychology. He had read hundreds of case studies on maternal relationships. And yet, somehow, Emily Prentiss casually dropping this into the conversation like it was an immutable law of the universe had his brain short-circuiting.

The conference room went silent. A metaphorical tumbleweed rolled by.

Spencer stared.

JJ blinked. “Jesus, Emily.”

Emily took a sip of her coffee, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s not rocket science. It’s like if the Electra complex was actually useful and not just about male-centered attention. There’s a rivalry between mothers and daughters over everything.”

Spencer opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“But,” he managed after a moment, “that still doesn’t explain why she won’t answer her phone.”

JJ muttered under her breath, “Who would’ve guessed boy genius’s kryptonite would be love?”

“I already said I’m not—”

“Reid, take a breather,” Hotch’s voice cut in from the doorway, sharp as ever. “The rest of you, back to work. We need someone to go to the crime scene again. ”

Spencer huffed, reluctantly collapsing into his seat. He stared down at his phone, holding it between both hands like it might sprout legs and run off. His knee bounced under the table. He tried to focus—on witness statements, on timeline inconsistencies, anything—but his mind kept looping back to one thing:

You hadn’t called.

Logically, he knew there were perfectly rational explanations for why you hadn’t called. But his gut—which had been trained by years of profiling and reinforced by knowing you—was telling him something wasn’t right.

He hadn’t ever thought of it like that, the simplicity in the words. How like could be stronger than love—because you choose what you like, and you are somewhat predestined to love. At least when it came to family.

Gathering their things, Spencer and Derek got ready to leave the conference room and join Rossi at the crime scene.

He heard Derek mutter something under his breath about how they possibly couldn’t gather any more information from looking at the same bloody barn again. Spencer wasn’t unusually cynical, but with this case, it was growing on him like moss.

At 2:21 p.m. his phone rang. A quick beeping tone, signaling a text message. It wasn’t often he received those. Everyone stopped in their tracks when they heard it.

Spencer’s eyes hesitantly scanned the screen.

He was right; it was a text. A short one too.

That was it? No Sorry, I forgot; no Lunch was a nightmare, please send a SWAT team, just a quick, impersonal abbreviation. Spencer squinted at the letters, blurring together. He still wasn’t entirely confident about texting as a method of communication. He had once typed out ’See you later’in a message, and somehow autocorrect had changed it to ’Seal utters’. He did not trust this medium, nor his ability to decipher abbreviations.

Across the table, Derek raised an eyebrow. His voice was lower now, as if he suspected Hotch to still be in the hallway listening. “So… did she answer?”

“No, but she sent a text,” Spencer muttered, “Got called in to work, ttyl.”

“Talk to you later,” JJ translated. “See? It wasn’t something worth getting upset over.”

Spencer slumped, staring at the message like it personally offended him. You weren’t supposed to work until 9 tonight. You had a night shift. You couldn’t possibly work from 2 p.m. all through the night. You were… lying.

“I still feel like something’s wrong,” he said under his breath as he put his phone in his pocket. Biting his lip, forcing him to not think of why you were lying. He had to focus on other things now. Such as… a bloody barn.

Emily, yet again, didn’t look up from her notes as she spoke, “Well, the faster that big brain of yours helps us solve this case, the faster you’ll find out if you’re right.”

Spencer sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t mean he could stop worrying.

. . . . . .

The bloody barn didn’t tell them anything new. As evening fell over the little town, it had been decided that they were going home. The old murders would remain cold and the new case would be handled by the local police. It could probably lead to something. It just wasn’t enough to grant them being there for longer.

Spencer was torn inside if it was the right or wrong thing to do. But there would always be another case, always be another murder. They couldn’t get them all.

The team boarded the jet in silence. None of them had anything left to say.

On the plane ride home, Spencer did something he maybe shouldn’t have done. Or maybe this was exactly what you had wanted. He borrowed Emily’s laptop and downloaded Autumn Sonata, watching it all in one sweep, not taking his eyes off the screen for even a second. Emily had looked at him with worry—calling it ’Mommy issues, the movie’.

And that was what it was. Autumn Sonata unfolded like a violin string pulled taut over the little laptop screen. A mother and daughter dissecting decades of buried wounds in soft lighting and whispered monologues. It was 93 minutes of waiting for a rubber band to snap—either breaking clean or lashing back hard enough to scar.

“The mother’s injuries are to be handed down to the daughter. The mother’s failures are to be paid for by the daughter. The mother’s unhappiness is to be the daughter’s unhappiness—it’s as if the umbilical cord had never been cut.”

When it ended, Spencer sat very still, the cabin quiet except for the low hum of the engines. He understood why you hadn’t called.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It hadn’t stopped raining for almost a week.

From the Sunday morning Spencer left for California to this very moment—early Friday at six in the morning, with your shoes squelching every other step and the sky still weeping as if the clouds had lost the will to hold anything back.

You had lost that will too.

You usually liked rain. Found it calming. Romantic, even. But right now? Your socks were soaked through your Converse, the sleeves of your coat clung cold and damp against your arms, and your jeans had turned several shades darker than when you'd left the apartment last night. Rain was not romantic. Rain was not poetic. Rain was miserable.

You looked like something dragged from a pond. Not a lot of people were awake to see you in this state, which was a saving grace of working the graveyard shift. That, and the fact that most of your mascara had been rubbed off by staying awake at the checkout desk all night, so you didn’t have to worry about looking like a melting member of the band KISS. Everything else was still miserable, though.

You climbed the stairs, keys jangling, counting each tired breath. All you wanted was to crawl into bed, cocoon yourself in something dry, and sleep until the world stopped being soggy.

It was all you had wanted to do since 2 p.m. yesterday—when you had gotten home from lunch with your mother, lied to Spencer about why you hadn’t called, and then fallen asleep until your night shift.

You had wanted to call in sick. But you weren’t sick. Just tired.

So you suffered through it. Helping a few stressed students, organizing the current popular books, and drinking so much tea your taste buds still felt burned.

But now, you were seconds from falling asleep on your welcome mat, even just seeing it outside your front door. A little bristly thing saying ’come back with a warrant’ in Pinterest-esque cursive writing. You had told yourself it was funny when you bought it.

However, the moment you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you stopped dead in your tracks, your cocoon of blankets having to wait just a little longer.

Because there was a light on.

The vintage Tiffany lamp on your hallway table, seeping light through its stained glass. You definitely hadn’t left it on before leaving yesterday.

With a quick turn of your head, you saw the shape of a man sitting on your couch. Alone there in the darkness.

“Spencer?”

He stood up quickly, startled.

“What are you—”

Your words got stuck in your throat at the sight of him. The man in front of you looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Spencer’s shoulders slumped forward, the crisp lines of his usual attire replaced with something wrinkled and weary—his sweater and tie gone, shirt half-untucked. Disheveled curls clung to his forehead. And his eyes… His eyes flicked from the floor to your face like they couldn’t decide what was safer.

“Edith let me in,” he said hurriedly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I—she had the spare key you gave her, and I just… I needed to see you.”

You placed your soaked bag by the door, the water from your coat already beginning to drop onto the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tonight.”

“I understand if you don’t want me here—” he said quietly, eyes lowered, “Actually, I do not understand, not fully, because you won’t tell me anything.”

You blinked at him, shivering now that you were standing still. “How long have you been here?”

“We landed around midnight. I took a cab straight here.” His voice cracked at the edges. “I thought maybe if I saw you in person, you'd actually talk to me instead of… abbreviating everything.”

A pause.

“T-T-Y-L,” he repeated bitterly, “Is that really how we communicate now?”

You winced. “Spencer…”

He didn’t flinch exactly, but his shoulders rose—defensive, folded in. “You can throw me out headfirst if that’s what you want, but you should know that’s the opposite of what I want.”

For a moment, just a flicker, he laughed—something small and tired and helpless. But it disappeared fast. His face crumpled into something far too raw for someone trying to act composed. A dull, terrified shine behind his eyes. Like he was seconds from breaking again. Like he'd been bracing for you to become the next person to walk out on him.

You should’ve known he would catch you in your lie. He wasn’t easy to fool. It wasn’t that you had wanted to lie to him. You just hadn’t wanted to talk about…it. About anything, really. You couldn’t face yourself, let alone him. And you knew that Spencer could force it out of you by just looking at you in the right way, the walls of your façade coming crumbling down.

That was a terrifying thing.

“I’m just…” you exhaled, bringing the sleeve of your coat up to your cheek to wipe lingering raindrops away. “I’m so tired, Spencer.”

A similar little helpless laugh escaped your lips. Spencer dared to step closer to you.

“I can see that,” he said with a slight smile, just inches away.

But when his hand came forward to touch your arm, you tensed up, unthinking. It wasn’t that you had wanted to shy away. It just…happened.

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hand suspended in the space between you, looking at you with a perplexed expression. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He asked it like someone who was hurting—like someone who’d been waiting far too long to understand why they were being kept at arm’s length.

“Because I—” you faltered. The words had come so easily to the front of your mind, but saying them out loud was a different thing.

“Because I’m terrified, Spencer,” you finally whispered. “I’m terrified of being too much for you and making you uncomfortable. Because if we start, I’m scared of taking it too far. I always do.”

Spencer’s brows pulled together.

You’d had this discussion before. You thought you were too much; he didn’t realize that he was enough. An evil spiral of sorts. Maybe he’d thought you’d gotten out of it, hence the confusion. But you hadn’t. Or it had at least returned, in full force, like a hurricane sweeping by and taking everything with it.

“When are you going to realize that I will tell you if I am uncomfortable?”

The look in Spencer’s eyes was now the closest thing you’d seen to anger. It frustrated him. The walls you put up around yourself, thinking you were protecting him, hindering him from being close to you—they frustrated him. Because now he knew the reason.

And quite frankly, the reason was stupid. You both knew it.

You couldn’t hide from affection in a relationship. Because you were terrified of it leading somewhere further? That defied the entire purpose of your relationship. It was a support system, a center of gravity. It couldn’t develop if you were scared of that exact thing.

Spencer exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “You always just… assume that I’m uncomfortable. For once, let me make up my own mind. ”

“You sort of… look uncomfortable.” You twisted, arms coming up to fold over your chest.

“I think that’s just my face,” he deadpanned.

You huffed a quiet laugh—half relief, half disbelief.

“But you never make the first move,” you said softly. “You’re never the one to kiss me first. Never the one to—”

He moved.

Quick, certain, finally—he closed the last of the space between you, and before you could get another word out, you felt your back hit the door. Not hard, just enough to steal your breath. And then his mouth was on yours.

His hands braced beside your head, then slipped down, anchoring you at your waist. It wasn’t rushed or messy. Just certain. Very certain that this was what you both wanted. Needed.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer and not caring if you got him wet. You could taste the coffee he must’ve had hours ago. The slight salt of your own skin where the rain had dried between your lips. His breath shook when he finally pulled away just enough to speak.

“Is that better?” Spencer whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what you want,” he explained.

You should’ve caught on to what he was doing. For him to suddenly become all confident in matters of… love (?) was something you simply dreamt of. Maybe you needed to help him along the way, even though your stupid brain kept telling you that it would make him view you as a burden. As someone too much, too eager, too loud with feelings he hadn’t asked for.

Yet here he was… actually asking for it.

“What I want…” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm, ticking impossibly fast. That gave you courage. “…is for you to want me.”

“I do want you,” he said. “Painfully so.”

“I need to hear you say it,” you whispered. Then, a small smile. “Or show it. Pushing me against the wall is… a good start.”

“I believe we’ve established precedent,” he said, returning the smile.

You laughed, light but wrecked, and for a second everything felt okay again. And then you shivered. A cold, involuntary tremble you couldn’t hide. The wetness of your coat and jeans clinging to your skin returned to the forefront of your mind.

Spencer noticed it too. You couldn’t help the way your teeth chattered. He smoothed a hand gently down your arm, concern flitting through his features. “Why don’t you go get out of these wet clothes and lie on the bed for me?”

In seconds you saw the fear in his eyes, noticing what he’d actually said out loud. Intended innuendo or not. Spencer stumbled over his next words, hurried and ashamed. “If that’s okay, I mean—”

You continued to smile. An awfully content smile, like you were just waiting for him to notice that he’d done exactly what you wished for.

With a loud thud, you had shaken your coat off your shoulders, sneaking past him further down the hallway, saying a little sing-song, “Already on my way, Spence.”

You didn’t look back as you walked toward your bedroom. But you could hear him exhale—something long and full of relief.

Your bedroom was a sanctuary, always had been. Peeling off your soaked socks with your toes, you moved through the dim space, switching on the bedside lamp and the soft glow of fairy lights tracing the ceiling’s edge.

You sat down on your bed as you got there, struggling with the button of your jeans. It got even worse as you dragged the denim down your legs, the wet material sticking to your skin as your hands tried their best to get a good grip.

It wasn’t the rain slicking your hands anymore. It was a nervous sweat.

“You got here too quick,” you said as you heard his footsteps near the door. “I’m not done yet.”

Spencer lingered in the doorway, simply observing you on the bed, jeans pooling around your ankles.

“Jeans are difficult to get off when they’re wet.” You huffed out a little laughter as you pulled them off completely, tossing them to your hamper, landing on the floor. You should’ve hung them to dry immediately. But Spencer was more important.

Pantless, you realized your state of undress, reminding yourself that it was what he’d asked for. He wouldn’t be standing in the doorway if he didn’t want to see it.

You tried to decipher his expression. Soft smile, even softer eyes.

“Is that my shirt?” he quietly asked, walking into the room. His feet stopped when he was standing plainly in front of you.

You looked down at what you were wearing. Peeking out from your sweater were the edges of a pink dress shirt. One that he’d accidentally dyed pink in the wash. Spencer had wanted to throw them all out until you said that you liked the color pink. In general, but especially on him.

You could only nod at his question. There was no denying it. Looking back up, you caught a glimpse of an uncontrollable smile, where he had to fight the corners of his mouth from perking upwards too much, too noticeable.

“You wore my shirt all day? To work? To lunch with your mom?” Spencer asked.

You shrugged, lifting your rain-soaked sweater over your head, messing up your wet hair even further in the process. Spencer took it in his hands, throwing it over to where the jeans had landed.

“It smells like you,” you said, lifting the pink poplin to your nose. “Or it used to. I’m afraid it smells like me now.”

It was a comfort thing, you realized as you did it. Why you had worn it. Wanting a part of him near you, even subconsciously.

Spencer’s gaze moved slowly across your body, not greedy. Your thighs flattened out against the mattress, the skin in contrast to the rose-colored shirt. You felt his eyes on you as he took you in. He was good at watching, bad at talking—you concluded.

“Stand up?” he asked softly.

A little surprised, you obeyed, rising slowly from the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath you. Spencer stepped a little closer and let his hands rest gently on your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of the shirt—his shirt. His warm palms wandered down to your hips, brushing the hem of the fabric and the tops of your thighs in an easy movement.

He didn’t rush. Not even a little.

Not even as his fingers started to unbutton the shirt. He could’ve ripped it open in seconds, but he began gently with the lowest button.

You could feel his breath on your skin as he leaned in, eyes still focused on the buttons up the center of your stomach. His fingers moved with quiet precision, undoing one, then another, then another—his knuckles grazing your skin, warm and steady.

When he reached the last few buttons, right over your breasts, he looked up at you. Waiting for something. Your nod. Something saying yes, yes, yes.

With the last button undone, you let the shirt fall to the floor.

Stood there on bare feet in nothing but your underwear—your worn-out, simple white bra and a pair of cotton panties where the elastic had started to fray—you couldn’t help but feel the nerves settling in again. Steady and heavy, like a weight on your chest.

The air was still cold on your damp skin, but his hands were warm when they skimmed your sides. Spencer snuck his arms behind you, fingers ghosting over the clasp of your bra, waiting again, always waiting for the yes without asking it aloud.

And then, with two quick movements…

“Do I ask how you did that so well?” you asked, blinking as the straps slipped off your shoulders.

“I’m efficient with my fingers,” he said absentmindedly, still focused, eyes gentle but studious.

You blinked once, bit your lip. He didn’t even realize the double meaning—of course he didn’t. In his mind, “efficient with his fingers” meant things like… moving chess pieces or untangling cords.

But the way Spencer’s knuckles dragged along your arms as he slid your bra down made you sure that he wasn’t completely innocent or unaware of his actions. He caught the garment in his hands before tossing it on the floor too, his hands quickly back holding your hips.

You reached up and touched the side of his face. “Come closer.”

Spencer looked at you briefly. You knew the spots where his eyes wanted to linger. Then, he pulled his own shirt over his head, putting it aside. You weren’t entirely used to him shirtless yet, his pale, lean yet strong build hypnotizing to you. His arms wrapped around you, skin to skin, almost pulling your feet off the floor as he embraced you. His chest was warm against yours, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“You still smell like you, at least,” you whispered.

Spencer smiled against your hair. “That’s good.”

He was gentle as he led you towards the bed, the back of your knees bucking as you hit the mattress. In a brief moment of disconnect, you shuffled to lie on the bed, sighing as your head hit your mountain of pillows.

With one leg propped onto the bed, Spencer waited a moment before he joined you. He loved seeing your skin. As simple as it was. He could get lost as his eyes trailed the texture of it. Scars, bumps, bruises, and birthmarks. Almost completely naked too. He wasn’t just a boob guy—he was a you guy. That was easier to get on board with than the simple stereotype that boobs were just great.

Spencer got in beside you, a slight touch of his fingers all the way from your ankle up to your shoulder as he settled on top of the covers. On his side, his body cradling yours.

His palm rested flatly on your stomach, moving with your heavy breathing up and down. You didn’t say anything but turned your head to meet his, lazily adjusting forward to kiss him. Kissing him was all you needed to feel safe. To feel that it was true.

With a soft, open-mouthed trail, Spencer left kisses all over your face, down your neck, and chest. His hands started to roam as well, carefully gripping at your skin.

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he whispered as his mouth landed in the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you with golden warm eyes.

“Angel? That’s new,” you whispered back. Once his fingers dared to wander so low that he could run them over the fabric of your panties, feeling your arousal that had soaked through, you audibly hitched your breath. “I— I like it.”

Spencer moved his body to hover over you, lowering down between your legs as you purposefully spread them apart. He was a scrawny mess of limbs most of the time, but somehow felt natural crouching together at the edge of your bed to face your most desperate parts.

“Tell me what you want,” Spencer said, his hands touching over the soft swell of your stomach, down to your hips, but hesitant when they came back up, nudging the underside of your breasts. His nerves were finally showing. “And I’ll do my best.”

You intertwined your fingers with him, making sure to have eye contact as you teased, “All bark, no bite, huh?”

Spencer was flustered. You’d seen through his confident act since it began, but you enjoyed watching him try. He opened his mouth to say something, shutting it just as fast as he overthought. It was like you could see his decision-making happening, the signals connecting in his brain.

“Do you want me to explore instead? Trial and error?” he finally asked, tilting his head slightly with a boyish grin. He took small breaths that you could feel against your stomach, waiting for an answer. “Because I have a few ideas I’d like to try.”

You couldn’t wait to pick his brain, wondering exactly where he had gotten his ideas from. He was an anomaly as is. It wouldn’t be from an adult film or magazine. Knowing Spencer, it was something scientifically proven or from literature written centuries ago.

“You—you can try,” you breathed out, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth from your own cheeks. He could fluster you too. “Y’know that you don’t have to, like—you can stop immediately if you don’t like it—”

He cut you off. “Let me try before you decide for me.”

Assertive. That was new.

With the same warm eyes from before, he sought you out as his fingers found the hem of your underwear. You nodded eagerly, lower lip lodged between your teeth.

You wanted to help him—rip the fabric off in seconds. But he took his time. Agonizingly slow as he bunched the sides up between his hands and started to pull them down your legs, shifting your hips slightly upwards to ease the process.

You kicked them onto the floor with the help of your foot as soon as you were able. There was something desperate growing inside of you as Spencer found his place between your legs again.

He was big with his movements first, heating your skin up—your stomach and thighs—using the warmth from his palms. Softly cupping your boobs, he pushed them together as his thumbs toyed with the nipples. Then he was gentle, with smaller movements. As Spencer’s fingers slid all the way to your pussy, slowly spreading your lips apart with pressure on each side.

His thumb was first to touch your clit. Barely any pressure, just to watch your reaction to it. He pulled away, to see your wetness cling to his skin, before he gently swiped over it again.

Spencer looked at you in a way you weren’t sure you’d experienced before—with a certain awe or fascination. Really took in the view of you naked, like he had all the time in the world. It felt intimate in a weird way. But not necessarily uncomfortable. You cursed yourself for being used to guys who fucked you with the lights turned off or under blankets, not someone who would drink in the sight of you aroused.

On Valentine’s Day, when the first piece of your sexual puzzle together had been laid, you almost hadn’t had the time to feel nervous. You’d been too focused on Spencer and on his pleasure. When he had wanted to get you off with his fingers after your little dry humping session, you’d let him do it in a (desperate) heartbeat. That you hadn’t shaved or that no one had seen you naked in close to three years wasn’t at the forefront of your mind then.

It was painfully obvious to you now, though. An outgrown little thatch of hair, your leaking entrance clenching around nothing, and your skin… flawed.

Resting his cheek on your thigh, Spencer tilted his head to look up at you, his finger inches away from tapping your clit again.

“I don’t tell you enough how pretty you are.”

He said it simply. Easy. No qualms.

Your brain shut off for a moment when you saw him lick his lips as he touched your pussy again, your eyes squeezing shut at the tingling pleasure.

You truly did look pretty through Spencer’s eyes. Angelic even, the accidental pet name he had used suited you perfectly. With your damp hair clinging to you, your skin still slightly cold to the touch, your nipples pebbled like peaks.

“Can I—”

Spencer couldn’t finish the question, the words stuck in his throat. Slightly mesmerized by the view in front of him, he teased the pad of his index finger around your clit, down towards the entrance, gathering your wetness along his digit.

“You can finger me—yes, Spencer.”

With a low groan, you hummed in agreement as he began to push the finger inside of you.

It slipped in easily, even though it was noticeably bigger than what you were used to. Your own fingers would do nothing after this. He was tentative at first, like he took in the feeling of your cunt, warm and tight, around his finger.

“Is this—Am I doing it right?”

He sounded slightly worried but just as he asked it, he curled his finger upward, touching a spot deep inside of you.

“Oh, uhmf—” you gasped. “Right-fucking-there. You’re good at this.”

“I’m a virgin, not a monk.”

“Could’ve fooled me—”

With the building wetness, Spencer slipped his ring finger inside of you too, catching you off guard. He never took his eyes off of you, though, in case you would change your mind. But you didn’t. You couldn’t when it felt this good. A surprised curse left your already open mouth together with a ringing laughter, “Oh f-fuck you.”

Just the thought of you made his painfully hard cock leak in his boxers. Your taste, however, would send Spencer over the moon. You reached down to push the curls off his forehead as he finally delved in, leaving a series of kisses and nibbles on your inner thighs before you felt his tongue between your folds, his hands helping your legs up to spread apart even further.

“You’re sweet,” he mumbled. Just as quickly as he had said it, his mouth was back on you.

Tentative, again. But observing. Tuned into your body. Your reactions, your sounds. To every little touch he made. He tried out different methods, switching from gentle kissing and sucking of your clit to using all of his tongue to lap you up.

Your thighs closed around his head when he did it, your cunt tightening around his fingers as he continued to work them in and out of you, sucking even harder and longer on your clit. Spencer could easily piece together that it was your favorite part—the long, repetitive suckling. Together with his fingers touching that special spot deep inside of you. That was what brought the most mind-blowing little moans from your mouth, staggered and breathy. His observing nature made him a natural… and a mess, face glistening from your slick.

Spencer’s hair felt silky in your grip, tugging slightly as you settled into the pleasure he was giving you. You couldn’t help it as you started to rock your hips against his mouth, his nose pressing at your most sensitive part. Spencer choked out a groan as he realized what you were doing, the vibrations from it going straight into you.

Disguised behind your own cries, you heard him time and time again. Spencer’s sounds vibrated against your skin, sending jolts of added stimulation. He was moaning into you, clearly lost in the moment, just as much as you were. When you looked down, his hips were rutting hard into the mattress, desperate to rub his aching cock against anything, desperate for relief as he ate you like he was losing control.

“I’m close, Spence,” you gasped, shuddering, the grip his hands had on your hips only getting tighter. “That’s—right there, please, I’m gonna cum.”

He wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulling you closer than you thought was possible, continuing to whisper sweet nothings into your cunt, telling you to let it all go.

With one last curl inside of you and a couple of lazy kisses to your clit, stars began to form behind your eyelids as Spencer held you down by your hips. Your hands flew from his hair to your face, covering your cheeks as you came.

Spencer had noticed, even in non-sexual situations, that you were innocently shy about your own pleasure. Shy of taking, shy of enjoying. You probably always had been. But as he slid his fingers slowly out of you as you climaxed all up in his face, you were everything but shy. Your stomach tensing, your breathing stopping—and the sound, god what a sound. Deep from your throat, louder than he’d ever heard you.

With a curious gaze, he watched your pussy clench around nothing, twitching as you rode the very last second of your orgasm out. Slowly licking, he cleaned the slick from between your folds, around your cunt, before returning his focus to your face.

“Y’know, the female orgasm can last for up to 60 seconds, sometimes even longer.”

With your hands still glued to your cheeks, feeling nothing but burning heat, you malfunctioned a little as he spoke. “Why are you—oh my god, Spence. ”

He came up to lie beside you as you were still nothing but a panting mess. Of course that would be the first thing he’d say to you.

“Explains the aftershocks.”

You guessed it did. You’d be reeling from this feeling for days.

Spencer’s non-sticky hand gently took one of yours, removing it so you couldn’t hide your face. Intertwined, they rested on your stomach, still heaving irrationally from your breathing. You looked down at yourself, and at Spencer. Lovingly, almost. There were crescent-shaped indents on your thighs from his fingernails, your soft skin having spilled out between his fingers as he had pressed close to you.

He breathed heavily beside you too, still catching his breath. You had almost expected it to happen, but you still smiled like a fool when you realized it. The dark stain on his soft gray trousers. His bulge not so prominent, but still a sign of what had happened.

“Don’t mention it,” Spencer said, like through closed lips.

Catching his sight, you shook your head with a little laughter, “I’ll take it as compliment.”

And it was. Truly. To not always be the giver, but the receiver. And to have someone enjoy you receiving pleasure so much that it ends up bringing them their own pleasure. Again, you were ruined by men (boys, really) who were so focused on their own cocks reaching the final destination that you were only really there as a vessel for their own orgasms. You didn’t know the last time someone offered to go down on you, and for it not to be the result of you asking, making you feel like a burden for wanting it.

Turning to your side, you laid your head on Spencer’s chest, letting out a breath that felt like it’d been lodged in your ribs for hours. Your legs tangled with his instinctively, and you sank into the heat of him, body finally relaxing in the aftermath. It took about five seconds for the awareness to hit: you, naked, skin to his still clothed legs, with nothing but the slight stick of sweat and something more lingering between you.

One of Spencer’s arms curled around you automatically. The other hovered awkwardly in the air, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it—just a few inches above the sheets.

“Sticky fingers?” you asked, amused.

“Y’know, it’s not as sticky as I first thought it would be. It’s more… wet—”

As Spencer explained, you grabbed his hand without thinking, looking up into his eyes for any sort of intel but being met with a mostly blank stare as you guided the two fingers he’d used into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them slowly. Lazily, curious if it would short-circuit his brain as easily as you suspected.

You were not disappointed.

“Jesus C-Christ—” Spencer’s whole body tensed beneath you, mouth parting in a sharp gasp.

A slight giggle was your only response. Lifting your head, your cheek had left a faint pink imprint across his chest. Truth be told, the entirety of Spencer was flushed. Face, neck, stomach. He was a study in pale skin turned soft rose.

“It’s like I can hear you overthinking,” you murmured, your voice rough around the edges, the way it always was when you were soft and…coming down.“And you really don’t have to.”

He hesitated, then shyly whispered, “Was I… Was that any good?”

The corners of your mouth lifted, lazy and genuine. “It was really good, Spence. Did you enjoy it?”

You felt him tense beneath your fingertips. He didn’t answer right away, too busy internally dissecting the phrasing—really good? As opposed to just good? Or better than expected? But before his thoughts could spiral, you kept talking. Doing what you always did: catching him before he fell too far into his own head, usually with something crude.

“You’re better than most men by principle,” you said, casual and completely sincere. “You know where the clit is.”

Spencer groaned, dragging his arm over his face. “You really have no filter, do you?”

You laughed—low, warm, the kind that curled around his mind and stayed there. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice came muffled through the crook of his elbow. “No. I love you for it.”

You stilled—just for a second. You didn’t say anything, but he felt the shift. The way your breath caught. The way your eyes lifted to look at him again, just to make sure you’d heard him right.

“You love me… for it?”

It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about what this was, what it meant. Part of you had worried once that maybe Spencer only loved you because he could. Because you were the first person to touch him like this, see him like this. That he was falling in love with the intimacy itself—not with you.

But that fear didn’t live here. Not in the quiet way he touched you. Not in the way he listened. Not in the way he waited—for you, for your pace, for your yes.

You knew, somewhere deeper than your mind, that this wasn’t a performance. Not a conquest. Not the story of the virgin who loved the first person who said “stay.” The stupid virgin who fell in love with the person they had given up everything to. (It wasn’t everything. Far from it, actually).

As you had grown to know him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ever think that. He’d never wanted this to be one-sided. He was doing it all for you. The two of you. The us. Because if it wasn’t mutual, it wouldn’t be worth it to him at all.

“Mhm,” Spencer answered seconds later, muffled but still easily understood. Then, after a breath, “Should we take a shower?”

Smoothly swerving the subject.

Your head tilted slightly. “Like…together?”

He nodded like it was obvious. “Yes, is that so weird?”

You grinned. “I’ve never seen you naked.”

Spencer blinked. “I—yes, that’s true. Technically. That feels… unbalanced.”

“Let’s even the playing field then.”

You pulled the sheet with you as you sat up, tossing him a wink over your shoulder. Spencer groaned under his breath—somewhere between overwhelmed and entirely thrilled, watching as your naked body slipped out of the room.

And in the quiet trail of your footsteps heading toward the bathroom, he found himself smiling so hard it almost hurt.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The water had already begun to fog the mirror by the time you stepped in, first wiping off the last of your makeup and letting Spencer quietly undress.

He stood beneath the showerhead, letting the stream beat down on his back and shoulders. His hair, flattened against his forehead, dripped steadily along his jaw. He’d slicked it back once, instinctively, and now little rivulets trailed down the line of his spine. The tips had already begun to curl again, wet and weightless, plastered to the nape of his neck.

Spencer wasn’t cold—he didn’t think he could be, not with the heat of the water and the anticipation of you coming in behind him.

Not nervous. Not exactly.

Just… aware. Aware of what this meant. Of how rare it felt to be so bare in front of someone and not feel the instinct to cover up.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the glass door open. Not right away. He just felt it—the slight change in the air, the extra warmth, the soft whisper of your breath as you stepped in behind him, saying a little hi.

Then your forehead pressed gently against his back.

That broke him a little.

Because it wasn’t a sexy thing, or even a performative one. It was grounding. A small gesture of trust. Your skin was slick against his, arms resting loosely at your sides, the crown of your head nestled between his shoulder blades like you belonged there.

Maybe you did.

He turned around slowly, and you looked at him like you’d been looking all along.

Maybe you had.

Your body was graceful in the low light, water gleaming as it slipped across your collarbones and traced down the dip of your stomach. Steam clung to your lashes, droplets staying on your cheeks. Spencer couldn’t decide what part of you to look at first. Your eyes always won.

He reached for the soap absently, trying not to fumble it. Jasmine.

The scent brought something up in him—unexpected and nostalgic. A low green bush outside his childhood home in Nevada. White, almost yellowing little flowers. His mother’s garden, where she’d hum Debussy and dig her hands into the dirt, fingers stained and nails wrecked but proud all the same. He remembered helping her water the jasmine in the summer, his small hands never quite strong enough to carry the big watering cans.

Now, years later, that same scent lingered in your hair. On your skin. Tied to you. Beneath his hands as he lathered the soap over your shoulders and along your upper back. He worked slowly, deliberately. Partly because he didn’t know what to do, partly because he wanted to feel all of you against his hands.

“That feels good,” you said, voice quiet with his hands running over your shoulder blades.

“Efficient fingers,” he said without a hint of irony.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest, water cascading down between you. “You still don’t realize how that sounds.”

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “How what sounds?”

You didn’t explain. You just kissed the spot over his heart.

The water pelted the top of your head gently as silence filled the gaps between words. It wasn’t awkward. Not at all. Domestic, even. He thought maybe this was what safety felt like. This quiet comfort.

Spencer washed your back with care like you were something delicate and revered, and when he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle, you leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Eventually, though, the quiet gave way.

His voice was soft against your temple. “Do you want to talk about why you shut me out yesterday?”

A pause. Seconds long.

“No,” you admitted. “Not really.”

“That’s okay.” He tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “I just… I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. For not answering me. Or for being short.”

You met his gaze. “How you made me feel isn’t the issue.”

“Okay,” he said, carefully. “Then what is?”

Your eyes flicked toward the fogged glass of the shower door. You watched a droplet race another down the pane. “The younger version of myself still stuck inside. Constantly screaming that I don’t deserve this.”

Spencer’s face softened, his breath catching in his chest. “Deserve what?”

“Being with you,” you shrugged. You tried to make it feel simple. “Being loved by you. Being in love with you.”

He wasn’t worried that you hadn’t said it back in the bedroom, because he deep down knew—past his own insecurities—that you loved him back. But he hadn’t thought about your insecurities in the same way, how they formed like thick brick walls in front of you and hindered your capability of showing affection.

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Did your mother bring out these thoughts? That you’re not deserving of love?”

You didn’t answer, not with words. But your silence thudded between you.

“She’s a…” you started, then bit the words off in frustration.

“You’re allowed to say it.”

“A bitch, Spencer,” you whispered, uncharacteristic of you to care about cursing. “She’s like comically bad.”

He didn’t laugh, even though he knew you meant to ease the weight. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. The water streamed around you, washing the ache away in some way.

“You are deserving of love,” he murmured. “It would be terrible if you weren’t. Because I love loving you. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do with all of this love if you didn’t let me in to show it to you.”

Your fingertips curled at his chest, right where his heart lived. Then, you reached up to kiss him. Softly, sweetly. Your inhale was shaky as you pulled away, but your voice was clear.

“I love being in love with you too.”

After a few more minutes under the spray, you turned the water off, steam wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket. The silence that followed was almost startling—thick and filled with your shared breathing, the kind of quiet that felt sacred.

Spencer moved first, reaching for one of the larger towels hanging on the hook. You didn’t even bother drying off fully before wrapping it around your chest like a makeshift dress.

He grabbed another towel and rubbed it through his hair—quick, automatic motions. But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You wiped at the foggy mirror with the flat of your hand, revealing just enough to see the two of you reflected back— naked, wet, soft around the edges with fluffy towels in the low light of your bathroom.

Spencer stood there for a moment, drying himself with his towel, just looking at you. Damp hair, glowing cheeks, a surprisingly big smile.

“I know we’re having a sweet and sappy moment right now,” you began, trying to keep your tone even, “but I have to say—”

He squinted, seeing mischief in your eyes. “Oh no.”

“You were lying when you said it was five inches soft, Spencer.”

“Oh my—” He made an absolutely strangled sound—halfway between a laugh and a groan—burying his face in the towel while simultaneously trying to shield what was more than five inches, apparently. Maybe he’d been humble. “Don’t ever change.”

You grinned into the mirror, entirely smug and still somehow the softest thing in the world.

In a moment of courage, and maybe as a slight comeback, he reached for your hand, laced his fingers with yours, and tugged you gently toward the bedroom.

The bedroom was dim, the morning sun barely sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, casting golden lines across the unmade bed. The covers were still tangled where you'd left them, half-slipped onto the floor.

You paused near the edge of the bed, still towel-wrapped, while Spencer rummaged through his travel bag. He emerged with a button-down and a pair of boxers in hand, the shirt rumpled from being folded too long. It was another pink one. You could tell without smelling it that it hadn’t been washed since he wore it last. California, probably.

“Here,” he said, holding it up. “Arms out.”

You blinked. “You’re dressing me now?”

He gave a small shrug, lips twitching. “If you want me to.”

You rolled your eyes, but they softened as you raised your arms. The towel dropped silently to the floor, pooling at your feet like a sigh. Spencer didn’t react—didn’t flinch or look away.

Spencer stepped in close, his own towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The shirt slid down over your arms slowly, the fabric catching slightly on damp skin. The hem fell mid-thigh. He only buttoned two buttons, in the middle of your stomach, leaving the rest undone and revealing most of what was underneath anyway.

But it smelled like him, and that was the sole purpose. You pressed your nose to the collar without even thinking.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, towel abandoned, bare thighs brushing the soft sheets. Spencer stood in front of you, pulling his boxers on beneath his towel before he too abandoned his in the pile of laundry gathered on the floor.

He didn’t say anything as he moved to your closet, opening a drawer you always kept a little messily organized. Underwear. You wondered if he panicked over the selection—if you would’ve judged him for grabbing a hot pink lace thong or the floral granny panties.

He settled on a safe pair in black cotton, just cheeky enough. Spencer handed them to you, and you giggled as you slipped them on. It seemed you still had to dress some parts of yourself.

Spencer then knelt slightly, just enough to be level with you, and placed one warm hand on your bare knee. “Now,” he said softly, “do we eat breakfast, or do we go back to bed?”

You looked toward the window, then back at him with a raised brow. “Spence, it’s 8 a.m.”

He just shrugged. “There are no rules. If you’re hungry, we eat. If you’re tired, we sleep.”

You considered it for half a breath, then leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Both,” you said into his shoulder. “I wanna do both.”

“Then we’ll do both, angel.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡ Title and lyrics are from Ankles by Lucy Dacus.

౨ৎ [ masterlist ]

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #dr reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fic

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nixie-deangel · 7 months ago

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make me write 📝

send me an emoji for one of my WIPs and i’ll write three sentences for every emoji you send :)

Rules: You may send in multiple asks per day (though I may be slow to answer them!), but please no more than 3 emojis to an ask that you send in.

I will be taking emojis starting now until the 7th of October. Let's see if we can't help a Nixie get some good progress on the WIP list once again! 💜💜💜💜💜💜

My Main focus this weekend are the following:

🔥 virgin jake - hangster I know this was the most voted one but y'all, I gotta be honest. I'm so lost and confused by this one, that I'm gonna pump the breaks until I figure out the direction for it. sorry!!!

🍼 non navy bradley/fighter pilot jake as parents - hangster

🍷 Jake's family causes the hangster break up

💐 serial killer Jake - hangster

🐺 shifter au - hangster

💜 But bonus WIP's I will also take emoji's for:

🦇 vampire jake/human bradley - hangster

😈 Kinktober - Virgin Jake

🥰 Kinktober - Virgin Bradley this one is mostly finished, so no longer taking requests for it!

✨ Retired Bradley, Jake climbing Command

🤠 music producer Bradley x rancher Jake

👀 B&B, Celebrity Bradley, handyman Jake

#make nixie write #ask nixie things #hangster #please make me write #speedrun hangster girl dad's #sereshaw #moonlighting my love #pillow princess bradley & serial killer sugar daddy jake #my patron my heart #seresin family ruins sereshaw #shifter au #bradley retires and jake goes up up up #to settle like oxygen #rancher music life #ktober virgin bradley #ktober virgin jake #B&B celebrity meets handyman

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shotmrmiller · 1 year ago

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hate sex (is what you call it almost like you're trying to convince yourself) would go crazy with ex bf simon.

when he texts you at work that he's landing in 2 hours, you realize you forgot to block him after the breakup. that'd been almost a year ago. the last message you don't even bother reading. simply delete and block.

i'll see you at home.

when you finally go home after working a grueling corporate job that always leaves you with frayed nerves and your teeth on edge, you stand by the door, instantly realizing something's wrong different.

mud-caked boots sit by the door. the lights inside are on and when you walk in, you find out why.

simon's sprawled on your couch, asleep, his large frame making it seem like a child's bed instead of living room furniture. his snoring scrapes over your already tender nerves, thinning the already wisp-like thread of patience you're barely dangling from.

you grab a cushion and toss it at his head. (you do not miss the way he snores. it's like a hibernating bear in a cave. resounding. grating.)

"get up and get out."

to your astounding surprise, he doesn't. instead, he groggily asks what's for dinner. when you bark out, "nothing. i'm exhausted and going to sleep", he gets up with an agility no man his size should possess and blocks your path.

you've always loved hated the way he makes you feel small.

"either we eat takeout or i eat you out." that solves that. you've got boundaries to keep. maybe he'll eat his fill and piss off.

he doesn't. he eats you out anyway, legs perched on the kitchen counter as he slurps up your slick like a starved man at a bountiful feast. doesn't care that you're pelting his broad back with your small fists, slurring how much you hate him.

"course you do, pet."

he thinks your ire is endearing, like a spirited kitten that needs to expend their energy before settling down for the night. he makes you ride him on the couch, the burn of him stretching you feeling as intense as very first time he took you.

"tight cunt's forgotten me. it's alrigh', i'll carve out a space in 'ere jus' f'me." (again.)

when you sit flush on his thighs, balls pressed against your arse, he bucks up, feeling his cock in your throat, the oxygen stolen from your lungs.

"show me how much ya hate me."

(somewhere down the line, when your hair is damp with sweat and your neck's marked purple, he tells you that even if you don't like him, your cunt loves him. so much so it's gripping him like it never wants him to leave. so he doesn't. stays over for a night. then two. a week. a month. until it's time to go to work again.)

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

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ladysharmaa · 1 year ago

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My miracle

Anthony Bridgerton x reader

summary: Anthony’s wife is in labor and it’s not looking good

warnings: mentions of death

“Where is she?” the loud voice of Anthony was heard in the entire mansion. The door he opened slammed into the wall but he couldn’t care less as he saw some servants running his way to take off his coat. “Tell me where my wife is!”

“My apologies, my Lord.” the poor man trembled under the Lord’s menacingly glare, that were just a cover for the worry and fear that was running though his veins. “The Viscountess is in your chambers. The midwife and your mother are already present with her. Shall I inform your brothers to come and wait with you until the child is born?”

Anthony didn’t bother to respond. He quickly climbed the stairs, two steps at once, seeing with wide eyes as the maids ran to his room with towels in their hands. He doesn't even settle for knocking, immediatly opening the bedroom door. None of his mother's stories could have prepared him for the sight that lay ahead.

His darling wife was drenched in sweat, dressed in her nightdown. One hand was on her round belly protectively while the other was in his mother’s hands, who was whispering words of comfort. Her jaw was clenched in pain and it was only then that he noticed the midwife between the Viscountess legs.

“You!” Y/n screamed accusingly, managing to point a finger at Anthony with hatred. “You did this to me! You will never ever put your hands on me again!”

“I-” Anthony was at loss of words. He knew that his wife was in pain, and looking like she was ready to kill, so he just nodded his head in agreement. He took slow hesitant steps towards the bed, hoping to comfort her without dying. “I’ll never touch you again, my love. How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling? I’m pushing your child that inherited your big head out of my lady parts! So tell me, my dear husband, how am I feeling?”

“Like you are giving birth?”

“Anthony...” his mother whispered while shaking her head in dispair. “You should leave the room. Your brothers must be coming to keep you company. We shall call you when the child is born.”

“I’m not leaving my wife.” was the only thing he said with firmity, holding Y/n’s hand and kissing her soft skin gently.

She turned to him, a change in her demeanor, eyes full of tears of terror. “I’m scared, Anthony. It hurts.”

“I know it hurts. It’s okay, love. You will be alright and then we will have our child with us.” he whispered. A feeling of guilt washed through him. How could he have made his wife suffer through childbirth? “You are the bravest person I know. So so much braver than me and everyone else. I’m so proud of you.”

"I can't do this. It hurts too much. Make it stop, Anthony, please." Y/n cried.

It was only then that Anthony saw the look in his mother. She was worried, exchanging looks with the midwife. And as much as the Viscount would like to also show his anguish, his first priority was to comfort Y/n. "It's going to be okay, my love. Just a little longer, you're being so strong."

But she no longer had the strength to respond. It was getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open and she just wanted to sleep to escape the pain. Between her legs, an increasingly larger pool of blood was forming. Anthony's eyes were wide and there was enormous pressure in his chest. It felt like I was running out of oxygen, and it only got worse when Y/n finally gave in to unconsciousness.

"What's happening?" he whispered, looking in alarm first at Violet. Afterwards, he turned to the midwife furiously. "What's wrong with her? Help her! Do something!"

"Anthony, you need to leave." Violet advised, trying to remain calm for everyone's sake. Anthony was becoming more and more desperate, tears falling from his eyes as he grabbed his wife's hand tighter and brought it to his lips.

"I'm not going anywhere!"

"Viscount Bridgerton, the baby is in pain. You won't want to see what I'm going to do. I promise I'll try to save both of them." the midwife said, taking a small knife and flying it over Y/n's stomach.

"If you need to choose, save my wife's life." Anthony begged, now more desperate as his mother called his brothers to take him out of the room.

"Anthony..."

"No, mother, you save my wife's life!" Benedict and Collin grabbed the man by the arms and began to carry him outside, despite Anthony's struggle. "You hear me! My wife is going to survive! Let me go! Mother, save Y/n!" he shouted before the door closed in his face.

The last thing he saw was the woman making the cut on Y/n's stomach, who woke up with a jolt. She then let out a scream that would torment Anthony for the rest of his life.

With a cry of anger mixed with sadness, Anthony broke free from his brothers' grip and put his hands to his face. He didn't want to think about the possibility of losing the love of his life. He simply couldn't take it.

"Wow, Anthony, calm down." Collin whispered when Anthony, in a rage, threw a punch against the wall. "The Viscountess is a fighter. If anyone is capable of overcoming this, it's her."

"You don't tell me to calm down, Collin. Not when my wife is in that room fighting for her life over something I did." he cried, jaw shaking and eyes red that only showed the immense pain he was in. He sat on the floor, leaning his head back and looking at the ceiling. "I need her to live."

"And she will live, brother. I will bring a drink, and we will wait together for news." Benedict said, rushing to bring the alcohol when Y/n's screams became louder.

On one hand, each scream was like a stab in the heart of Anthony, who was increasingly pale and looked like he was going to vomit at any moment. On the other, it was the only way to know she was alive.

Moments passed. The Viscount didn't know if it had been seconds, minutes or hours. Things seemed to be getting mixed up in his mind. Nothing made sense, not when the love of his life was in the next room in pain and he was away from her. He had to protect her, it was his obligation as a husband. And he failed.

And then came the moment when Anthony's heart stopped. A baby's cry was heard, and he allowed himself to smile a little. He had a son or daughter. A mini version of his wife. And then he burst into tears when Y/n stopped screaming and everything became too silent.

It was uncontrollable. He cried without being able to stop, making it even difficult to breathe in. Anthony refused to believe that he would have to raise this child without Y/n. Without her affection, her kindness, her love. He didn't want to open his eyes and realize that all this wasn't a nightmare, but reality.

Benedict and Collin didn't know what to do. But one thing was certain, they would be there to help Anthony with whatever he needed and never let that child forget the wonderful mother he had. Then, Violet left the room holding a pile of blankets that held the baby.

"You have a daughter, Anthony."

He just cried more. His body was shaking and he couldn't even look at his mother and the baby. "Y/n... Is she...?" He took Violet's silence as a yes. "Oh god..."

"Enter the room, Anthony. She is waiting for you."

Anthony had never stood up so quickly in his life. He quickly opened the door, stopping momentarily when he saw the amount of blood on the sheets, but the most important thing was Y/n's half-open eyes. She was alive and looking around the room in confusion.

"Anthony? Where is my baby?" her voice was hoarse and extremely weak.

The man fell to his knees at the edge of her bed, and lowered his head to rest on her chest. A feeling of relief spread throughout his body when he felt the rising and falling movement of her chest, indicating that she was breathing and that it wasn't just his imagination.

"I love you so much." he cried, feeling her hands start stroking his hair. "I'm sorry. You were so brave and strong. I'm so proud of you, my love."

"Where is my baby?" Y/n didn't want to seem like she didn't appreciate Anthony's words because that was a lie. He was the most important person in her life. But at that moment, Y/n just wanted to know where her baby was.

"She's right here, dear." Violet reassured with a smile, announcing her presence.

Very carefully, she passed the child into the arms of her son's wife, her smile widening as the little family was finally together again. The new parents had a gentle smile as they looked at their creation, a new love emerging for this fragile human being.

Anthony kissed Y/n's temple. "We have a daughter."

"She is beautiful."

"She takes after her mother." Anthony quickly said, never feeling so much love as he did in that moment.

He was extremely proud of Y/n admiring her strength and courage. Now, he was going to protect his two girls until the end of his life. Nothing was more important than his family.

#anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton x you #Bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x y/n #collin bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x wife reader

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fungateshortcakes · 5 months ago

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Kissy Missy

I got my inspiration for this from the movie Scoop (2006), in which Hughs character Peter Lyman says "I can't let you go, you're too beautiful. Look at ya, I can't." to his affaire while kissing her in between words.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x gender neutral!Reader

Summary: Logan can't stop kissing you

Wordcount: 1.7k

Warning/tags: none, pure fluff, established relationship, lots of kissing, english isn't my first languange,

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It started innocently, like most things with Logan did, oddly enough. A sweet kiss here, a short peck there. On your cheek, on your lips, on your temple. Nothing you couldn’t handle. But you were quickly realizing that when it came to the simple task of kissing you, Logan Howlett was insatiable. Like kissing you was his way of breathing oxygen.

You had no idea when this happened. When he became so addicted to pressing his mouth to yours every chance he got. Maybe it was the first time you kissed him and he discovered just how soft your lips were, how good they tasted when he timidly let his tounge sweep over them. Or maybe it was the way you always sighed when he kissed you like you’d been waiting for it all day.

All you knew now was that Logan couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Never. You would have to escape his cold, dead hands for it to stop.

“Logan, seriously-” you muttered against his eager lips that seemed to magnetically attach to yours. “Nope” he cut you off, hands settling firmly on your waist as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. Again.

“Logan” you tried for what seemed to be the 100th time, your attempt futile as he kissed you yet again. One kiss turned into two. Two turned into three. Soft, quick little pecks that left you breathless and laughing, your hands pressing against his chest in an effort to push him away. Which was only halfhearted. It was too easy to get lost in his kisses and you almost forgot why you didn't want him to love you with his lips.

“Stop interrupting me!” you scolded, though the smile on your face gave you away in an instant. You didn't have it in you to be mad when he kissed you. “Can’t help it” Logan murmured lowly, the sound only a rasp in the back of his throat, his voice rumbly against your mouth. He tilted his head, brushing his lips across yours again ever so softly, sighing through his nose. “You talk too much.”

His words made you gasp in mocked offence, shoving at his chest as he chuckled in that rough, gravelly way that made your stomach do flips. “Excuse me?”

Logan smirked smugly and kissed the corner of your mouth. He knew you weren't truly angry, he would have already gotten a hefty slap to the face if you were. “You heard me" he teased, grinning in that rare way that made him look years younger than he was. He pressed a kiss to your flushed cheek. “Too much talkin’” Another kiss. “Not enough kissin’”

Before you could fire back a snarky remark, he claimed your lips again, this time a little longer, a little slower, deeply savouring the way your lips made his tingle with every touch. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

You melted against him, forgetting entirely what you had been so determined to tell him in the beginning. Your hands wrapped around his neck, one buried in his thick hair, while the other slipped under the back of his shirt collar. When he finally pulled back, just enough to let you both breath, you blinked up at him, dazed. And oh, so in love.

“See?” Logan said, his voice rough but teasing. “Quiet now.”

It wasn’t just that moment, either. The man was relentless in every sense of the word, every time of day. You couldn't seem to catch a break from his love.

You would be sitting on the couch in the common room, all alone, minding your own business, when Logan would walk by, only to pause, look at you, and say, “C’mere, baby”

And before you could respond, hop off the couch or something before he got you in his iron grip again, he would lean down and kiss you -once, twice, three times - as many times as were needed to leave yu giggling like an idiot.

Oh, don't even think about to leaving the room the room when he is in it. “Where you goin’?” he would ask, already getting up to follow like a little puppy on a leash, trotting beside you.

Your hand was already on the door handle as you turned to him, a basket of dirty clothes under your arm “Uh, laundry?” you said, more like a question because it seemed so obvious to you. How naive you were, you should have seen it coming. “You sure that can't wait?” he had asked you, taking the basket from you and tugging you back towards him by your hand. “I haven't gotten my daily fill of kissed yet” he really chose the worst times for this. Before bed, you would be cuddling and have all the time in the world to kiss until your lips fell off, but no, Mr. 'If-you-dont-kiss-me-right-now-I-will-think-you-hate-me' had other ideas. And he would kiss you again, like he was a man dying of thirst and you were the only thing in the universe that could sooth the ache in his dry throat.

One evening, you were attempting to cook dinner for the X-men team, standing at the stove with a wooden spoon in hand and stirring some veggies in a pan, when you felt Logan’s presence behind you. That meant no one else was around in a one mile radius most likely. Logan wasn't a big fan of pda and didn't need anyone to catch his soft side.

“Don’t even think about it” you warned without him even touching you or saying anything, knowing exactly what he was about to do.

Logan put up his hands in defense for a second, even though you couldn't see. “Think about what?” he said innocently, though his hands were already sliding around your waist. You groaned. “Logan, I’m cooking-” He kissed your neck. It made your breath hitch, but you quickly catched yourself “Logan” Another kiss, right on your jaw this time. It wasn’t anything of sexual nature. Just pure and raw affection that overcame him everytime he saw you.

“I swear, if you don't quit it-” you barked, but it didn’t have any serious bite to it. He turned you around before you could even finish your sentence, his hands framing your face as he kissed you deeply, pulling you against him like the rest of the world didn’t matter. You melted instantly, any words against his actions dying on your tounge, forgetting the stove entirely as you clung to him.

When he finally pulled back, Logan smirked, looking far too pleased with himself. It made you want to wipe that self-assured smile off his face. But who were you kidding? He had you wrapped around his finger as much as he was wrapped around yours.

“You were saying?” he murmured, his thumbs brushing gently across your cheeks. The look in his eyes, so tender as he admired your face, it took your breath away. You narrowed your eyes, though your flushed face gave away just how much you loved this. “You’re impossible.”

Your words pulled a grin from him. “Yeah?” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Look at you.” Another kiss, this time on your lips. “Can’t just let you go.” Kiss. “You’re too beautiful.” Kiss. “Way too beautiful.”

You smiled against his lips with every kiss, your heart threatening to burst. "Logan!” you squeaked through laughter, swatting at his chest. “The food’s gonna burn!” but your concerns fell on deaf ears “Let it.” He grinned, swooping in to kiss you again like he couldn’t get enough. He really couldn’t.

It wasn’t just the passionate kisses, either. Sometimes it was soft, absentminded things that caught you off guard and left your heart doing flips like it never had for anyone before. Logan would kiss your temple when you leaned into his side during a movie. He would press a lingering, loving kiss to your hand when he grabbed it, just because he could. He would kiss your forehead when you were curled up with him in bed, all cozy and warm in his strong arms, his lips brushing against your skin like a quiet promise.

Logan wasn’t great with words - he never had been. But this? This was how he showed you what he couldn’t say. And you wouldn't change that for the world. You'd rather have a man that didn't say 'I love you' quite that often and instead showered you with love that you could feel, instead of a guy that chewed your ear off with meaningless words used to make you think he actually cared, but never getting to feel what his words promised you every day.

One night as you laid in bed together, you found yourself tracing circles across his naked chest with your nails and listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The patterns you drew against his skin made pleasant shivers run down his spine. Logans hand slid up to tangle lazily in your hair, his thumb brushing over your temple while he planted a kiss there, letting his lips linger.

You huffed, kissing his chest “You really can’t stop kissing me, can you?” you teased softly, looking up at him through your lashes. Logan cracked an eye open, his lips twitching with the barest hint of a smirk. “Not my fault you make it hard not to.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, though the warmth in your chest betrayed how much his words meant to you after all. He caught you rolling your eyes like that and frowned softly. “I’m serious,” he added, his hand slipping down to cup your cheek. “You’re sittin’ here, lookin’ at me like that and you think I’m not gonna kiss you?”

Before you could respond, Logan leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss that made your head spin. When he pulled back, you were breathless. It stunned you how he had kissed you countless times already and your bashful reaction remained the same. The warm and giddy feeling in your chest never faded away, only grew stronger with every touch of his lips.

“You’re unbelievably corny, you know” you muttered, though you were smiling. How could you not when you had him loving you more than anything else?

Logan grinned faintly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah? You love it.”

And you did.

You really, really did.

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I really hoped you liked this relatively short fic! Let me know your thoughts down below in the xomments and don't forget to like and reblog to support me if you want <3

I just NEED NEED NEED Logan to kiss me (or any Hugh Jackman variant) it would literally solve 99% of my problems

#logan howlett x reader #x men #hugh jackman #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #x reader #logan howlett #marvel #logan wolverine #wolverine #marvel fanfiction #mcu #logan howlett fluff #fluff

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bi-writes · 6 months ago

Text

attached | ghost x f!reader

i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.

type: one-shot (8.4k)

cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+

Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.

No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.

He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?

Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.

He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.

Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.

Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.

It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.

He never wins.

Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.

If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.

He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.

He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.

It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.

There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.

When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.

It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.

He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.

He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.

His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.

It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.

He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.

But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.

He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.

Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.

The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.

The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.

It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.

He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.

He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.

There are different kinds of hunters out today.

He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.

When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.

Her.

He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.

He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.

"Hello, darling."

"Bite me."

He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.

"You bitch!"

Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.

Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.

The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.

Just a man.

I hate men.

You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.

He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.

You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.

Condoms.

Bunch of pricks.

He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.

You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.

When he walks again, you follow.

The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.

You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.

He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.

You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.

But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.

He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.

It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.

You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.

He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.

Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.

When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.

It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.

He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.

They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.

He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.

He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.

He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.

He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.

"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.

He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.

The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.

Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.

It is then that he decides to keep you.

What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.

Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.

You can do the same.

You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.

You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.

You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.

He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.

He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.

"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.

It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.

He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.

You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.

He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.

You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.

He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.

The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you.

Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.

It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.

You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.

It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.

"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"

He groans. It's music.

Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.

"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."

"Need wot?"

The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.

"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."

He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.

"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.

You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.

But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.

Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.

Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.

The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.

Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.

When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.

He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.

He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.

The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.

He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.

He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.

He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.

A terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.

It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.

Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.

His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.

He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.

"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"

It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.

What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.

You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).

Another terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.

They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.

You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.

You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.

This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.

It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.

You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.

He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.

You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.

You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.

"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."

You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.

You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.

There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.

Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.

You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.

You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.

It comes up tails.

He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.

You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.

His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.

Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.

You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.

It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.

And if you're dead, then he must be, too.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!ghost #dark!simon

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mcrdvcks · 7 months ago

Text

Dumb & Poetic

Summary: You like Logan, but he likes Jean. Right?

Word Count: 6k+

Pairing: Logan (X-Men) x fem!reader

Notes: honestly, this isn't one of my favorites, but i just needed to write it to get it out of my head.

also, this is after the sabrina carpenter song, but this story has no relation to the lyrics whatsoever, i just thought the title was fitting

reader's powers are manipulating atoms (it'll make sense when you read)

warnings/tags: some uses of y/n, pet name (princess, sweetheart), miscommunication, light violence, blood, implied age gap

Even after going on ten missions and counting, you always found yourself nervous. Especially when you were getting onto the Blackbird, clad in your matching suits. The hum of the jet’s engines filled the air, but your mind was on Logan. He sat across from you, legs spread out, arms crossed over his chest, that usual scowl on his face. It was the way he always looked before a mission, but you couldn’t help but glance over a little too often.

Ororo slid into the seat next to you, her sharp eyes catching your lingering stare. “You know,” she said softly, leaning over slightly, “if you keep looking at him like that, you might as well say something.”

You blinked, face heating up. “What? I wasn’t—”

“Oh, please, Y/N,” Ororo chuckled under her breath. “I’m not blind.”

You sighed and slouched back into your seat, fiddling with the straps. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s Logan,” Ororo shrugged. “Everything about him is complicated. But that doesn’t mean you should hold back.”

You cast another glance across the cabin at him. Logan was still quiet, staring out the window now, completely unaware of the butterflies flipping around in your stomach. You didn’t want to admit it, but Ororo was right. There was something about Logan that made you pause. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to be in his own world, like he was still holding onto things from his past. Or maybe it was because of the way he looked at Jean sometimes, like there was still something unresolved there.

“I don’t think he’s over her,” you murmured, feeling the familiar weight of doubt settle in.

“Jean?” Ororo raised an eyebrow. “Please, Jean and Scott are practically married. Logan isn’t hung up on her anymore. If anything, he’s just... Logan.”

You nodded, but the doubt still lingered. It was hard to let yourself hope for something that seemed impossible. Besides, Logan saw you as the kid, didn’t he? He always called you ‘princess’ or ‘sweetheart’- terms of endearment, sure, but you figured he used them with everyone.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, Hank’s voice came over the intercom, snapping everyone to attention. “We’re approaching the target. This should be a routine recon and hopefully data extraction but keep your guard up.”

Logan stood, moving to the front of the cabin. “You heard him. We get in, get the intel, and get out. No heroics.”

You stood with Ororo, adjusting your gloves and trying to ignore the fact that your heart rate had picked up. It wasn’t the mission that had you on edge, but Logan’s presence, the way he effortlessly took command of the room. You hated how easily he affected you.

The Blackbird landed with a soft jolt, and the team moved into action. Logan gave you a nod as you passed, and you swore you saw something in his eyes—concern? Or maybe you were just seeing what you wanted to see.

As the team fanned out, you stayed close to Jean and Scott, your senses heightened. You were supposed to keep it simple, in and out. But things rarely went that smoothly.

A flicker of movement caught your eye just as Jean’s telepathy brushed against your mind. Y/N, we’re not alone. Be ready.

And then all hell broke loose.

Explosions rocked the compound as enemies swarmed in from every direction. You threw up your hands, quickly manipulating the air around you, converting oxygen molecules to corrosive acids to fend off the attackers. Beside you, Scott fired his optic blasts, and Jean’s telekinesis sent debris flying.

You ducked behind a large pole of concrete, peeking out at the attackers behind you. “Alchemy, think you can get to the data room and get what we came for?” Hank asked over comms, as he and Logan fought a group of attackers.

You took a deep breath and peeked out at the attackers. "I’ll do my best, Hank," you responded, scanning for a clear path to the data room. The explosions and gunfire made it difficult to focus, but you knew you had to move.

“Cover her!” Logan’s voice barked out, and you felt a small surge of determination. He was counting on you. The team was counting on you. It was almost too much pressure to bear.

Ororo and Jean moved to provide cover as you darted toward the entrance of the data room. You manipulated the chemicals in the air around you, creating a thick fog to obscure the attackers' vision, but it wouldn’t last long.

You slipped into the room and immediately went to work on the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. The download started, but it was slow, and you could hear the chaos outside intensifying.

“Hurry it up, Alchemy!” Scott’s voice came over the comms, tension clear in his tone.

“Almost there,” you muttered, eyes glued to the screen. The progress bar crept forward, painfully slow. You glanced over your shoulder, half expecting an attacker to burst through the door at any moment.

A loud crash echoed through the room as part of the hallway imploded, sending dust and debris flying. You ducked, covering your head with your arms as the force of the blast knocked you off balance. The data was still downloading—just a few more seconds. But the chaos outside was getting worse.

"Y/N!" Logan's voice crackled through the comms, barely audible over the noise. "Get out of there, now!"

"Almost done!" you yelled back, heart pounding. The progress bar was at 95%. You just needed a little more time.

Another explosion rocked the compound, and you heard Logan shout something to the others. You could hear gunfire and the clash of metal against metal as the team fought off the attackers. Every second felt like an eternity.

"Got it!" you exclaimed as the download completed. You yanked the USB drive from the computer and turned to make your escape. You entered the open area where the rest of the team was fighting, just as part of the ceiling fell. Instinctively, you raised your hands and quickly converted the falling cement into water, which drenched you from head to toe.

You grimaced, pushing your wet hair from your face, but there was no time to focus on the discomfort. The fight was still raging, and Logan’s voice crackled over the comms again, "Princess, get out of there. Now."

“On my way!” you shouted, breaking into a sprint to rejoin the team. You dodged debris, your heartbeat in your ears, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

As you rounded the corner, Scott called out through comms, “everyone get dow- ”

Before you could react or shield yourself, a blast came from all around you, an explosion of some kind. You watched as Logan tackled Jean to the ground, shielding her. It was instinctual, he was only protecting a teammate, and Jean was the closest one to him. At least, that’s what you told yourself to feel better.

You hit the ground hard, your body skidding across the concrete before colliding with a pile of debris. Pain exploded in your side as you groaned, gasping for breath. Dazed, you tried to push yourself up, but your vision swam.

Your hand came down to your side, fingers grazing the sticky warmth on your glove. It wasn’t the water from earlier—you knew that now. The sharp pain spreading through your body confirmed it. You blinked, vision blurring for a second, but your focus quickly snapped back as your instincts kicked in.

"Princess, come in! Y/N!" Logan’s voice crackled over the comms, but it sounded distant, like he was yelling from the other side of a tunnel.

“I’m fine,” you groaned, struggling to push yourself to your feet. Your side screamed in protest, but you forced yourself to ignore it. You couldn’t afford to be down for long. Not when everything around you was falling apart.

You looked up to see Logan pulling Jean to her feet, his eyes scanning the battlefield before locking onto you. For a split second, his eyes widened, and then his expression darkened.

“Stay where you are,” Logan barked, already moving toward you, cutting through the debris and chaos like a force of nature. His claws were out, gleaming even in the dim light, but it wasn’t the enemies he was focused on. It was you.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, though the words felt weaker this time. The pain was growing worse, and you stumbled as you tried to take a step forward.

Logan was in front of you in an instant, his hands on your shoulders, steadying you before you could fall. “You’re not fine,” he growled, his voice low and rough. He looked down at your side, and his lips pressed into a tight line. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch,” you lied, even as the pain in your side flared again, making it harder to breathe. You tried to step back, to shake off his hands, but Logan wouldn’t let you move.

“You are not fine,” Logan repeated, his eyes dark as they focused on the piece of metal lodged in your side. His hand hovered over it, the blood seeping from the wound making his jaw clench.

“Logan, seriously,” you breathed out, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

You tried to brush him off, to act like the sharp, burning pain radiating from your side wasn’t there, but Logan’s hands didn’t move from your shoulders. His grip was firm, almost like he was grounding you.

“Stop lying to me, Princess,” he growled softly, his eyes flicking from your face to the metal in your side. “It’s not nothing. I can smell the blood.”

The way he said it made your face flush, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t just annoyed; he was worried. It was written all over his face, in the tension of his body, in the way his claws were still out, ready to strike at anything that came near.

“Logan- ” you started, but he cut you off.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice low but commanding. “I’m getting this out.”

He knelt down in front of you, his large hands gently holding your waist. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine despite the situation. You bit your lip, trying to focus on something- anything- other than the way his hands felt on you.

“This is gonna hurt,” he warned, glancing up at you. His eyes softened just a bit, as if he was trying to reassure you.

“I’ll be fine,” you muttered, though the knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. It wasn’t the pain you were worried about.

Logan gave you a quick nod, then, with a sharp tug, he pulled the metal shard from your side. You bit down on a groan, your vision blurring for a moment as the pain shot through you. The wound was deeper than you’d realized, and the blood quickly soaked through your suit.

“Damn it,” Logan muttered under his breath, pressing his hand against your side to try and stop the bleeding. “We need to get you back to the jet. You’re losing too much blood.”

“I can handle it,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to stand up straighter. “We still have enemies out there. I’m not leaving the fight.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “The hell you aren’t.”

You tried to argue, but the pain flared again, and your vision swam. You stumbled, and Logan caught you easily, pulling you against him.

“Stubborn,” he muttered, his voice close to your ear now. “You’re as bad as me.”

“I learned from the best,” you said, trying to force a smile through the pain. But it was hard to keep the act up when your body was screaming at you to lie down, to rest.

Logan’s grip tightened on you, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into him. His body was solid and warm, and despite the chaos around you, there was something comforting about his presence.

“We’re getting you back to the jet, sweetheart,” Logan said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not staying out here like this.”

“But- ” you started to protest, but Logan cut you off again.

“No ‘buts,’ princess. You’re hurt. Let the rest of us handle it.”

Before you could argue again, he gently but firmly hoisted you up into his arms. The movement made your side burn, but you were too stunned by the fact that Logan was carrying you to care.

“Logan, put me down,” you said, your face heating up in embarrassment. “I can walk.”

“Not happening,” he grunted, his arms strong and steady around you. “You can yell at me later if you want. Right now, we’re getting you patched up.”

You looked up at him, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. His face was set in that familiar scowl, but there was something else in his eyes. Concern? Maybe even fear?

“Logan, I’m fine,” you tried again, but your voice was weaker this time. The truth was, you were exhausted. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain was becoming harder to ignore.

Logan didn’t respond, his jaw tight as he carried you through the debris and chaos. You caught sight of Ororo and Scott still fighting off the last of the enemies, and Jean was using her telekinesis to hold back another explosion.

“Y/N, are you alright?” Jean’s voice cut through the noise, her eyes widening as she saw you in Logan’s arms.

“She’s hurt,” Logan said, not stopping as he headed for the jet. “I’m getting her out of here.”

Jean looked like she wanted to protest, but she gave a quick nod, her focus shifting back to the battle. “Go. We’ll finish up here.”

As Logan carried you back to the Blackbird, you couldn’t help but glance up at him again. His face was still set in that determined, protective expression, and your heart did another flip.

This wasn’t just about the mission anymore. There was something else between you two, something you had been too scared to admit to yourself. But now, with Logan holding you close, the weight of his concern for you pressing down on your heart, it was impossible to ignore.

So, for now, you let yourself enjoy the warmth of him around you, lingering in it for as long as you could. Because you knew this is the closest you were ever going to get to him holding you like he cared.

---

You blinked, hearing muffled arguing coming from outside the medbay, Jean coming over to your side. “Hey, there. You’ve been out for a day.”

“A day?” You asked, your voice hoarse.

“You sustained significant blood loss, but luckily the metal didn’t hit any organs, or it would be a much different story,” Jean said gently, her eyes watching you with concern.

You blinked a few times, your head still foggy from the whole ordeal. “A day? I’ve been out for a day?”

Jean nodded, giving you a reassuring smile. “You’re tougher than you think, Y/N. You just need to rest.”

You sighed, glancing around the medbay. The arguing from outside caught your attention again. Jean seemed to notice it too, her expression turning slightly more serious.

“Logan’s been a little... on edge since you were brought back,” she said carefully.

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Logan. You tried not to let it show, but you’d always been bad at hiding your feelings. Jean gave you a small, knowing smile.

“Don’t worry about him. He just- well, you know Logan.”

You chuckled softly, though it hurt to do so. “Yeah, I know Logan.”

Jean gave you a sympathetic look, her hand resting lightly on your arm. “He’s been worried. More than usual.”

You raised an eyebrow. “More than usual?”

Jean nodded. “You know how he gets. All gruff and ‘I don’t care,’ but it’s just a front. He was pacing outside the medbay the entire time we were patching you up.”

The idea of Logan pacing, stressed about you, felt both strange and oddly comforting. It was hard to imagine him being that concerned over anyone—let alone you.

The door to the medbay creaked open, and Logan’s familiar, rugged form stepped inside. His eyes immediately locked on you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the set of his jaw that told you he was angry. And worried.

Jean gave you a quick smile and a soft pat on your arm before standing. “I’ll give you two some space.”

As Jean left, the room fell into an awkward silence. Logan stood by the door for a moment, arms crossed, not moving. His eyes scanned you, probably taking in the bandages, the way you were still propped up on the medbay bed, looking a little worse for wear.

“Hey,” you said quietly, feeling a bit self-conscious under his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” Logan muttered, walking over to your bed with heavy steps. He didn’t sit, just loomed at the foot of the bed, arms still crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place.

You blinked up at him, trying to push past the discomfort. “I’m fine, really. Jean said I’m tougher than I think.”

“Yeah, and you’re also reckless,” Logan shot back, his voice rough. “You almost got yourself killed out there, Princess.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, and you looked away, fiddling with the blanket. You liked it when he called you that, but at the same time it almost felt like he still saw you as a kid. “I didn’t mean to. I was just doing my job.”

Logan let out a sharp breath, and for a second, you thought he was going to start yelling at you. Instead, he sighed and finally sat down on the chair next to your bed. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking tired.

“I know you were doing your job,” Logan said, his voice quieter now. “But you gotta be more careful. I thought—” He cut himself off, his jaw clenching as he stared at the floor. “I thought I lost you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the way he said it, like the very idea of you being gone was unbearable to him. You swallowed, unsure of what to say. You’d never seen Logan like this—so raw, so vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling a pang of guilt. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Logan glanced up at you, his eyes softening just a bit. “You scared the hell outta me, sweetheart.”

The nickname sent a familiar warmth through your chest, but this time it wasn’t just the usual flustered feeling. There was something more behind it, something deeper that you’d never allowed yourself to believe was possible.

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeated, feeling small under his gaze. “I just... I wanted to do my part.”

Logan’s expression softened even more, and he leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath. “I get that. You’re tough, Princess. But you’re also important. To the team... and to me.”

You blinked, your heart pounding. Did he just say that? Did Logan—Logan, of all people—just admit you were important to him? Your mind was racing, trying to process what he meant, but before you could say anything, Logan stood up abruptly, like he regretted letting those words slip.

“You need rest,” he said, his voice gruff again as he turned toward the door. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

Logan left the medbay, leaving you alone with the beeping machines.

---

A few days later you were released from the medbay and told to take it easy by Jean. Which you took to heart, perhaps a little too much.

You stayed in your room, only leaving at abnormal times to get food and water since you didn’t want to run into Logan. After all, you were young, practically a child to him, and all you wanted was for your crush on him to fade away like so many others did before.

That’s what you kept telling yourself. It didn’t make the ache in your chest any easier to handle. Your crush on Logan had always been this quiet thing, something you never intended to act on. But now, after everything, it felt like it had grown louder, more noticeable. And that scared you.

You sighed, sitting on the edge of your bed, idly fiddling with the hem of your shirt. Maybe you just needed to... talk to him. Be normal again. You’d been friends before, hadn’t you? It wasn’t like he knew how you felt, anyway.

Just as you were considering going for a walk to clear your head, there was a knock at your door. You froze.

“Y/N?” Ororo’s voice came from the other side, soft but steady. “You in there?”

You quickly got up, taking a deep breath before opening the door. Ororo stood there, arms crossed, giving you that look—like she knew exactly what was going on with you. It was unnerving, how she always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone emotionally.

“Hey,” you greeted, trying to sound casual. “What’s up?”

Ororo raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your attempt at nonchalance. “You’ve been hiding.”

You blinked. “I haven’t been hiding.”

Ororo gave you a look. “Please. I haven’t seen you at meal times, and Logan’s been extra grumpy. It’s not hard to put two and two together.”

You felt your face heat up. “Logan’s grumpy all the time.”

“He’s more grumpy than usual,” Ororo said, stepping into your room and closing the door behind her. “He’s been asking around. Wants to know why you’re avoiding him.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “He said that?”

Ororo nodded, leaning against your desk. “He won’t admit it’s bothering him, but it is. What’s going on?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you sat back down on the bed. “I just... I don’t know, okay? Things got weird after the mission, and I needed space.”

“Logan didn’t do anything wrong,” Ororo pointed out gently.

“I know,” you mumbled. “It’s not him. It’s me.”

Ororo tilted her head, studying you for a moment before sitting beside you on the bed. “You’re worried about how he sees you, aren’t you?”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “I mean, kinda of. He doesn’t see me in the way I see him, y’know?”

Ororo gave you a knowing look, her lips quirking up slightly. "And how do you see him?"

You hesitated, feeling your face heat up again. "I... I don’t know. It's just... he’s Logan. He’s been through so much, seen so much, and I’m just… me. The kid who got lucky with mutant powers and likes chemistry too much."

Ororo smiled gently, shaking her head. "You’re selling yourself short, Y/N. You're a lot more than that. And Logan sees it."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Ororo held up a hand. "I’m not saying he knows exactly what he's feeling, but he's not as oblivious as you think. And trust me, the way he’s been acting lately, it’s clear you’re important to him."

You sighed, flopping back on the bed. "Maybe, but it’s not like that. It can’t be. He’s Logan—he doesn’t do the whole feelings thing."

Ororo chuckled softly. "You’d be surprised. He’s more in tune with his feelings than he lets on. He’s just… not used to showing them."

You frowned up at the ceiling. "Then why does it feel like I’m the only one getting all messed up over this?"

Ororo stood up, crossing her arms as she looked down at you. "Because you’re thinking too much, Alchemy. Maybe you should try talking to him instead of hiding."

"I’m not hiding!" you protested weakly.

"Uh-huh," Ororo said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, hiding or not, he’s not going to let this go. Logan’s stubborn like that."

You groaned, pulling a pillow over your face. "Great. That’s exactly what I need."

Ororo chuckled again. "Just… talk to him. It might help. You can’t avoid him forever."

You sighed, peeking out from under the pillow. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it."

Ororo smiled softly before heading toward the door. "Good. And Y/N?"

You looked up at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Give yourself a little more credit," Ororo said gently. "You’re not just some kid to him. He cares about you. Maybe more than either of you realizes."

Before you could respond, she slipped out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the knot of nervousness growing in your stomach.

---

The next day, you were wandering through the mansion’s empty halls after lunch. You weren’t hiding per se, but you were definitely avoiding a certain someone. Ororo’s words kept echoing in your mind, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that she was right. Talking to Logan was probably the only way to clear this weird tension between you, but the thought of actually doing it made you want to curl up and disappear.

As you turned a corner, lost in thought, you almost walked straight into him.

"Whoa, easy there, Princess," Logan’s gruff voice startled you as he steadied you with a hand on your arm. "Where you off to in such a hurry?"

You froze, looking up at him with wide eyes. "I-I wasn’t—uh, just wandering."

Logan raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical but amused. "You’ve been ‘just wandering’ a lot lately."

You bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. This was it. The moment you’d been dreading. He was right here, and there was no avoiding him now.

Logan sighed, his hand still resting lightly on your arm. "You’ve been avoiding me, sweetheart."

There it was. The thing you’d been trying to dodge. Your heart raced, and you shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze. "I haven’t been avoiding you."

Logan huffed, his expression softening a little. "I ain’t stupid, Y/N. You haven’t been around much since the mission. What’s goin’ on?"

You swallowed hard, feeling your palms start to sweat. "It’s nothing. I just... needed some space. That’s all."

Logan narrowed his eyes slightly, studying you. "Space from me?"

You looked down at your shoes, suddenly finding them very interesting. "Not exactly. I just... things got a little weird, okay?"

"Weird how?" Logan’s voice was still rough, but there was a hint of something gentler beneath it. Concern, maybe?

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. How were you supposed to explain that the reason you’d been avoiding him was because your stupid crush had spiraled into something much more confusing and intense? You couldn’t just blurt that out. Could you?

Logan’s grip on your arm tightened slightly, and he took a step closer, his voice low. "Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s goin’ on?"

You felt a lump form in your throat as you glanced up at him. He was so close now, and the familiar warmth in his eyes was making it hard to think straight.

"I just... I didn’t want to make things awkward between us," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan frowned, his brow furrowing. "Why would things be awkward?"

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Because I... I care about you, Logan. A lot. And I know you don’t feel the same way because you still like Jean- ”

Logan's frown deepened, and he shook his head almost immediately. "Jean? What’re you talkin’ about?"

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you bit your lip, feeling suddenly embarrassed. "I mean, I just assumed... everyone knows you used to have feelings for her, and it’s fine, really. I get it. I just didn’t want to make things weird by—"

"Y/N," Logan cut you off, his voice firm but not unkind. He stepped closer, his gaze locking with yours. "I ain’t thinkin’ about Jean like that anymore."

You blinked, caught off guard. "You’re not?"

Logan shook his head again, a hint of frustration slipping through. "No, sweetheart. That’s done with. It’s been done with for a while."

Your mind raced, trying to process what he was saying. If he wasn’t still hung up on Jean, then... What did that mean? Why had he been acting so tense around you?

"Then why have you been so... distant?" you asked softly, your voice wavering. "You’ve been acting weird too, Logan. It’s not just me."

Logan looked down for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck—a rare sign of discomfort from him. When he spoke again, his voice was a little gruffer. "I’ve been... tryin’ to figure some stuff out, alright?"

"Figure what out?" you pressed gently, taking a step closer to him now. You could feel your heart thudding in your chest, but you didn’t back down. "Logan, just talk to me."

He sighed, his eyes meeting yours again, and for a second, you saw something vulnerable flash through his expression—something raw. He was quiet for a beat before he finally spoke.

"After that mission," he said slowly, his voice low, "when I saw you get hurt... somethin’ in me snapped. I couldn’t... I couldn’t handle it, Y/N. The thought of losin’ you like that—" He broke off, his jaw tightening, and you could see the tension in his shoulders. "I’ve been through a lotta shit in my life. Seen people come and go. But you? The idea of you bein’ gone—it messed me up more than I thought it would."

You stood there, staring at him, trying to absorb what he was saying. He wasn’t just talking about the mission anymore. This was more than that.

"Logan..." you whispered, feeling a knot form in your throat. "I didn’t know you—"

"I didn’t know it either," he interrupted, his voice rough but sincere. "I didn’t know I felt like this ‘til it hit me. I care about you, Princess. More than I care to admit, sometimes. And I ain’t exactly good at this... feelings thing, y’know that."

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know what to say, and for a moment, you were convinced you’d misheard him. Logan cared about you? Like that? It felt surreal.

"You... you care about me?" you asked cautiously, your voice small.

Logan huffed, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but there was a softness in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. "Hell yeah, I do. I’ve been tryin’ to push it down for a while now, but it ain’t workin’. Not anymore."

You stared at him in disbelief, your pulse racing. "But... I’m just—"

"Don’t even start with that ‘I’m just me’ bullshit," Logan cut you off again, his tone more serious. "You ain’t ‘just’ anything, Y/N. You’re smart, tough as nails, and you’ve got a good heart. You matter to me. And not in some ‘kid sister’ kinda way either, if that’s what you’re thinkin’."

Your cheeks flushed, and your heart skipped a beat. He was being so direct, so honest, and it left you completely speechless.

Logan shifted a little closer, his gaze softening even more as he looked down at you. "I don’t know when it happened, but it did. You got under my skin, sweetheart. And as much as I tried to ignore it... I can’t."

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. This was really happening. Logan—gruff, stoic Logan—was telling you that he had feelings for you. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like a kid around him. You felt like someone who mattered, someone he saw.

"I..." you started, your voice shaking a little. "I didn’t think you’d ever... I mean, I’ve had feelings for you for a while now, but I just figured—"

Logan chuckled softly, his hand reaching out to brush your cheek gently. The touch was gentle, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "You figured wrong, Princess."

You blinked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The way he was looking at you—it wasn’t just teasing or friendly banter. It was something deeper, something real. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. “I thought I was just… I don’t know, bothering you or something.”

Logan’s hand lingered near your face, his thumb brushing your cheek softly. His eyes locked onto yours, and you could see the sincerity in them, the raw emotion he wasn’t hiding anymore. “You ain’t a bother, sweetheart. Far from it. And if I’ve been actin’ like I don’t care, that’s on me. But I do care. A lot.”

Your breath caught in your throat. His touch, his words—it was all too much, too overwhelming. You’d been crushing on Logan for what felt like forever, and now he was standing here, telling you he felt the same way. It didn’t feel real.

“Logan, I…” You started, but your words trailed off as his hand slid down to your neck, his rough palm warm against your skin. The way he was looking at you, the intensity in his gaze, made it impossible to think straight.

“Stop thinkin’ so hard,” Logan murmured, his voice low and rough. “Just… be here. With me.”

Your heart pounded as you met his eyes, your stomach doing flips. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until you let it out in a shaky exhale. “Okay.”

For a moment, everything felt like it slowed down—the air between you humming with tension. Logan leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, and you could feel his breath warm against your lips. It felt like time had stopped, like nothing else in the world mattered but this moment.

Then, before you could second-guess yourself, you closed the small distance between you and pressed your lips to his.

Logan responded instantly, his hand moving to cup the back of your head as he kissed you with a kind of intensity that made your knees weak. It wasn’t slow or hesitant—it was rough, urgent, like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t anymore.

You kissed him back, your hands finding their way to his chest, gripping his shirt as you melted into him. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, and the way he kissed you sent a shock of electricity through your entire body. It was everything you’d imagined and more.

Logan’s free arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him until there was no space left between your bodies. You could feel the strength in him, the raw power that he usually kept under tight control, but there was also a tenderness in the way he touched you, like he was afraid of hurting you.

The kiss deepened, and for a moment, you lost yourself in him—in the way he tasted, the way he smelled like leather and pine, the way his hands moved over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. Logan’s hands were still on you, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “You really are somethin’, Princess.”

You laughed softly, feeling a little dizzy from the kiss, from everything. “You’re not so bad yourself, Wolverine.”

Logan smirked, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “Could’ve told me sooner, y’know. Saved me a lotta trouble.”

You rolled your eyes, still grinning. “Yeah, well, you could’ve said something too. You had me thinking I was crazy this whole time.”

He huffed a laugh, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Guess we’re both idiots then.”

You bit your lip, still trying to process everything. You’d kissed Logan. Actually kissed him. And he’d kissed you back. It felt like a dream, like any second now you were going to wake up and realize none of this had happened.

But it had. He was still here, his arms around you, his eyes on you, his lips still tingling from the kiss. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel nervous or uncertain around him. You felt… right.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic

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ghouljams · 7 days ago

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Nikolai first strikes up a conversation with you while you're sitting alone in a bar. Your friends have made their way outside for a smoke, and you—ever so thoughtful—volunteered to stay back to keep an eye on the table's drinks and purses. You're so polite—nodding along when he speaks, interjecting with meaningful questions and letting out delightful snorts when he cracks wise.

He realizes just how pliant you are once he's fucking you with your face pressed into the pillow. There's no pesky squirming, just sweet muffled moans and the way your back arches obediently when he presses on it.

After a while it dawns on him just how long your air-supply has been suppressed by the pillow and he's quick to reach down and turn your head to the side. A kind of morbid fascination fills him when he watches you reflexively gasp for the fresh oxygen. Christ, do you not have any self-preservation instinct? What would have happened if he hadn't intervened? Would you have passed out beneath him without warning or complaint?

Nikolai recognizes that someone like you isn't to be taken for granted. Others would take advantage of your desire to please, hurting you in the process. He couldn't have that now, could he? You deserve a firm, loving hand and he deserves a devoted pet. It's like he has no choice but to keep you.

Now whenever Nik has to endure stories of his friend's failed flings he just laughs and shakes his head. "Couldn't be me, my любимая is so sweet for me. Isn't that right, моя умница?"

Hunting is a young man's game, it's why Nikolai prefers fishing. Silent and meditative, waiting for the fish to find his bait before he reals them in. He likes you the same way: gasping for air, eyes glassy, floundering against his grip with no hope of escape. A single well placed slice behind the gills. It's so much more... humane.

You're not suited for self-preservation, not in this world at least. You wander about with legs that shake like a fawn's, finding your place in the world under someone else's protection, a fish out of water. It's his fault really, he knows there's no point in something as pretty as you having to breed decisions behind those wet eyes, knows that soft things like you live better as treasured pets. There was a time when you wouldn't have had anything to do with your body but sit and look pretty, softened and plied with food and drink by hands gifted the divine right of kings. This modern world is too much for something like you.

It's lucky you fell into Nik's hands when you did, lucky that he recognized you for what you were before anyone else did. He needs nothing more than to feel you wrap your arms around his shoulders, than to feel the weight of you settle in his lap, than to listen to the soft breaths you take as you fall asleep, safe and sound, in the circle of his influence.

Quite a smart thing, finding him the same way butterflies find a crocodile's tears. Symbiotic. He could no more survive without you, than you could survive without him. You even out his edges, scrape away the filth that he tracks through life. You pull his head to your breast and coo your own praises with a slurred tongue. You don't flinch when he sinks his teeth into you, when he wraps his hand around your throat and watches your lashes flutter.

There is no reassurance like the glaze of your eyes, the part of your lips, the clutch of your sweet cunt, when he presses the sharp edge of a posture collar to your jaw. It could be anything, a knife, a gun, rusted metal or freshly oiled pistons, you'd trust him all the same, allow the treatment all the same. He doesn't need you to prove yourself to him, no grand gesture could echo as proudly as the way you suffocate yourself in pillows.

You poor thing. Need Nikolai to give you the air in your lungs too, huh? He's already taken care of everything else, so why not one more thing? Leave brains and ambition for the mammals, little fish.

#x reader #cod x reader #cod nikolai #nikolai call of duty #nikolai cod #nikolai x reader

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mariasont · 4 days ago

Text

DEAD FROM THE WAIST DOWN

you learned to seduce your way into being loved. hotch wants to teach you that you don't have to earn love at all.

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader warnings: oh hey where does one start! mentions of past emotional abuse, conditioned sexual behavior, sex as a coping mechanism (discussed), hypersexuality, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft!hotch, happy-ish ending wc: 2.8k

How many times can a man be caught off guard by the same kiss before it stops qualifying as a surprise and becomes a cherished inevitability? You would think Aaron would know by now.

But no, every time your mouth finds his, it feels like the first time all over again.

He isn’t a romantic, he refuses to classify it in such cheesy terms. (You would passionately disagree).

Instead, he experiences it as pure revelation — how did I forget it could feel like this? Always velveteen and warm with whatever chapstick you’ve been nursing that day. Coconut. Mint. Honeyed vanilla.

Honeyed vanilla is your favorite. His too. It stains his mouth and hours later, he can still taste it.

He knows where you keep it now. Back left pocket. You’re predictable that way. Only that way. Discovered by accident, though nothing with you ever feels accidental, the first time he came home after a week-long case and you collided into him at the door as though you had been counting seconds rather than days.

His hand, settling on your ass like the gentlemen he is, had landed on it, the cylindrical outline concealed beneath skin-tight denim. Denim that, even in memory alone, manages to be both curse and benediction, fabric and flesh conspiring to remind him that distance was your shared adversary. One that was conquered with every bruising reunion of lips.

These particular kisses always arrive roughly as if anything less fervent wouldn’t be proof enough of his return. Always full-bodied. Always looking for more.

For a while, he reasoned it away. Novelty, perhaps. The combustible early-stage infatuation, still volatile, still prone to overcorrection. He assumed it would fade, mellow out with familiarity. Rossi called it the honeymoon phase. Said it every time Aaron showed up to work looking distinctly worse for wear in a manner wholly unrelated to the strain of work. Grinning like a bastard. And Aaron thought he wasn’t wrong.

But time failed to temper your hunger. If anything, it grew teeth.

You meet him at the end of each day with hands that demand, with a body that knows exactly how to ask and what to take. And he lets you. Of course he lets you. He would be out of his mind not to.

You are generous with your affection, in and out of the bedroom. You love him without filter, without edits. Love him even in the versions he hides. There are days he doesn’t know how to hold it. Doesn’t know where to put the parts of himself that still flinch under kindness.

He is a grateful man. He is a lucky man. But he is not yet certain he is a worthy one.

Your thumbs trace his jaw, and he knows, without needing to ask, that you can feel the strain habitually tucked beneath skin and bone.

Your mouth deepens the kiss before he’s ready to accommodate it, breath merging with breath in a single, faithful puff.

Mint today, he decides. The one with the cheap twist-top and that little green label peeling at the corner.

When oxygen reasserts itself as a necessity, he pulls back, lips ghosting yours, “Missed me, did you?”

“Don’t mock me,” you scold, taking advantage of the fractional distance to catch his lower lip between your teeth. “I really did. I think I started missing you before the door even closed.”

Your hands are moving to his belt, fingers tugging, pulling —

Christ.

His hands snap down to catch your wrists.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, "not tonight. I just — I can barely keep my eyes open."

You recoil so fast it disorients him, and before he can think, his hands are reaching out, fingers flexing toward the empty space.

“Oh, of course,” you say, eyes flitting away. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You must be exhausted.”

Your apology tastes bitter in his mouth. He’s never wanted you to equate exhaustion with rejection, least of all his. He opens his mouth to reassure you, to banish the needless guilt clouding your eyes, but you hurry forward, words tumbling as nervously as your fluttering hands toward the kitchen.

“I made dinner. It’s in the fridge. I mean, I wasn’t sure when you would be home, but it’s ready. I can heat it up right now. Unless you want to just go to bed — I could bring it to you —”

“Hey.” It’s more a plea than command. You freeze, a microsecond of stillness before your hand begins its descent toward the scrunched cotton of your long sleeve tee. He intercepts it, thumb charting the map of your skin from the blue-lit vein to bone to the center point where your hand opens. “That’s really sweet, honey. Thank you.”

"You're welcome."

“But all I want right now,” Aaron continues, pulling your hand into the center of his chest, a chaste kiss sticking itself to your knuckles, “is for you to come to bed with me.” Then, because he knows you, he adds, “I’ll take what you made for lunch tomorrow. I don’t want it to waste.”

You nod and offer a smile.

Usually, he loves that seeing that smile of yours, might even call it his favorite pastime, if he were prone to sentimentality.

It’s something he never tires of watching. The way it starts slow, then takes your whole face with it. It shows up in your crow’s feet first — creases he adores, even if you claim to hate them — and then folds into your cheeks until your skin swells too full to contain.

He especially loves your smile that appears when you’re trying not to show how good it feels when he calls you pretty girl. You always hide it behind his shirt, like fabric’s going to keep him from noticing how you preen under the praise.

This one isn’t that.

It flickers at the corners of your mouth but never quite lands in your eyes. It’s a smile made for strangers. He knows better than to pretend it’s the same.

You’re already walking toward the bathroom before he can say anything, before he can figure out whether he even should. He watches as you go through the motions with the same grace you always have, but he notices the absence more than anything else.

The things you don’t do.

Normally, you hover. You lean into him as you tug your shirt over your head, brush a kiss against the slope of his shoulder with that casual intimacy you wield like second nature. Sometimes you complain — half a yawn, half a grumble — about the late hour. And pout. And push for a kiss only to pretend you’re not pleased when he gives in.

Normally, you make noise through the quiet. You ask if he locked the front door, remind him the laundry’s still in the dryer. You hum while brushing your teeth. Curse when toothpaste hits your shirt.

Normally, you’re all subtle magnetism, clinging in that sweetly unrepentant way of yours. When he sits to unbutton his shirt, you’re usually behind him, knees pressing into the mattress, chin of his shoulder, arms looping lazily around his waist. There’s always touch. A palm to the center of his back as you pass, a hand on his arm as you squeeze by.

Normally, you're unapologetic about needing him. Tonight, you move like a guest in your own home.

It’s intolerable. And when you’re both settled into bed for the night, Aaron reaches for you before he thinks better of it, palm flattening against your waist. He feels the shape of you through pajamas and pulls. He doesn’t stop until your chest curves into his chest, until the edge of your calves nudges his.

"Come here." Aaron threads careful fingers through your hair, pausing at the tender juncture where your neck meets the base of your skull. "Baby,” he whispers, “tell me what’s wrong.”

His eyes don’t leave yours, watching the brief flickers of vulnerability, the sparks of emotion you try to extinguish before they catch fire.

He notices the hesitant parting of your lips, opening as if to spin a half-hearted lie, only to close again once the truth gets too close to your teeth.

"I just... I wanted to be close to you."

Aaron’s brow knits, confusion and concern braided together in the crease above his eyes, arms tightening despite the fact that you’re already pressed against him like a second skin.

"You are close to me, sweetheart."

But even as he says it, he feels the flaw in his words. The way they miss the mark. He senses it in the way you chew at the inside of your cheek, how your shoulders stiffen beneath his fingertips.

Then softer, "Not like that."

"What —,"

But you're already shaking your head. "No, I — , it's not a big deal."

“Anything that involves you is a big deal to me.”

Your thumb moves, tracing circles into the fabric, slow rotations that quickly speed into tighter spirals, as if spinning faster might somehow organize your thoughts. You’ve always done this, reaching for some small, manageable action when the larger ones feel impossible to name.

“It’s just… easier that way sometimes. To be close like that. Then I don’t have to wonder if we’re okay.”

The realization trickles into his consciousness slowly at first, then rushes in like water breaking through a dam.

He should’ve noticed sooner, how could he not have?

Because this isn’t new. It’s not just a one-off need or tonight’s tension talking. You’ve always needed him like this. Skin on skin. Mouth on mouth. Your body pressed against his like you’re starving for confirmation. The way you undress him in the doorway. The way you straddle his lap and roll your hips like closeness could fix everything that feels unsteady. You depend on that closeness.

You come to him with your whole body. After long days. After fights. After even the smallest moments of silence that stretches too long. You find him like a blam, like if you don’t touch him, don’t take him, you’ll come apart at the seams. Kisses are never where you stop. You want all of him. Pinned beneath you. Deep inside you. As if that's the only way to believe he loves you.

He thought, for a long time, that it was just your appetite. A high sex drive. A natural tendency. He chalked it up to love language, to hormones, to heat. And he liked it, loved it, more than he was willing to admit at first.

But this wasn’t just want.

This was fear, bleeding out beneath your need, disguised as pleasure.

He’s supposed to be good at this, at reading people, parsing motive from movement. But somehow, he missed this.

Because somewhere along the line, someone taught you that love was transactional. That affection had to be purchased in pieces of yourself, repaid in skin and surrender. That if you didn’t offer yourself fully, you weren’t worth holding onto. And now here you are, still paying for what someone else stole from you.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, he feels sick.

His fists curl before he knows it, nails digging into his palms. His jaw locks tight. Because if the person who planted such a belief were here — if he could see the face of whoever made you believe you had to fuck your way into being loved — he wouldn’t blink. It wouldn’t matter what badge he wore. What oaths he swore. He would make sure they never touched anyone again.

“Is that what it feels like when I say no?” He doesn’t ask it accusingly. “Like we’re not okay?”

“I know it sounds dumb. I just —”

“Hey. It’s not dumb.” He pauses, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It makes more sense.”

“It does?”

“Of course it does. You want something that confirms what words sometimes don’t. I get that. I do.” He swallows hard. “But I don’t want you to feel like we’re only okay when we’re in bed.”

“I know. I just… I don’t know how to stop.”

There’s something else sitting in your mouth, he can see it. A confession, maybe. Or just a few loose scraps of thought you haven’t stitched together yet.

“It’s okay.” He offers up an open door.

Your eyes flick down, then up again, and finally you nod in concession. He can’t tell if you believe him. That it’s okay to be honest with him.

“I spent a long time thinking touch was the only thing I had to offer. That if I wasn’t beautiful or willing or available I didn’t have value.” You say it slowly, like you’re afraid of saying it aloud. “It’s not something I think about. Not consciously. I just… feel the silence, or the tiredness, or I can’t read you… and suddenly I’m scrambling. Trying to stop it. Trying to keep from being… dismissed, I guess. And I know you’re not… him. I know that. But sometimes my body forgets.”

You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“So I kiss you. I touch you. I try to make myself irresistible so I don’t have to ask if I’m still wanted. Because I don’t know how to ask without feeling pathetic.”

He watches as you hold back the tears fighting to stake claim on your lower lash line.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you love me,” you add. “It’s that I don’t know how to feel safe unless I can see it. And I hate that. I hate that I’m still wired for panic every time you flinch or look away or —”

Your voice catches. Whatever you were about to say fractures somewhere in your throat and never quite makes it to sound.

He doesn’t reach for you despite every neuron firing in his brain that begs for the opposite. It feels wrong, somehow, to respond with touch when you just confessed how often it’s been your only way of being heard.

So he stays still, watches the curve of your shoulder rise and fall under the slow drag of breath. Watches your gaze veer just left of his face, like you’re already bracing for disbelief, or worse, kindness that feels like pity.

You exhale instead then close your eyes. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to fix this. I’m not trying to unload it on you. I just… I want you to know why I act like I do sometimes. It’s not mistrust. It’s old wiring. And I’m trying.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Not because he doesn’t have something to say. He does. A thousand things, actually. Some sharp, some soft.

But you’ve just peeled your chest open with surgical precision, laid the whole bloody, tender mess of it in his lap, and the last thing he’s going to do is rush to stitch it shut with half-baked reassurance.

You shift, maybe reflexively, but you still don’t meet his eyes. So he softens. Adjusts. Meets you halfway.

“I don’t think it’s pathetic. I don’t think you’re broken. I think your nervous system is doing exactly what it was trained to do, sound the alarm at the first sign of disconnection. Fight to restore the bond before it can disappear.” His breath hitches, just enough to break through the formality of it. “But you don’t have to do that with me. You don’t have to fill the silence. You don’t have to seduce me into staying. If I pull away, I need you to know I’m not punishing you. I’m not… evaluating you. Sometimes I’m tired. Or quiet. Or somewhere else in my own head. But I’m not leaving. I’m not rescinding anything.”

Finally, his hand brushes gently — gently — over your arm.

“You don’t have to perform love here. Not with me. You get to just… have it. As it is. As you are.” He studies you. “I know you can’t unlearn it overnight. I don’t expect you to. But I’d rather you come to me scared and uncertain than go silent and spiral. Let me be the one who doesn’t make you pay for needing reassurance.”

And then, only then, his voice drops, hoarser.

“I don’t want to be another place you have to earn safety. I want to be the proof you don’t.”

He doesn’t know if the words land. Not fully. He thinks you heard him. Thinks you wanted to believe them. But that’s different from knowing. So he doesn’t say anything else, just lets you throw his arms around neck and press your cheek into his shirt.

He feels the heat of tears soaking into his shirt. He kisses your forehead first, then your hair, whispers something that neither of you really needs to understand.

And even though he’s running on fumes, he stays awake until your breathing slows. Until he’s sure you’re asleep.

Because if you’re going to believe him, really believe him, it won’t be because of what of what he says, but what he does.

It hits him between your third or fourth breath against his chest that this was the first time you didn’t try to apologize with your body after a difficult conversation. Just warmth. Trust. Skin on skin because you want to be held, not because you’re trying to keep him from vanishing. It’s small. But to him, it’s the most profound shift in the world.

And in the weeks that follow, he sees it again. The way you kiss him and then stop as if you trust he’ll kiss you back.

It doesn’t happen all at once. You still hesitate when he says no. Still freeze up on the bad nights.

But you don’t crumble anymore. You pause.

You pause and sometimes your hands shake, but you reach for him anyway.

And every time, he meets you halfway.

a/n: this sat half-finished in my drafts for soooo long because i wasn't sure i could land it, emotionally or otherwise. and i felt like it's one of those things that feels like it says more about me than i probably mean it to. if u see urself in this as well, hi. i hope it makes u feel a little less weird for the things u need, or the ways you've learned to ask for love that doesn't always make sense out loud

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#🌺 maria writes #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner hurt/comfort #aaron hotchner x self insert #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner #hotchner #hotch #criminal minds angst #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner x you #hotchner angsts #criminal minds x reader

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