#without punctuation at that lol

[twildflower]

og if you want it. Idk. Know how to read it. Wtv.

[liyuviq]

that moment when you tag along with your mom to her friends hangout but now you are bored as they are chatting and didnt even bring ur ipad so u cant even draw 😔

[qbebou]

ok not to be like he’s just like me fr…. but chayanne is just like me fr…..

i’m also the oldest child with one younger sibling who needed a lot more care when we were kids and therefore was deprived of certain needs in favor of my brother. i also had a parent that was missing a lot and depended almost solely on my dad. obviously tallulah needs more help than chay, with her asthma and lesser fighting skills, not to mention she had only been playing minecraft for like a month? or two before wilbur found her. and chay knows that! he knows that she needs more help than he does he knows he’ll do anything for her he knows he has to be the strongest to protect her. my brother and i are only a year apart but i was forced to grow up very very quickly bc i was on my own a lot as a kid while my brother was sick. phil doesn’t worry abt chay when he runs off bc he doesn’t need to, chay can take care of himself. hell, he took care of all the eggs when they first left. but at the same time, it’s comforting to know ur parent is looking out for u even when u don’t need it. phil’s not a smothering parent, he’s attentive, but not smothering. but let’s be real he can also be emotionally constipated LMAO but that leads to situations like the argument and frustration between chay and tallulah when dapper was kidnapped. in his defense, he’s never been a parent before and had 2 children thrust upon him to raise on his own. he didn’t have a lot of time to adjust to parenthood like ppl in real life do, he suddenly had 2 children who had their own thoughts and opinions and emotional needs, he didn’t get the time it takes to LEARN abt how to provide that specific care and while some ppl have that innate knowledge there is a lot of learning and navigating when it comes to emotional vulnerability and regulation esp when it comes to children who are figuring it out as well. i feel for chay when he thinks he needs to be the strongest. i feel for chay when he had to make the decision to gather the eggs and leave. i feel for chay when he had to take blame for bad things happening. and i feel for chay when he realized tallulah doesn’t need him as much anymore. my brother and i are both adults now and we had a …… tumultuous relationship as teenagers for reasons that were both our own and caused by problems outside our control. but i still remember exactly how devastating it was the moment i realized that he was fine on his own. that he didn’t need me anymore. and it caused a rift between us; on my end bc i was frustrated and felt tossed aside and on his end bc he NEEDED to be independent to keep growing. i see so much of myself in chay and i desperately wish he and tallulah had a better mediator for their argument, or at least someone who could truly understand why they were so upset. i don’t think phil clocked that tallulah was so upset and adamant abt looking for dapper bc it was just her dapper and ramon surviving on their own. just bc phil didn’t witness it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen and it doesn’t mean that they don’t have a much tighter relationship than they had before purgatory. and when chayanne said everyone was blaming him for the decisions he made phil was quick to tell him that no one was blaming him but also phil doesn’t know that! he doesn’t know if any blame was put on chayanne when it was just the eggs together. chayanne made the decision for the eggs to run and they trusted him bc he’s the oldest and he’s strong and he can be a leader but by running he also put the eggs thru a lot of pain and fear that they may not have gone thru if they stayed with their parents. and even if the eggs didn’t explicitly say that they blamed chayanne im sure he blamed himself for every little thing that went wrong. we’ve already seen him open up a tiny bit abt how he was questioning his decision to leave. but phil told him that chay made the best decision he could have given the information he had at the time which is true! but when ur the oldest and everyone is looking to u, all of the responsibility lies on ur shoulders. chayanne has been carrying SO much weight on his shoulders for so long it breaks my heart.

[birbycakes]

also when it comes to my Rook's personalty I'm gonna have to rewrite her entirely. I see her as someone who is empathetic, kind, polite, sort of timid, almost seems like a doormat. Yet tends to be the first one to resort to violence when it seems like a situation isn't gonna go easy with just words lol

[waterbottlqueen]

my repost policy is: no reposts. except if youre me LMAO 

[greenvillainredemption]

[unproduciblesmackdown]

yeah speaking of the most personal instrument of death / brutal vengeful catharsis gay sex foil confrontation. the musician gets got by lo cocodrilo? respectively, give him a kiss

[blythesarchives]

Limbo | W.S

summary: Not quite Bucky, not quite Soldat, but all yours.

warnings: Smut | 18+ MDNI | Fem!reader | Winter Soldier!Bucky | Post!CATWS | Brief & minor SH | Mentions of HYDRA | Hints of past drugging | Light non-con | Multiple orgasms | Handjob | PiV | Emotional sex

a/n: Oh my god, I have no self control. I love writing WS!Bucky and I'm glad so many people have been enjoying it too. So, I finally got to a smut. I won't write the typical 'aggressive' WS (if I ever do it will be like a blue moon situation) because imo I don't see that, plus...I like this better lol. Edited lightly but ignore any missed mistakes pls ty ;; wc: 5.0k

You felt like your life was a complete mess.

But it was nothing compared to his.

James, Bucky, Soldat...each name he had gave him the same reaction.

Nothing.

His brow might furrow deeply, eyes glazing over with confusion as he stares intently at the floor, his gaze drifting slowly from side to side as if attempting to piece together an impossibly complex puzzle laid out before him. When his name was called, no recognition flickered across his features, no familiar warmth lit up his face.

He wasn't truly any of the identities that had once been his. Not James with his easy smile, not Bucky with his loyal heart, not the cold precision of the Soldat.

Instead, he existed in a nebulous space between all these versions of himself, these names and personas washing over him like waves, each one bringing with it fragments of memories that would surface briefly before slipping away like smoke through his fingers. Nothing concrete would stay, only wisps of who he used to be.

He was stuck, trapped in this liminal space between identities, neither one thing nor another.

You watched helplessly as he struggled, how he would desperately grasp at each fleeting memory that surfaced, trying with all his might to hold onto even the smallest piece of his past. But inevitably, tragically, even these fragments would dissolve like morning mist, leaving him once again adrift in that haunting space between what was and what is, lost in the void between his many selves.

His handwriting often too shaky to make out among the journal’s pages.

For whatever reason, the soldier had taken to you, of all people. Not even Steve could reach him without causing further distress and confusion to the poor man. Heartbreak glossed the blonde’s eyes each time Bucky rejected Steve's gentle advances, careful attempts to trigger some form of memory, some spark of recognition from their shared past, only failed.

Your own heart ached watching these interactions, seeing the pain etched across Steve's features with every failed attempt at connection and the ever growing agitation from the soldier. You didn't want to step between them, this bond that had survived decades and wars, and you couldn't explain why he had taken such a peculiar liking to you over anyone else.

For the soldier’s sake, you took your new role without complaint.

Countless hours in the medical wing of Avenger's tower proved exhausting for the both of you. Hours of treatment on his end seemed to stretch without end, punctuated by moments of crisis when you found yourself having to wrestle with him every time someone new came into the room.

Your voice grew hoarse from spitting sentence after sentence of reassurance, constant streams of gentle reminders that no one here was going to cause him harm, that he was safe, that these people were here to help. The mantra became as familiar as breathing, though no less important with each repetition.

The soldier experienced dramatic swings between states of intense panic and unsettling calmness, making each medical examination completely unpredictable. Sometimes he would remain completely still, frozen like a statue during the procedures, while other times he would thrash and struggle with every ounce of strength to escape from the men in white. His behavior was noticeably different with female medical staff, even when they wore the white coats - he showed a marked willingness to cooperate with them much more. The behavioral change made your stomach churn with the obvious implications.

As days turned to weeks, he gradually began to show signs of adjustment within your quarters. The decision to let him stay had come naturally, as every attempt to establish separate living arrangements had proven futile…he invariably found his way back to your space.

Every time.

It became a predictable pattern: regardless of the hour, whether in the dark of night or dawn of early morning, he would somehow make his way back into your room and by your side. He was satisfied sleeping on the floor, he settled himself at the foot of it or beside it, he liked the small area tucked between the wall and your mattress, a small hidden space for him to form some sense of security.

It had been several months since the day when you first took him in, watching as he struggled daily with the fragments of his shattered identity. The psychological wounds were still raw and festering, making it impossible for him to process or accept who he truly was. Every morning brought new challenges, every evening ended in confusion and frustration.

Together with Steve, you dedicated countless hours trying to help him piece together the puzzle of his past life. Steve brought out old photographs, shared stories, and created detailed timelines in journals, but despite all your patient guidance and gentle encouragement, the poor man remained trapped in a void of forgotten memories. He couldn't recall anything from his previous life, not even the smallest detail.

The mounting frustration grew in every line of his face, in the way his hands would clench and unclench as he'd violently shove away the journals and carefully curated photos. His eyes would dart around the room like a cornered animal, accusing Steve of fabricating elaborate lies as his mind wrestled between what felt true and what his broken psyche insisted was false.

"Shut up!" Bucky suddenly exploded, sending the leather-bound photo album flying across the room with enough force to leave a mark on the wall. He launched himself up from his position between you and Steve, his entire body radiating tension and hostility. As he whirled to face Steve, his eyes were wild with confusion and fear, nostrils flaring with each rapid breath.

Steve was clearly struggling to maintain his composure through all of this too. Though he tried his best to remain patient and understanding, watching his oldest and dearest friend transform into someone who didn't even recognize him was taking an enormous emotional toll. Rising slowly to meet Bucky's challenge, Steve's face was a mixture of hurt and frustration. "I'm not lying," he insisted, his voice thick with emotion, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes - I'm your friend!"

"No!" The soldier shouted back, his chest heaving rapidly with each labored breath as he stood there, his long dark hair falling in tangled strands over his face while he shook his head violently in denial.

"You know me!" Steve retorted passionately, his voice cracking with emotion as he faced the resistance before him, desperately trying to reach through to his old friend.

"No, I don't!" The words came out as a raw, desperate cry, filled with confusion and pain.

You wanted to intervene in their intense confrontation, but for the moment you stayed silent and watched the two of them from your position, your heart racing as you observed their exchange, wondering if maybe Steve's unwavering determination could finally break through the soldier's programmed shell and reach the Bucky that lay buried underneath all those years of conditioning.

The soldier threw a punch, his metal arm whirring with the momentum as Steve quickly dodged out of the way. The poor soldier had thrown such a powerful and uncontrolled swing that it sent him stumbling forward, his boots scraping against the floor as he struggled to maintain his balance. You immediately rose to your feet as you realized this confrontation was rapidly escalating. You had been able to keep the soldier at bay, his unstable emotions were pretty manageable up until now and you didn’t want them to get out of hand.

"Okay, enough! Steve, stop-" You warned with urgency in your voice, desperately wanting the blond man to create some distance so the agitated soldier could have space to regain his composure.

"Soldat...easy, it's okay." You placate in a gentle voice, carefully watching his tense form as he sharply turned around to face the two of you again, his chest heaving with each breath.

"He's lying!" The words tore from his throat, anger, fear, confusion filled his tone.

"It's okay...it's all okay," You soothed, focusing all your energy on defusing the situation. You held your hands out toward him in a peaceful gesture, maintaining steady eye contact despite the intensity of his gaze. "You're fine...just take a breath." Your measured, calming tone seemed to pierce through his agitation like a shaft of light through storm clouds.

Gradually, the harsh, rapid breathing that had been wracking his frame began to slow, your non-threatening demeanor and passive body language helping to anchor him back to a more stable state.

"I think that's enough for today..." You muttered quietly, glancing back at Steve with a weary expression. He was still visibly frustrated, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense, but he had enough sense and self-awareness to know it was time to back off for now. Your attention shifted back to the soldier, carefully and gently guiding him down the hallway to your room to give him a much-needed break from the intensity of the memory session.

He was noticeably stiff when he walked, his movements reverted to being mechanical and hesitant. You had no idea what thoughts were racing through his mind, but you hoped you could help ease some of his obvious distress. Days that were more emotionally tense and unpredictable tended to disturb his sleep patterns significantly more than usual, restless nights filled with nightmares and you had to tend him through them. You didn’t mind, but it was exhausting after a few weeks.

Once inside your bedroom, you quietly shut the door behind you and watched as he began to relax ever so slightly, the familiarity of your quarters helping to settle his frayed nerves bit by bit. He slowly trudged over to your bed, his footsteps still carrying that residual tension, before sitting down heavily on the edge and looking up at you with an expression that made your heart ache - his eyes shy and pouty like a kicked puppy, clear with shame and uncertainty.

"M'sorry...I was…bad. I shouted." He muttered softly, his eyebrows deeply furrowed in distress, "I just...can't..." His hand gradually balled into a tight fist and before you could react, he struck himself in the head, hitting over and over as he sat there - delivering short and sharp knocks to his temple that made you wince with each impact.

"Soldat, hey, no. Stop it right now." You quickly grasped his wrist firmly but gently, staring at him with intense concern in your eyes. "We talked about this so many times...don't hurt yourself like this. You don't deserve any punishment...none of what happened was your fault. You just got a bit overwhelmed by everything, and that happens to everyone, even me." You soothed in a gentle voice while maintaining your grip, determined to keep him from continuing to hit his head. “You don’t need to hurt yourself anymore, okay?”

He didn't reply verbally, but the gradual lowering of his mechanical arm provided enough reassurance and comfort for you to finally release your grip on his wrist. With a heavy exhale, you pushed yourself up from your position, muscles protesting slightly from the tension. "I think it's best if we stay in tonight, all things considered." You observed thoughtfully, taking measured steps toward your closet to retrieve some fresh clothes, "I'm going to take a shower, okay?" You turned back to look at him after seconds of silence, only to find his piercing gaze fixed intently on you, his eyes blinking slowly as if processing your words. "Soldat?"

"Да." The response came swiftly and automatically from his lips, prompting you to turn and make your way deliberately toward the attached bathroom. As you walked, you couldn't ignore the sensation of stress gradually creeping through your body, tension coiling through your muscles like a spring. You knew that a hot shower would at least provide some relief, hopefully working to unknot the tight muscles that had formed across your shoulders and down your back.

When you emerged from the steamy bathroom later, towel pressed against your damp hair as you scrunched the moisture from the strands, you stopped in your tracks when you crossed the threshold - the soldier was spread across your bed, his body taut with obvious need as he desperately sought some form of release.

He was alone, his eyes darting around nervously.

Your room smelled nice, a gentle and comforting aroma that made him relax ever so slightly. He felt deeply estranged sitting perched on the edge of your bed, knowing he shouldn't be on the furniture. The memory of that lesson being violently beaten into him surfaced with crystal clarity, he felt a sharp phantom pain at his side, electricity fueling his body.

Should he get down onto the floor where he belonged? You hadn't said anything about it when you left, hadn't seemed to mind his presence on the bed, so maybe just this once it was okay?

“Just this once, you mutt.” He spat at the soldier, perhaps its handler felt some sort of pity for it that day. It was just grateful it didn’t have to curl up on the splintering wooden floor by the bed.

After several long moments of internal debate, he decided to stay on the bed.

You were nice, you wouldn’t hurt him.

He laid back against the bed, a soft sigh escaped his barely parted lips. The sheets smelled incredibly good, carrying your distinct scent; your shampoo, your natural musk that gradually seeped into his sensitive nose as he hesitantly buried his face against your impossibly silky pillow.

God it smelled so good.

Try as he might, he couldn't quite pinpoint the exact notes of the scent, his senses having been shot and dulled for so terribly long. But he knew deep in his bones that it smelled good, smelled sweet and pure and perfect.

As he clutched your pillow closer, hugging it tightly to his chest, he suddenly felt something unfamiliar stirring in his gut, like a sharp fluttering sensation that made his breath catch. His trousers felt uncomfortably tighter and he glanced down at himself with wide eyes, blinking in confusion at the sight. Seeing his body react this way was deeply odd...he hadn't experienced anything like this in such a long time. His handlers always had to give him pills to get this kind of response, otherwise it simply didn't happen.

Growing increasingly curious despite his lingering apprehension, he cautiously felt himself through the fabric and was genuinely surprised to discover that it felt good. It felt...really good, wonderfully good. And it didn't hurt in the slightest. It had always used to hurt so badly before, so why didn't it hurt now? Each time one of his handlers touched him, it hurt a lot. He remembers sharp pain, it made him nauseous a lot of the time. But now…he didn’t feel that pain, only this fluttering feeling.

He couldn't help himself any longer, his control crumbling entirely. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he had frantically ripped his own pants off, stumbling awkwardly as he struggled to kick his heavy combat boots off in order to tear the restricting black pants completely off himself as he penguined around your room. Bouncing precariously on one leg and growling in mounting frustration, he nearly toppled over onto his ass in his desperation.

He stared at his crotch, his thick cock twitching and leaking fluid as it throbbed at attention. The neglected part of him begged for his touch, the way it sent neurons rapidly to his brain to do something almost hurt. The soldier was desperate yet hesitant, he hadn't been allowed to touch himself in HYDRA, it was forbidden for him to ever do so. Only his handlers had that luxury, and it never felt good.

The poor thing felt hot and he bit back a strangled whine as he finally allowed himself the intimate touch he'd been denying for so long. His trembling fingers hesitantly explored bare skin, trailing down his abdomen and to his neglected cock.

He carefully grasped himself, unsteady and out of practice, his hand moved up and down the length with tentative strokes as he tried to replicate what he knew from distant memories. He squeezed and turned his hand with experimental motions, though the sensations remained frustratingly muted, falling short of what he desperately sought. His behavior replicated that of past hands, mechanical and clinical touches that had never prioritized his pleasure or comfort.

His frustration mounted steadily as his pent up desire overwhelmed his senses, leaving him breathless and yearning for more. The soldier moved back to your bed with shaky steps, his cock felt heavy, his balls full and needy for some kind of release. He buried his face deep in your pillow once more, inhaling deeply to chase that fluttery feeling that he felt earlier when inhaling your scent.

As you stood there, freshly showered with droplets of water still clinging to your skin, the plush towel wrapped securely around your body - you were surprised at the sight before you. The soldier on your bed moved with such raw, unrestrained desperation, his movements so primal and needy that you couldn't help but wonder if this was his first taste of pleasure, as if he hadn't ever experienced the sweet release of an orgasm before, or hell, even remember what it was like.

The man clung onto your pillow, face buried in it as his hips jut into your bed, the comforter balling up under him. His grunts were muffled against the pillow, his thrusts against your sheets were sloppy and jerky. You could tell he was just trying to reach climax, but none of his actions would get him there. He'd only cause himself enough friction to stay hard.

He lifted his face up gradually, his flushed cheeks burning bright and his dark eyebrows drawn tightly together in concentrated pleasure. His lips were glossy and parted, glistening with saliva as he practically drooled with desperate need, his entire body trembling on the edge of climax. His frantic thrusting began to slow to an erratic rhythm as waves of tension visibly radiated through his muscular form. The soldier's heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open hazily, only to suddenly lock onto your watching form.

In that moment, his entire body froze completely rigid, like a marble statue caught in a compromising position, as the full realization dawned across his features that you had discovered him rutting so shamelessly against your bed.

Assuming the worst, he quickly got up and leaned back, exposing himself without realizing it. His cock angry with need, leaking thick fluid as it tried to get its host to relieve the growing pain of orgasm denial. Your eyes were naturally drawn to it, the thick member twitching and staining your favorite pillow.

His face was flushed a deep crimson with overwhelming embarrassment, his eyes cast downward to avoid meeting your gaze as he desperately tried scooting further back on the bed. The poor man was clearly consumed by shame, not just from staining your belongings but from experiencing such intense, primal need for the first time in what felt like countless decades.

You had always been careful with him before, understanding and respecting his past experiences and trauma. But right now, watching his reactions and body language, it seemed like he was silently pleading for your intervention.

And honestly...the sight of him this way made your pussy feel wetter by the second.

"Awe, baby...are you struggling?" You asked in the softest, most nurturing tone you could, slowly making your way to the bed, careful not to startle him. "Don't worry, I know it feels weird, huh...I'll help make it better."

Your hand gently reached out and ran up from his knee to his thigh, the bare skin feeling warm and inviting against your palm. Your fingertips traced delicate patterns as they moved upward, savoring each moment of contact he allowed you to have. Your eyes glanced down at the scars marring his beautiful body - silvery lines etched across his skin like a canvas of survival. He didn't like looking at them, always trying to hide them away from view, but you didn't mind. They didn't make him any less pretty to you .

You reached his pelvis, your touch feather-light as you looked up through your lashes to meet his eyes. They were glossy with need, dark with desire as he stared down at you - his broad chest heaving with painful anticipation, each breath making the muscles in his abdomen tense and relax. "Please..." he spoke meekly, voice barely a whisper, his bottom lip trembling as he gripped the sheets beneath him, desperately resisting the overwhelming urge to rut upward towards your teasing touch.

"I'll take care of you," your voice cooed, gently reassuring him as your heart fluttered rapidly against your ribcage as your gaze drifted downward to rest upon his erect cock. Your fingertips traced light patterns up the length of his thighs, the touch both teasing and tender, avoiding those silvery scars. You pressed against his thighs, carefully guiding his legs to part.

Fuck, he was beautiful.

Pretty pink head just weeping for your touch, twitching as it laid against his belly, sticky fluid webbing into his neat, curly happy trail. Pretty pearls flowing out of him as the blushed tip became a darker, angrier red with the company of your touch.

His balls hung heavy, so so full, so you gently kneaded his sac. This earned a loud whine in response to your warm hand palming against him, massaging the sore testicles. "Please, please...please, I need..." His pretty voice was so delicious as he begged for something, he just didn't know what.

"What do you want baby...tell me, I'll give it to you," you whispered softly against his skin, your warm breath causing goosebumps to ripple across his flesh. The man beneath you was struggling to maintain his composure, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. Tears welled in his glacial eyes as he trembled against the soft, cotton sheets, his fingers desperately clutching at the bedding beneath him.

His voice caught in his throat - a deep, ripping cry of need as you slowly placed tender kisses along his knee. You took your time, savoring each press of your lips as you traced a path along the sensitive inside of his thigh, feeling the muscles quiver beneath your touch. Just before reaching the spot he craved your attention most, you paused, letting the anticipation build a bit.

"I won't tease too much, I know you are needy." You finally grasped him, letting your hand move along. Bucky squirmed, moaning and desperately rutting up into your touch for more. You kept a slow pace, steadily stroking his hard flesh so as to not overwhelm him. Your thumb gently caressed his tip, circular motions spreading those pearly beads all around and coating the tip in a thick lubricant.

You let your thumb gently press and swipe up through his slit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make him quiver. The sensation overwhelmed him, causing his body to tremble uncontrollably as waves of pleasure coursed through him. His back arched dramatically off the bed as he cried out in pure ecstasy, every nerve ending singing with delight as it felt so good. You felt so incredibly good, your touch electric against his sensitive, neglected cock.

This was entirely new territory for him - he had never experienced anything that came close to this level of intensity before. Physical contact without pain was a rare occurrence, and when he did get touched in the past, it was never on his terms. But this - this was something entirely different, something that made his whole body feel alive with sensation. The pleasure built and built until it felt like brilliant fireworks were exploding in his belly, sending sparks of pure bliss radiating through his entire body until his fingertips and toes tingled with static numbness.

You let out a soft breath, a smile quirked at your lips as you viewed the mess of white ropes that hung against his belly and draped on your fingers from your stroking. He came already, you barely touched him and he fucking came. Disheveled, he took deep breaths and looked up at you, his eyes peeking open as a small whimper emitted from his throat.

However, he was still hard.

You wondered if super soldiers could go more than once without a refractory period.

"What do you want, Bucky?" you asked the trembling soldier, your voice barely above a whisper. His breath hitched as you leaned closer, eyes searching his face intently. "What do you want...tell me. You get to choose. You decide what happens now," you murmured, watching his reactions carefully as your hands slowly traced gentle patterns across his thighs, fingers trailing deliberately up and over his pelvis, thumbs following the natural V-line. You applied just enough pressure to his shaking muscles to make him gasp, feeling the way he tensed and relaxed under your touch.

The poor man could barely form a coherent thought, his mind clouded with desire. His hands frantically grasped at your arms, fingers flexing against your skin as he tugged and yanked lightly, desperately trying to pull you on top of him. His voice came out rough and pleading, filled with raw need as he begged, "More, more...more..." His lip trembled and his eyes watered, you had never seen him like this, so taken over by the cloud of need.

"You want me to ride?" you asked gently, your fingers unwound the towel still wrapped around your body, letting it fall softly and you tossed it off beside the bed. Your skin glowed in the dim light as you leaned forward, your voice dropped to a calm whisper. "I'll ride you, all you have to do is sit back and enjoy..."

The words ghosted across his skin as you traced a delicate path with your lips, starting at his sternum and working your way up, each kiss lingering longer than the last. Your mouth found the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder, and you could feel the thundering of his pulse beneath your lips.

His breathing had grown ragged and uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your touch. His arms encircled you, fingers pressing into your skin as if he were anchoring himself to reality, terrified that if he loosened his grip even slightly, you might fade away and he’d wake up in a cold cell again.

Before you knew it, his cock was poking your slick entrance and you sunk down on his length without wasting a beat, impaling yourself on his thickness. He let out a shuddering cry, his glossy eyes widening with unbridled desire as his trembling hands instinctively shot out to grasp your plush, inviting hips, fingers pressing deeply into the soft flesh.

Oh, this felt...fuck, he struggled to find words. The warmth enveloping him, the wetness made his head spin, the softness of your cunt threatened to undo him completely.

You squeezed him so good, your inner muscles contracting rhythmically around him like your body was purposefully attempting to milk him of everything he had stored away, drawing out every last drop. You carefully began to move on him, lifting your hips up slowly before letting gravity guide you back down, savoring each sensation as you felt him stretch and move your insides. The fullness was overwhelming - he was absolutely massive in you, spreading you wider than you'd ever been, yet somehow he fit perfectly, like your bodies were made for each other, two lost pieces of a puzzle finally united.

Your body moved in perfect harmony with his, each roll of your hips drawing out beautiful moans in response. The way you naturally undulated against him, finding an intoxicating rhythm that had him gasping and trembling beneath you. His hips bucked up desperately to meet your movements, seeking more of that friction that felt so damn good. The soldier's hands gripped you tightly, his fingers still digging into your skin as he struggled to maintain what little composure he had left.

"C..can't...gonna..." His voice strained and broke, he buried his face into your chest as he thrusted up hard - warm, gooey cum shooting out and coating your cervix and inner walls, pooling out of your cunt and coating him as he thrusted slowly until he stopped and remained tucked inside.

He cried out against you, his body trembling and clinging desperately as waves of intense pleasure coursed through him, his second release of the night overwhelming his senses completely. His fingers dug into your skin as he shuddered, overcome by the intensity of sensations he had been denied for so very long.

"I've got you," you whispered soothingly, your arms wrapping protectively around his broad shoulders. One hand found its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently scratched his scalp in a comforting rhythm. His face remained buried against your breasts, and you could feel the warm wetness of tears against your skin.

A seed of worry took root in your gut at his emotional response, but you quickly reminded yourself that these tears were caused by relief and pleasure, not pain or distress. His hurt body and tortured mind were simply overwhelmed by the rush of positive sensations - after decades of existing without any form of physical pleasure or intimate touch, it was natural for him to be overcome by these emotions when finally getting to experience pleasure again.

Bucky sobbed.

His body trembled violently as if the bitter chill of winter had taken his body all over again, leaving him shaking uncontrollably in the aftermath. He clung to you, unwilling to release his grip on you. The safest he had ever felt was here, wrapped in your arms, where nothing else seemed to matter.

His broken mind, a constant battlefield of screaming thoughts filled with pain and unrelenting anger, was silenced - if not just a little - when he was in your arms. The constant torment of pain and guilt became manageable right here by your side, tucked away against your chest and arms.

No longer lost. No longer wandering aimlessly.

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part One

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

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

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

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

Word count: 20.4k

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

main masterlist part two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, with you, it starts very slow.

Very, very, painfully, reverently slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“I love you.”

Just like that.

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

You blinked.

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

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

And yet.

Your brain-to-mouth connection short-circuited.

Like… completely fried.

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

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

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

Because of you.

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

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

And still, you couldn’t speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside, your thoughts were screaming:

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

Why won’t the words come out?

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

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

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

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

Your silence was crushing him.

And still, the words wouldn’t come.

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

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

Your heart broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

And he loved it.

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

But grinding?

Spencer really, really liked grinding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you loved watching him unravel.

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

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

But the first time Spencer finished in his pants?

God, was he mortified.

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

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

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

In his pants.

And froze.

Completely, totally, tragically still.

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

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

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

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

But you couldn’t even speak.

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

Because you were floored.

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

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

The man you loved had just lost control with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Then, after a beat—

“…But I do need to change my pants.”

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you asked, amused.

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

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

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

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

He somehow caught it all with focused determination.

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

Spencer blinked at him.

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

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

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

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

And, well, it was.

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

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

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

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

But apparently, someone had been listening.

And wasn’t impressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, the guy did.

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

The bartender snapped to attention. “Hey!”

And before the situation could combust any further—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Statistically, it probably is.”

“Let’s just get these drinks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

You wanted to make tonight special for your man.

Spencer deserves so much. The world and more.

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

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

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

You let yourself in and begin.

First, the bed. His iron-framed, slightly squeaky, endearingly old-fashioned bed that he once admitted, reminded him of something he saw in a museum as a kid. You wind strands of fairy lights around the bars—golden and warm, gentle on the eyes, soft enough to keep the room dreamy but clear. You test them a few times, adjusting one crooked hook, unplugging, and replugging until they fall just right.

Next, come the flower petals—not just roses. You went for color. Texture. Variety.

Soft pinks, fiery oranges, cool lavender, pale yellows. A little chaotic. A little wild. Like your love for him. You scatter them across the sheets like confetti at a celebration. Because it is one.

You set out the unscented candles on his nightstand—small, discreet, and safe. You almost got the kind that crackles like a fire, but you remembered his sensitivity to noise as much as scent.

You want to indulge him, not overwhelm him.

On the foot of the bed, you place the box of condoms and a bottle of lube—both neatly arranged, unassuming, and respectful, but there. Like a promise, not a demand.

It’s not about seduction, not in the usual sense. It’s about care.

It’s about telling him without words, You are safe here. You are wanted. You are adored.

And it’s about readiness. His and yours.

So you sit on the edge of the bed when it’s all finished, looking around the room, heart full and nervous, because love like this—good love—always comes with a bit of fear.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the man you love to walk through the door.

…

Spencer trudged up the steps to his apartment, every muscle in his body heavy with the weight of the day. His satchel strap bit into his shoulder, and the knot in his neck hadn’t loosened since 2:17 p.m. when the case had turned from frustrating to tragic. By the time he reached his front door, he was fully prepared to collapse, microwave something vaguely edible, and not speak to another human being until at least tomorrow.

But then—

He opened the door and paused.

Your shoes. Neatly placed by his coat rack.

You wore the same pair when you went to that used bookstore downtown and got caught in the rain on the walk back. They were the ones with the faint scuff mark near the toe where you tripped trying to race him to the car.

Spencer’s breath caught, and without even realizing it, his hand relaxed on the strap of his satchel.

“Y/N?” he called out, his voice already softer. Hopeful.

“In here, lover,” you sang back, your voice floating out from his bedroom, warm and amused and full of something deliciously mischievous.

Spencer blinked, confused for half a second by the nickname—it wasn’t your usual one. Then he laughed under his breath, his lips twitching into a smile that pushed away the rest of the day’s gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.

He slipped off his shoes, his heart pounding faster now—not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

He had no idea what was waiting for him. Only that you were here. And that was always enough.

He dropped his satchel carefully by the door, toes brushing his shoes into their usual corner, both out of habit and because he knew you liked when things were neat. And something about tonight—something about your voice and the way it lilted with that playful energy—told him this wasn’t a night for messes.

He padded down the hallway slowly, each step easing him further out of his work mindset.

You called him lover.

Lover.

His ears were still warm from it.

The bedroom door was open, but dimly lit from within, and when Spencer stepped into the doorway—his hand grazing the frame like he needed to steady himself—his breath left him in a stunned, hushed exhale.

“Y/N…” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. It was a reverent acknowledgment.

The fairy lights cast golden halos over everything—the iron of the bedframe, the petals scattered in a riot of color over his sheets, your silhouette seated calmly in the middle of it all, serene and radiant and waiting for him.

The room looked like something out of a book he hadn’t read yet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly. Like something dreamed about.

You looked at him with a grin that betrayed your nerves and your excitement all at once. “Hi,” you said, your voice gentler now. “Rough day?”

Spencer’s hand dragged slowly down his chest like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He nodded, blinking at you like you were a mirage. “It… was. But this—” he gestured to the lights, the petals, you— “This is…”

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head fast, walking toward you now like he remembered how to move. “No. No, it’s—perfect.”

You reached for him, and he came willingly, kneeling on the bed beside you, hands cautious as they cupped your face.

“I didn’t want to rush,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the slight furrow between his brows. “But I wanted you to know I’m still ready. If you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and he swallowed hard, his forehead leaning against yours like he needed the contact to hold himself together.

“I’ve never felt more ready for anything,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with awe.

But still, Spencer was nervous.

No, nervous didn’t quite cover it—he was trembling with a complex blend of anticipation, reverence, and a lingering thread of panic that tugged at him even as he stood in front of you, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as you helped him out of his shirt, your touch so gentle, so patient, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Every movement of yours said we’re okay. You’re safe. I want this with you.

And he did want it. He’d said yes with more certainty than he’d ever given anything outside of a statistical theorem. But the reality of it—being here, with you, about to cross that line—was almost too much. He didn’t know where to look. His gaze darted from your eyes to the sheets to the petals and back again, never quite settling.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. Not out of fear but because he wanted so badly to get it right. To be everything you deserved.

You smiled gently, stepping close and running your fingers along his jaw. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone like silk. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know.”

He swallowed hard and gave a jerky little nod. “I know. I just—I’m trying to be respectful. And grounded. And not... combust.”

You giggled, your fingers trailing down to the hem of your own shirt. “Well, if you combust, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t combust,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

And then—without flourish, without teasing—you pulled your shirt up and over your head and tossed it to the floor.

And Spencer—

Spencer stopped functioning.

Whatever careful control he’d been trying to maintain, whatever self-soothing technique he was cycling through in his mind—it all evaporated.

His jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes widened like a Victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time.

You had never seen anyone look more stunned.

And then he said it. Barely above a whisper. Like it was a scientific observation, a sacred discovery, and a prayer, all at once:

“…Boobs.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Yes, Spence. Boobs.”

He blinked, still staring. “Those are… incredible.”

You stepped closer, chest brushing against his, watching as his entire body stiffened, overwhelmed in the most delightful way. “You can touch them, you know.”

“I can?” he asked, eyes snapping to yours with something just shy of awe.

With your guidance, you nodded slowly, and his hands lifted, tentative but eager, warm palms grazing over your skin like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

And that was it.

That was when all of Spencer Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge, IQ points, and graduate degrees—just left the building.

His brain?

Off.

His mouth?

Open.

His dick?

Throbbing.

His hands cupped you with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts or first editions.

And you? You were beaming.

Because seeing Spencer lose his carefully composed mind over you—over something as simple and as yours as your bare chest—was everything you’d hoped for and more.

His hands, once tentative, were now resting firmly on your chest. Spencer had gone quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him—he was a man who could live inside silence with ease—but this was different. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide as he watched his own hands explore you, gently, like you were something fragile and sacred.

He looked up at you with wonder written all over his face, his cheeks flushed, curls hanging slightly over his forehead. “You’re so soft,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid saying it too loud would break the moment.

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest at the way he marveled at you like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew technically, but—” his eyes flicked back down, thumbs brushing slowly over your skin, “—this is better than any description I’ve ever read.”

That made you laugh, and the sound of it seemed to ground him, his shoulders relaxing just enough that you could see him starting to come back to himself. Not the nervous, overthinking version—your Spencer. The one who trusted you. The one who wanted this.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I think I’m in love with your entire body,” he murmured, dazed and breathless. Then blinked. “And yes. I’m okay.”

You leaned forward and kissed him soft and slow, letting your fingers trail down his spine, pressing gently at the small of his back. He gasped a little when your hips shifted, brushing against him where he was already hard and twitching in his boxers.

He whimpered. You felt it rather than heard it—low in his throat, vibrating through his chest.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You moved slowly, tugging his pants and underwear down with care, and he hissed through his teeth when the cool air met his skin. He was already flushed, already leaking at the tip, and so sensitive that when you brushed your hand along him lightly, his whole body arched.

“God,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck. “I—I might not last long. I’m sorry.”

You smiled and turned your face to kiss his temple. “Spence. I want you to feel good. That’s the whole point.”

He nodded, clinging to you, one arm wrapping around your waist as if he needed to anchor himself. You made sure everything was slow. Gentle. The kind of slow that said there’s no rush, that said we have all the time in the world, that said I want you to feel safe.

Every touch was measured—not tentative, not clinical, but intentional. Like music played on vinyl, every movement had its own warm, human hum. 

When you reached for the condom, he caught your wrist—not firmly, not to stop you, but just enough to pause you.

“C-can I… can I do it?” he asked, voice so quiet it cracked in the middle. “I—I read about it. I practiced.”

Your heart nearly burst.

You nodded immediately, smiling, letting the packet rest in his palm. “Of course, baby. I love that you did research.”

Spencer exhaled and nodded like you’d given him permission to breathe for the first time in ten minutes. His fingers worked the foil carefully, a little clumsy but deliberate. You saw the concentration on his face, the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he rolled it down himself with both hands, going slow and steady like it was an experiment he’d studied and was now conducting in real-time.

When he finished, he looked up at you, a little pink from embarrassment, a little proud. “I, uh… I read that using both hands gives you better control and minimizes breakage. And I didn’t want to fumble if I waited till the moment—”

You leaned down and kissed him before he could spiral. “You did perfect.”

He flushed deeper, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the Nobel Prize.

Then you reached for the lube.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He watched with fascination—his eyes dark and wide—as you popped the cap and squeezed a small amount onto your fingers.

“Okay?” you asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded slowly, lips slightly parted. “Yeah… yes. Please.”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your slicked hand around him, and he gasped.

Not just a sharp intake of breath, not just a quiet sound—a whole-body gasp. His hips twitched off the bed, his fingers dug into the sheets like he was trying to stay grounded, and his head tipped back into the pillow with a groan that echoed in the quiet room.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

You stroked him once, slow and careful, and his whole body shuddered.

You leaned close to his ear, voice low and teasing but full of love. “Too much?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head furiously. “Not too much. Just… a lot. I’m trying not to—”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “You don’t have to try so hard. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He let go.

Of the nerves. Of the pressure. Of the shame.

He let himself be exactly who he was—soft, flushed, wide-eyed, and open—yours.

And when you finally guided him inside you—after his hands had gripped the sheets, after you’d whispered to each other that you were ready—he gasped so hard you worried for a moment he’d stopped breathing.

His hands found your waist. His head tipped back. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh my God.” Spencer squeaked more than said.

You stilled, letting him adjust, letting both of you adjust. You were warm and tight and Spencer was entirely overwhelmed. You leaned forward to kiss him, your hair brushing his cheek, and he kissed you back like he had nothing else to hold onto.

“Is it okay?” you whispered.

“Better,” he gasped. “So much better.”

You moved gently at first—carefully, deliberately—just shifting your hips enough to feel him deeper, to let your bodies adjust to each other, to the newness of it all. Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glossy as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands gripped your hips—not possessively, but like he was grounding himself. His fingers trembled where they rested against your skin, his thumbs brushing mindless, reverent circles, like he was trying to memorize your shape through touch alone.

You leaned down slightly, brushing your nose against his. “Still okay?” you whispered, watching every little flicker in his expression.

His breath left him in a soft, unsteady sigh. “Yes,” he managed, the word barely audible like it had to travel through his entire body before it reached his mouth. “Yes, but I—God, you feel—”

He trailed off, not because he didn’t want to finish the sentence, but because he couldn’t. Because Spencer Reid—man of thousands of words, probably fluent in countless languages, master of articulation—had gone completely, blissfully, speechless.

You pressed your lips to his jaw, then his cheekbone, and then the corner of his mouth, letting your own breath warm his skin as you began to move again.

Slow. So slow it didn’t even feel like movement at first—just heat, friction, pressure, and presence.

You watched him like it was your full-time job, like nothing else mattered. The way his mouth trembled with every shallow thrust. The way his eyes kept trying to stay on you, but fluttered shut when the sensation overwhelmed him. The way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something far more profound than pleasure.

His entire body was taut with restraint like he was terrified to let go.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes again, wide and fragile and desperate all at once. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

You smiled softly, brushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “Don’t worry about that, baby. We can go again later. Or not. But you don’t need to prove anything, Spence. Just let me take care of you.”

That undid him more than anything. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands dragged up your sides, shaking slightly. He nodded—almost frantically—but his voice was quiet. “Okay. Okay.”

You picked up the pace just slightly, just enough to build tension, just enough to draw a longer moan from his chest. It was low and raw like he hadn’t meant to let it out, but you kissed him before he could shrink away from the sound.

“You sound so good, baby,” you whispered.

That almost did it.

His head tilted back, jaw slack, brows furrowed like the pleasure hurt in the best way. His legs shifted beneath you, trying to find stability in a moment where he felt anything but stable.

And then he said your name.

Not just said it—moaned it.

Like it had been carved into the moment. Like it was the only word he knew.

Your bounces were deliberate, and your thighs were sore. His chest was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. And when your hands slid up his ribs, he reached for you—pulling you closer, needing the anchor of your body against his.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent and murmuring soft encouragements, each one laced with love. And he whimpered your name again, his hands tightening on your back.

“I—I’m close,” he whispered as if confessing a secret. “I—I don’t want to, but I—I can’t stop—”

You kissed the hinge of his jaw, your voice breathless but tender. “Don’t stop. Let go, Spence. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

With one last, desperate gasp—your name caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer—he came. Hard. His whole body curling into you as if the force of it broke something open inside him.

You didn’t move right away. You let him ride it out, breathing him in, one hand combing gently through his hair as his arms wrapped around you, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally blinked up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

You smiled, cupping his face like he was made of something precious. “I know, baby.”

“I… I love you.”

You kissed him, slow and full and deep. “I love you too.”

You collapsed beside him afterward, pressing your forehead to his, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Spencer was panting softly, blinking up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered.

You kissed him once, twice, as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “It’s not always like that,” you said honestly. “But with you? I hoped it would be.”

He turned his head to look at you, his expression open and unguarded, his smile small and unbelievably tender.

“I think I’m gonna love you even more now,” he whispered.

You laughed, soft and full, your chest aching with how much you adored him. “Good. Because I already do.”

Then—just as your breathing began to slow, your heartbeat settling into that warm, post-release haze of intimacy—Spencer suddenly shot up.

Not all the way, not jarringly, but enough that his arms unwrapped from around your back, and he was propping himself on one elbow, brows furrowed in frantic realization. His eyes, still glassy and dazed from everything you'd just shared, snapped open with a kind of panic so sincere it was almost endearing.

“You didn’t finish,” he said, voice high and tight, like he’d just remembered he'd left the oven on.

You blinked, a little startled, then broke into a laugh so warm and affectionate it made your chest ache. “Spence—”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

“No—I mean—you didn’t,” he said again, the urgency in his tone almost comical as he began searching your face, your body, trying to confirm with his eyes what he already knew. “I—I wasn’t paying attention like I should have—I was too in my own head—”

“Baby,” you cut in, reaching up to smooth your hand over his hair, which had gone wild in the most adorable way. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he blurted, his hand already sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t imagine not finishing what he started. “I need to. Please let me—can I?”

You blinked again, caught somewhere between touched and incredibly turned on by how serious he was, how devoted.

“Spencer,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “you just lost your virginity about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, and you gave me the most incredible experience of my life,” he said without missing a beat. “And it would be a travesty if I didn’t do the same for you.”

You bit your lip, utterly undone by the sheer passion in his voice, the way his brow pinched like this was the most urgent mission he’d ever undertaken.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added, now trailing kisses along your shoulder, his hand dipping lower with increasing confidence, “but I’m not sleeping until you finish, too.”

You sighed, already melting beneath his touch. “You really are the sweetest man alive.”

“Statistically speaking,” he mumbled against your skin, “I hope to be the most attentive man alive.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, affection coloring your voice even as your body already started to respond to his touch. “Okay, but Spence—”

The rest of your sentence dissolved into a shaky moan as his fingers, always so long and graceful and careful, pushed gently inside of you with the kind of curious reverence only he could carry. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t practiced—it was Spencer. Learning you. Exploring you. Honoring you.

“Yes?” he asked innocently, blinking up at you like he hadn’t just curled his finger in a way that sent heat shooting up your spine.

You tried to compose yourself, your hands fisting lightly in the sheets. “I don’t always finish—Jesus—even with proper stimulation. Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

Rather than looking disappointed, Spencer tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with interest like you’d just given him an unsolved puzzle. “I read that some women can’t,” he said calmly, his voice low and thoughtful, still curling his finger slowly, watching your body respond with studious awe. “There are a variety of contributing factors—psychological, physiological, environmental. In fact, studies show that up to ten to fifteen percent of women may experience lifelong anorgasmia, meaning they’ve never had an orgasm, while others may experience situational or acquired anorgasmia due to stress, trauma, or hormonal imbalances.”

You were trying to stay focused, truly, but it was hard when he was speaking in that careful, clinical tone—that tone—while his finger was so very much not clinical.

“Some data also suggests,” he continued, utterly unbothered by your increasingly unsteady breathing, “that difficulty reaching climax can be compounded by performance anxiety or pressure, even in safe, loving relationships, which is why it’s especially important to prioritize pleasure over completion and—”

You whined. Loudly.

It tore out of you unbidden, high, and needy, and Spencer’s fingers stilled immediately. His brows lifted in alarm as he looked up at you, concern flickering in his eyes despite the obvious state of bliss you were in.

“Wait—are you okay?” he asked gently, the pads of his fingers softening their pressure but not withdrawing entirely. “Too much? Did I—”

“No, no,” you gasped, one hand flailing out to grab at his wrist again, grounding yourself. “Please don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment, scanning your face like he was recalibrating, and you managed a breathless, half-laugh, half-moan.

“Please keep telling me your nerdy shit,” you begged, tilting your hips ever so slightly toward his hand, needing more of him. “It’s working, baby.”

Spencer’s eyes widened like he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. “It is?”

You nodded emphatically, lips parted, your whole body flushed with need. “So much. Talk to me. Please.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

His mouth quirked into a crooked, bashful smile—adorably smug now that he knew what effect he was having—and he cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a keynote address.

“Well… the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings, which is actually more than the penis,” he murmured, returning his fingers to their earlier rhythm, slow and steady, curling just right, “and it's the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. Studies show that stimulation of this area often requires consistency and pressure—not necessarily penetration—and…”

You moaned again, louder this time, arching under the weight of both his fingers and his voice.

He kept going.

“…and many women experience heightened sensitivity when paired with psychological stimulation, such as auditory input or praise, which might be why you’re reacting so strongly to this right now—your mind and body are responding in tandem, which is actually ideal for maximizing the—”

You cut him off with a cry, your hand slamming down against the mattress beside you, voice breaking on his name as you got closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer's pupils blew wide, lips parted as he watched you unravel beneath him. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly now. “You’re so responsive, you’re—God, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, your voice trembling, high and thin, your body arched against the sheets as your thighs quivered around his wrist. “Please—”

Spencer's breath hitched, the seriousness in your tone lighting something molten in his chest. He didn’t stop—not even a little. His fingers kept their firm, deliberate rhythm, his knuckles glistening in the warm light, his eyes fixed on your face like he was reading your every reaction like scripture.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips parted, breath catching on every syllable. “I won’t. I promise. Just… breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

But then, as if his brain couldn’t help itself—as if the next fact physically needed to be said or he might combust—he added, almost breathless with excitement, “You know, some evolutionary biologists argue that the clitoris evolved as a mechanism to promote pair bonding, not reproduction. Which would mean that your pleasure is literally coded into our species to keep us together—emotionally, and psychologically. It’s one of the few functions that exists solely to reinforce trust and intimacy between partners, which I think is just…”

You whimpered beneath him, your body shuddering. “Spencer—oh my God—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, but with a lopsided, flushed grin. “I can’t help it. You’re letting me touch you, and my brain is like, ‘Now’s the time to dump eight thousand years of evolutionary sexual research.’”

Your laugh cracked open into another moan as his fingers curled again—just right.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” you gasped, hands clenching the sheets. “If you don’t make me come right now while quoting Darwin, I swear to God—”

“Technically it was Sarah Blaffer Hrdy who first—”

“SPENCER.”

“Right. Shutting up. But also not stopping.”

And he didn’t.

Your whole body was shaking, strung tight as a wire, teetering right on the edge—but you couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him. Because Spencer Reid, brilliant and so sweet and currently knuckle-deep inside you, was passionately info-dumping about sexual evolution and female anatomy like he was reading it straight from a journal he co-authored.

And it was the sexiest goddamn thing you’d ever heard.

“—and actually, there’s evidence in Bonobo communities that female orgasm plays a social role in maintaining alliances, which some anthropologists believe might translate to human behavior as well—oh, right there?” he asked mid-sentence, breathcatching as he felt your body clench around his fingers.

You gasped, gripping the sheets as heat coiled tighter in your belly. “Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he grew more focused, his voice dropping lower, rougher now with awe and affection. “You’re so responsive, it’s beautiful. The way your pelvic floor contracts during climax is—statistically—it’s just—God, I could write a thesis on this. You, I mean. This.”

That was it.

Something about the way he said write a thesis on this while his fingers moved in perfect rhythm, while his thumb gently pressed right there, while his wide, eager eyes stayed locked on your face like you were the most precious discovery he’d ever made—

It sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a loud, stuttering cry, your body curling in on itself as Spencer kept his touch steady through the waves of it, like he knew exactly how to help you ride it out. Your orgasm pulsed hard and fast, and he felt it—his jaw dropping, his own breath shaky with awe.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, still stroking you so gently it nearly drove you mad. “You just came while I was talking about Bonobos.”

You nodded weakly, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your lips split in a wrecked smile. “Your brain is so hot, baby.”

Spencer let out a stunned laugh, curling beside you, hand now resting on your thigh as he kissed your temple with reverence.

“I feel like I should give a TED Talk after this,” he whispered, still a little breathless.

You giggled, voice still hoarse. “You just did.”

And somewhere in Spencer’s mind, he filed this away under Data Collection: Partner’s Orgasm Most Frequently Triggered by Academic Enthusiasm.

He was absolutely taking notes.

“See?” Spencer said softly, still flushed, still basking in the wonder of what just happened like he’d accidentally discovered a new element. His fingers brushed over your thigh, gentle and aimless, as he smiled down at you with all the smug pride of a man who had just scientifically rocked your world.

“Told you data is sexy.”

You let out a breathless laugh—a mix of exhaustion and affection—and rolled your head toward him on the pillow. “You have literally never said that before.”

His grin only widened, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tucked one hand under his cheek like he was trying to play coy. “I’ve thought it. Repeatedly. Constantly. For years.”

You gave him a tired huff of a laugh, your hand lazily tracing circles on his chest. “Well… you might want to prepare some new information for next time, then. Maybe a bibliography. A few case studies. Something about… I don’t know—neurochemical bonding during prolonged foreplay?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a Christmas morning of erotically charged research prompts.

“I have articles on that,” he whispered, delighted. “I mean, obviously not for this exact context, but the neurobiological mechanisms of oxytocin release are actually—”

“Next time, baby,” you said, pulling the blanket over both of you with a giggle. “I need to regain function first.”

He chuckled, kissed your shoulder, and snuggled in close, already mentally drafting an annotated lecture for your next round.

Because if Spencer Reid had learned one thing tonight, it was this: 

Your pleasure wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust and love… and, just maybe, a full-body response to the words evolutionary psychology.

God help you. You’d created a monster.

And you couldn’t wait for next time.

“Um… darling, I need to shower,” Spencer said suddenly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets, his voice soft but tinged with just enough awkward urgency to make you blink.

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing over at him with a sleepy smile, your cheek still resting against his shoulder.

He hesitated. “I… forgot to take the condom off.”

You sat up so fast the blanket fell from your shoulders. “Ew! Spencer!” you yelped, though your voice was laced with disbelief and laughter more than actual disgust.

He winced, scrunching his nose, clearly embarrassed. “I got distracted by your brain and your body and your orgasm and also your face, so—yes, I forgot.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Sometimes I forget that even though you are a very good, clean, above-average man—you are still, at the end of the day, just a man.”

“I deserve that,” he muttered, already standing and gingerly tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a child who just got scolded for forgetting to put away their science fair volcano.

“You go shower and I’ll go pee,” you called after him, swinging your legs off the bed.

“Peeing after sex is actually good for both men and women,” he called from the bathroom, his voice already returning to its usual scholarly rhythm, “because it helps prevent urinary tract infections by flushing out any bacteria that may have—”

You cut him off with a laugh, padding toward the hallway bathroom. “Save the dirty talk, please,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked grin.

He poked his head around the doorframe, shirtless, blushing, and grinning right back at you. “I’m literally talking about hygiene—”

“And somehow,” you smirked, disappearing into the bathroom, “you’re still turning me on.”

You heard him laugh through the door, the warm sound echoing through your apartment like a promise of many, many more awkwardly perfect nights to come.

—

Spencer had been shot.

The words alone were enough to send the entire team spiraling, every muscle in motion, every decision sharpened by panic laced with practiced urgency. It had happened while Spencer was protecting a victim from the unsub, and then a single, deafening shot that echoed louder than anything else that day.

The bullet hit Spencer in the leg. Not a graze. A hit.

It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, not by a mile—not chest, not head—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to people who had already seen this man bleeding and broken before, carried out on a stretcher but unable to leave the pain behind. The last time he’d been seriously injured in the field, it had left emotional (and physical) scars that never quite healed. So no, it wasn’t just a leg. It was Spencer. It was history repeating itself.

They got him to the hospital as fast as possible, local sirens blaring, uniforms parting like the Red Sea to make way for the gurney. Hotch barked orders with a clenched jaw, Rossi moved like a soldier who’d done this too many times, and JJ never let go of his hand until she physically had to.

Penelope wasn’t on the scene.

She was over two hundred miles away, back at Quantico, surrounded by her banks of monitors and softly glowing LED lights, but it might as well have been a different planet. When the call came in—that Spencer had been shot—her hands froze mid-keystroke. For a second, her entire world narrowed to the sound of Hotch’s voice crackling through her headset and the sharp, clinical way he’d said, “Reid’s been hit.”

She didn’t hear anything after that.

The room around her blurred as her fingers slowly slipped away from the keyboard, her chair spinning a fraction as she pushed back, needing space that didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to this kind of helplessness.

Because this time, she couldn’t run searches or hack into anything that would make a damn bit of difference.

All she could do was wait.

She sat in her chair like the floor had dropped out from beneath her, her fingers laced tightly in her lap—knuckles white, nails pressing into her skin. The BAU bullpen buzzed faintly behind her, voices low and moving fast, but she felt suspended in a slow-motion kind of grief that hadn’t hit its target yet.

Her screens were still lit up with the case. But she didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just stared at the wall, heart thudding in her throat.

And then she remembered you.

You weren’t there. You hadn’t been on this case—you didn’t even know.

The thought nearly made her nauseous.

“I’ll call,” she told them before Hotch could speak. “You’ll be too clinical. Y/N deserves more than that.”

He didn’t argue.

Penelope stepped away from her desk, heart hammering as she pressed your name on her phone and held it to her ear. She expected tears. Gasps. Maybe even anger.

What she got instead… was calm.

“Hey, Penelope,” you answered on the second ring, voice groggy like you’d been napping or just getting in from something mundane.

“Hi, um… okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” she said immediately, pacing the linoleum tiles, hand pressed to her chest. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Spencer’s alive.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” you said quietly, no tremor in your tone. “What happened?”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “He was—uh, he was shot. In the leg. They’re still at the hospital in Detroit. He’s stable. He was awake in the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, but they think the bullet missed the femoral artery. He’s in surgery now.”

“Okay,” you said again, the word even and deliberate. “And he's… alive. Just to confirm.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice cracking. “Yes, he is. I swear to you.”

Penelope waited, unsure what to say next.

You exhaled through the line. “Thank you for calling. Please text me the name of the hospital. I’m getting on a flight.”

Penelope nodded, even though you couldn’t see her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you everything. And if you need me to help book—”

“I’ll take care of it, thank you, Penelope. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“I will,” she promised. 

And with that, the call ended, and Penelope stared down at her screen with tears in her eyes, already typing the hospital info into a message, already knowing you’d be on the next flight out.

You were a complete wreck while grabbing your stuff, arms moving too fast, heart pounding harder than your body could keep up with. Your fingers fumbled clumsily over zippers and drawers, not bothering to fold anything, not checking the weather, not even thinking about what you might need once you got there.

There.

Detroit.

Where Spencer was.

Dating Spencer had taught you many things—how to listen differently, be patient in silence, and decode the pauses between his words—but it had also taught you how to prepare. You had a go bag because of him. A real one. The kind people made fun of on TV, but the kind you knew might be the difference between being there when it mattered or showing up too late.

And you weren’t going to be late.

By the time you were out the door and in the car, you were already on the phone with the airport. You didn’t care about the airline. You didn’t care about the seat. 

It was mildly irrational. Definitely not budget-friendly. But you couldn’t help it.

You weren’t dating Spencer when he was kidnapped. You hadn’t even met him yet. But you knew. You knew. Not all of it—never all of it—but you knew enough. Enough to make your stomach turn with what-ifs. Enough to know that field injuries like this weren’t just about bullets and blood loss. They were about fear. Trauma. Flashbacks. They were about the past coming back up through the cracks.

You didn’t know what state you were going to find him in.

And that’s what made your hands shake.

The flight felt like forever, even though you got lucky with timing and minimal delays. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drank anything. You hadn’t spoken to anyone except for a rushed text to Penelope saying boarding now.

It wasn’t until the plane reached altitude—until the jolt of ascent settled into the hum of flight and the flight attendant started her quiet aisle shuffle—that you felt like you could breathe.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

You leaned back into your seat, closing your eyes, the ache of your worry pulling behind your ribs like it had settled there for good. You hoped—God, you hoped—that maybe sleep would find you.

And if it did, you hoped your dreams would be filled with happy Spencer. The version of him who laughed too hard at his own obscure jokes. The one who sipped his coffee with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t hold on tight. The one who woke you up by reading to you.

Not the one bleeding in an ambulance. Not the one in a hospital gown.

Just him. Just yours.

…

JJ was sitting with Spencer, perched on the small plastic chair beside his hospital bed, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing softly as she kept the mood light, steady—talking about whatever came to mind. She was recounting something Penelope had said on the phone earlier, something about a new case file font she’d tried out just to annoy Hotch, and though Spencer’s laugh was more of a soft exhale, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was tired, yes, pale and sore and dressed in one of those thin, awful gowns—but he was okay.

The surgery had gone well. It was a clean removal with minimal damage. It would take time to recover, but physically, he’d be fine.

Still, the team wasn’t taking any chances. They were rotating in and out of the room, never leaving him alone—not just for his safety, but for his comfort. For the emotional fallout that might come later. No one said it aloud, but they all remembered what happened the last time Spencer returned from a hospital bed.

Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Derek stood up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking up every time the elevator dinged. When he spotted you—wrinkled from travel, hair messy, eyes burning with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation—he moved fast.

“Hey,” he said, walking quickly toward you.

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Derek interrupted gently, placing both hands on your shoulders as if to hold you up and reassure you simultaneously. “He’s really okay. Out of surgery, awake. JJ’s in there with him now. He’s a little loopy, but he’s fine.”

For the first time since Penelope’s call, your lungs actually filled. Not just shallow breaths or half inhalations, but real, full air. You closed your eyes briefly and nodded, a shaky sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaping your throat.

Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Derek, hugging him tight—tighter than he expected, but he didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He rubbed your back once, steady, and said, “He’s been asking about you.”

You pulled away, nodded again, and then took off, your footsteps fast and sure down the hallway as you followed Derek’s directions toward Spencer’s room.

As you pushed the door open, your fingers trembling just slightly around the handle, you couldn't help yourself. Even with your heart hammering, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting your nose, and the distant beep of monitors echoing down the hall, your instinct kicked in.

“Knock knock,” you called softly into the room, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as your chest swelled with emotion.

You said it automatically now, like muscle memory. Because you knew it bothered him.

“Why do you have to say it when you’re already doing it?” he’d asked you once, eyebrows knit in frustration, voice laced with genuine confusion.

And you had just grinned at him with all the smug delight of someone discovering the easiest way to get under a person’s skin. Ever since it has become your thing.

Now, standing in the doorway of a bright white hospital room that smelled too clean and looked too sharp, the words felt softer than usual. They were familiar, a tether to normalcy.

JJ was the first thing you saw—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes wide, already filled with a deep, quiet sympathy that made your stomach tighten all over again. She rose from her seat beside the bed, stepping back gently, making space for you without saying a word.

And then you looked at him.

Spencer.

Awake. Propped up against thin pillows in an oversized gown, his blanket drawn up to his waist. His curls were a little flattened, his face pale, but his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were fixed on you.

His expression shifted the moment your eyes met. Not relief, not even joy—fear.

Like he didn’t know what you were going to say. Like he was preparing for disappointment or maybe even anger. Like a part of him still hadn’t entirely accepted that you came. That you would always come.

You stepped inside without thinking, letting the door swing slowly shut behind you.

“Hey there, handsome,” you said with a grin, your voice all honey and lightness, doing everything in your power to wrap him in reassurance from the second you stepped inside. You needed him to see it in your face—it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

“Hi,” Spencer replied, smiling back, but the expression was small, a little hesitant like he still wasn’t sure he deserved your warmth just yet. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket, and you could see it all—every flicker of worry, every ounce of vulnerability behind those eyes.

You didn’t let it linger. You walked fully into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you, and stopped at the foot of his bed. Then, very dramatically, you planted both hands on your hips and gave him your best mock-disappointed look, brows drawn, chin tilted.

“Now, Spencer,” you began sternly, “what are we not supposed to do?”

His brows furrowed immediately in confusion, and he looked to JJ for help, who shrugged back at him like don’t look at me.

You huffed, all theatrical sigh and exaggerated disappointment, before prompting him with the first few syllables: “Not… get… sh—”

“Not get shot,” he said quickly, nodding solemnly like a child admitting to having snuck a cookie. His lips twitched upward, and the sparkle in his eyes was back, even if just faintly.

“Exactly,” you said, stepping closer now. “And what did you do, Spencer?”

“I got shot,” he said, shrugging slightly, finally getting into the silliness of your game but still watching your face like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in trouble or not.

“You got shot,” you repeated with a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” you added as you perched gently on the edge of the bed, “it’s probably for the best that it missed any major organs… or your chest… or your head…”

“Probably,” Spencer giggled, his voice light for the first time all day, the sound bubbling up like it surprised even him.

JJ let out a breath she’d been holding, smiling quietly as she excused herself from the room, giving you both the privacy you needed.

But you barely noticed. All your focus was on him—his smile, his soft laugh, the way his shoulders started to drop from around his ears, the tension finally easing under your presence.

You reached up gently, your fingers trailing over the small, scattered freckles on his cheek—the ones you always traced when you were trying to calm yourself as much as him. He leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again to meet yours.

“How’s your pain?” you asked softly, voice low and even.

“Tolerable,” he replied, pressing his lips together tightly in that way that told you it wasn’t exactly tolerable but that he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You tilted your head just a little. “Did you let them give you anything?”

“Only to put me under,” he said, shifting uncomfortably like he expected a lecture.

“Understood,” you nodded, not pushing, already moving on to keep him from feeling like he had to defend himself. “When can you bathe?”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked, genuinely scandalized, like you’d just called him unhygienic in front of a live audience.

“No…” you said carefully.

Spencer groaned, head falling back against the pillow, a dramatic whine escaping him. “Ughhh.”

“It’s not that, baby,” you assured him quickly, your hand stroking gently over his curls as you leaned closer, your smile widening. “Your curls are just a bit greasy, and I was going to offer to wash them for you…”

His groan cut off immediately.

“Oh,” he said. Quietly. Sheepishly. His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink.

“Yeah,” you grinned, lowering your voice to something teasing. “You know I like taking care of you, right?”

He blinked at you, lips twitching up. “…Even when I stink?”

You squinted at him playfully, pulling back a few inches like you had to really think about it. “Hmm… so every morning then?”

“Y/N!” Spencer gasped, completely betrayed, his mouth hanging open as if you’d just published a scientific paper slandering his good name.

“I’m just saying!” you defended, raising both hands in a mock surrender. “You’re a sweaty sleeper, babe. I didn’t invent thermoregulation.”

He narrowed his eyes at you; lower lip puffed out in an almost comically perfect pout. “You’re supposed to be comforting me in my time of need, and instead, you’re making fun of me for bodily functions I can’t control.”

“Not quite,” you grinned, settling back in closer. “If I were going to make fun of you for bodily functions you can’t control, I’d bring up how often you prematur—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Spencer’s hand darted up and cupped your cheek, and in a split second, he pulled you into a kiss—not aggressive, but firm enough to make it very clear that this was an intervention.

He kissed you like it had been years instead of days. Like the pain, the fear, the sterile room, none of it mattered anymore because you were here, and he was still breathing, and this—your lips on his, the way your breath caught slightly in surprise—was the only thing that had felt real all day.

And yes, part of it was to shut you up. But mostly, it was because he’d been aching to kiss you since the moment he walked out of your apartment and onto that case.

So he did.

And you let him.

Until finally, you pulled back just slightly, your forehead still pressed to his.

“Okay,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You’re forgiven for getting shot.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re forgiven for being the worst.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. Your lips barely moved as you mumbled against his mouth, “You need to brush your teeth.”

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, blinking in slow treachery.

“I hate you,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile.

You beamed. “That’s fair.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping his head back against the pillow like you’d wounded him more than the bullet. “Shot in the leg, emotionally abused by my girlfriend, and now I’m being accused of poor hygiene… what a week.”

You tucked yourself gently under his arm, careful of the IV and monitor wires, laying your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll still love you. Even if your breath could melt glass.”

“You’re lucky I can’t chase you right now.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all, stinky.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I really am.”

…

Once Spencer had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, his hand still loosely curled around yours atop the blanket, you waited a minute longer—just to be sure. You brushed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, letting the steady beep of the monitor reassure you that he was still right there.

When you were sure he was out, you stood up carefully, placing his hand down with the kind of tender precision you only ever used on him, and slipped quietly from the room.

You found the rest of the team just outside in the family waiting area, spread out across plastic chairs and vending machines, all looking somewhere between emotionally drained and physically wrecked. JJ was the first to notice you, sitting forward slightly when she saw the door shut behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly, and several shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ve got him. You all can go. Seriously. Get some rest. I’ll stay and fly back with him when he’s cleared for travel.”

Rossi nodded first, reassuringly touching your shoulder as he passed. Derek gave you a tired smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Emily offered you her water bottle and a “Call us if you need anything.” One by one, they all filed out, grateful and exhausted.

JJ lingered.

She stood beside you for a moment, her arms folded loosely, her expression thoughtful. She looked at the door to Spencer’s room, then back to you.

“How are you so calm?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

JJ’s gaze softened, but she looked genuinely curious. “You just… even when you first walked in there, you were joking around. Will would’ve been crying the second he saw me like that.”

You smiled a little at that, but it wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, knowing. A little sad.

You shrugged. “Spencer would only feel worse if he knew I was scared.”

JJ tilted her head, watching you carefully.

“He knows I’m worried,” you continued, your voice softening, “he knows I care. But taking his mind off the bad things for a bit… it always seems to bring him back to me.” You let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t need my fear. He needs my peace.”

JJ nodded slowly, her eyes glistening just slightly as she looked at you—not just as someone Spencer loved, but someone who understood him, down to the very thread.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, I try to be,” you replied. Then, with a tired smile, “Please go home and rest, JJ. We’re okay.”

And you meant it. Even if your hands were still shaking. Even if you knew the actual processing would hit you later. For now, Spencer was sleeping. He was safe. And you’d be the calm. For both of you.

—

You stood up abruptly from where you were hunched over your laptop, notes, and reference books spread out like an academic battlefield. Spencer looked up from where he was quietly reading across from you, a slight crease in his brow as your chair scraped back a little too fast.

“Spencer.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he was immediately attentive. “Yes?”

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and tried—tried—to channel some confidence, even as you felt your face go warm. “I think this is going to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we… break a certain barrier in our relationship due to… pressing matters.”

Spencer closed his book slowly. “Okay…” he said cautiously, clearly preparing himself for anything from an emotional confession to a breakup to a shared trauma.

“I need to poop.”

There was a beat of silence. Just a breath, just a blink.

And then Spencer burst out laughing.

You gasped in protest. “Spencer!”

He tried to hold it in; he really did, but his shoulders shook as he pressed his hand to his mouth. “Darling,” he said through chuckles, “that is a perfectly normal and healthy bodily function without which you would die. I hardly think it’s uncomfortable to know you poop. I do, too. I wish you wouldn’t find it so embarrassing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughter muffled through your fingers. “Can you just like, put your headphones in please?”

Spencer paused, then blinked. “Oh! Yes,” he said, like he’d just solved a logic problem. He reached over for his headphones with a smile so sweet it made your stomach flip, even now.

As you shuffled toward the bathroom, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of shame and dignity combined, he called after you with barely concealed amusement:

“Fan setting five!”

You groaned again—louder this time—but it was laced with affection and appreciation and the kind of mortification that only happens when you’re fully, disgustingly in love.

Behind you, Spencer chuckled softly to himself and returned to his book, utterly unfazed. 

—

Healed and walking without a cane, Spencer Reid finds himself craving something beyond his lonely apartment after a long, taxing case. The case had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The images were still fresh in his mind, too vivid and raw to shake off. He had returned to the BAU with the team, but instead of heading home to his own place, something—perhaps instinct or something deeper he didn’t quite have words for—drew him elsewhere.

He needed comfort. Not in the abstract sense but in the form of something familiar, warm, grounding. And his thoughts turned to you.

Maybe it was how you listened without interruption or how your presence made his pulse slow to something bearable. Maybe it was the memory of your hands brushing through his hair the last time he confessed a hard case to you or how you didn’t try to fix things; you just made space for him to feel. Whatever the reason, he found himself heading to your apartment without really making the decision to do so—it was simply where he needed to be.

You hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, you were fast asleep due to the late hour of the night. Usually, he wasn’t someone you ever needed to prepare for. He came as he was, and you let him.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know yet—was how tightly he was holding himself together just outside your door. He hadn't texted or called ahead. Part of him wanted to, part of him worried it wasn’t fair just to show up. But the rest of him, the exhausted, rattled, overwhelmed part of him, hoped—needed—you to be there. 

And so, now, he stands on the other side of your apartment door.

He hasn’t opened it with his key yet.

He hasn’t gathered the strength.

But he’s there.

Moments from walking through it.

Moments from letting everything he's been holding in finally fall apart in the one place he thinks he might be able to survive doing so—with you.

You’re typically a deep sleeper. The kind who can sleep through a thunderstorm, a neighbor’s dog barking, or even Spencer fidgeting beside you in the middle of the night when his brain just won’t let him rest. You’ve slept through him flipping through pages at 2 a.m., through him pacing quietly down the hallway while whispering to himself about theories and timelines. You’ve even managed to sleep through a bout of him reorganizing your bookshelf once—though, to be fair, you had threatened him with death afterward.

But when you are woken up, it’s never graceful. It’s never subtle. Your body feels it before your brain catches up, dragging you into the gray haze of almost consciousness with a heavy reluctance that makes every movement around you feel like a personal offense.

So, when Spencer walks through the door sometime past midnight, utterly wrung out from whatever horrors the case held, he’s doing his very best to be quiet. His best, which is, as you’ve come to know, not quite good enough.

The first offense is the keys. Instead of placing them down gently on the little wooden table, you bought specifically for this purpose—the one that lives inches from the door and makes not a sound when used properly—he goes for the hooks. Of course, he does. And the second the metal keyring clatters against the other keys already hanging there, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of cutlery in your skull.

You stir beneath the covers, brows knitting without opening your eyes.

Then it’s the lock. Not just the turn of the deadbolt, which would have been fine, but the chain. He slides the latch into place with the kind of finality that belongs more to vaults or prison cells, and your face scrunches tighter as a small, annoyed breath escapes you.

He doesn't hear it.

Next, he hangs his coat—and his satchel. Not one. Not the other. Both. They swing and tap against the wall and the hooks with a dull thud and a slight clang of hardware, as if he’s installing wind chimes instead of shedding layers.

You shift in bed, blinking against the dark, still too sleep-heavy to sit up but now fully aware that he's home.

And then—then—he kneels to untie his shoes.

He can’t just kick them off. Oh no. He has to bend, untie, straighten, and remove each shoe like he’s unwrapping a rare artifact. It takes forever. Or maybe only thirty seconds. But it feels like an eternity in your freshly awoken, vaguely grumpy haze.

You lie there, motionless except for the long exhale that slips from your lips, face buried into the pillow as your fingers curl beneath your cheek.

And from the other room, completely unaware that you’re already awake—and annoyed—you hear Spencer sigh. A quiet, heavy, weary sound. The kind of sound that has less to do with your frustration and more to do with the weight he’s brought in with him.

And just like that, your irritation flickers and begins to dissolve.

Because it’s Spencer. And if he’s doing a bad job at being quiet, it’s only because he’s holding himself together by threads. 

Just as you begin to drift back toward something like rest, eyes fluttering shut again, there’s another sound—sharp, hollow, metallic.

Clang.

Your eyelids fly back open, face pressed flat into the pillow as you exhale sharply through your nose, teeth gently clenching.

That was the soap bottle. It had to be. You know that sound. It’s the specific, hollow bop of the plastic pump top smacking against the side of the sink—a sound that could only happen if someone, say, reached over a bit too carelessly and knocked it over with the back of their hand.

You know because you’ve done it yourself before, and you know because Spencer—you love him—does it every single time he washes his hands in your kitchen.

Which, naturally, is what he’s doing now. Of course, he is. Even in the dead of night, with half his mind fogged over and weighed down by a brutal case, he’s still Spencer—still meticulous, still compulsive, still so anchored to his rituals that he has to scrub the case off his skin before he can do anything else.

You listen to the sound of the faucet running muted splashes as he scrubs. Then, a quiet squeak squeak squeak from the way the old tap vibrates when it’s twisted shut. Silence again—for all of two seconds.

Then you hear the cabinet door open and the soft clink of glass—he’s getting a cup, which you expect. You anticipate it. You brace for it.

But your patience wasn’t strong enough to brace for the next thing.

The dishwasher.

That damn dishwasher.

It’s old. Loud. Temperamental. You’ve both talked about replacing it at least a dozen times, but somehow, it still hangs on, groaning through each cycle like a cranky elderly relative refusing to retire. Even just opening the door sounds like someone’s dragging furniture across a hardwood floor.

So when Spencer, dear, considerate, detail-oriented Spencer, finishes his glass of water and—rather than setting it on the counter or even tucking it into the sink like a normal sleep-deprived human—opens the dishwasher to place it inside?

You groan.

Out loud this time. A soft, pained, muffled groan into your pillow.

“Are you fucking serious, Spencer?” you mutter, barely audible, eyes still closed but now tinged with the kind of sleepy irritation only reserved for people you trust enough to hate momentarily.

He still hasn’t realized you’re awake. You know, because he hasn’t apologized yet. And Spencer always apologizes when he knows he's woken you up.

So you wait. Eyes closed. Limbs heavy. Ears sharp and honed like some kind of war veteran for the next sound he might make, wondering if he’s going to open the fridge for no reason or maybe alphabetize your spice rack.

Because at this rate, you wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time Spencer finally makes it to the bedroom—after clanging through the kitchen like a one-man orchestra, after the soap bottle debacle, after summoning the ghost of your dishwasher—you’re fuming. Not in a rageful, righteous kind of way, but in the profoundly exhausted, silently seething way that only someone who was sound asleep fifteen minutes ago and is now wide awake can truly understand. Every muscle in your body aches for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, your bones practically begging to sink back into the mattress, curled up against the person responsible for your current irritation.

You’re ready to cuddle your boyfriend. Feel his arms slip around your body, press your face into the soft cotton of whatever shirt he’ll wear, and fall back asleep surrounded by warmth and familiarity. That’s what you want.

But no.

Apparently, Spencer has other plans.

You hear the gentle sound of movement as he approaches. And for a blissful moment, you think maybe he’s finally going to settle. Finally, he’s going to be still.

And then—click.

A golden halo of light floods the room, piercing against your closed eyelids.

He turned on the fucking lamp.

“Spencer!” you groan, your voice thick with the weight of sleep and disbelief. You don’t even lift your head; just bury your face deeper into the pillow like maybe if you suffocate yourself fast enough, you’ll get some peace.

You hear a sharp inhale from across the bed, followed by the scrambling guilt in his voice as he fumbles to switch the lamp back off. “Oh—I’m so sorry, my love,” he blurts out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other like a toppled stack of books. You can practically hear the wince in his voice. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You shot him a deathly glare, your eyes narrow and glittering with exhaustion-fueled fury, your cheek still pressed into the pillow.

“And you thought the lamp wouldn’t wake me up?” you snapped, voice muffled but cutting.

Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—soft, sheepish, and entirely too amused for someone who had just committed a domestic war crime.

“Angel, I’ve turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds, and you slept through it,” he said with an unapologetic shrug, pulling off his cardigan like this was a perfectly rational argument.

You only rolled your eyes, dragging the covers over your shoulder and throwing your head back down dramatically, your silent message clear: you were Done.

But Spencer wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

Now came the process of taking off his clothing items one by one—meticulous as ever—folding them neatly and placing them in a precise little pile on your dresser. Shirt, pants, socks. Each with a pause in between, as though he were entering a meditative state instead of preparing for bed at an ungodly hour.

You thought he would be done. He should have been done.

But no.

“Spence, baby, please come to bed,” you whined, voice thick and laced with misery so intense it bordered on theatrical.

“I can’t just yet, need to shower. I’ve been in the jet.”

You groaned again, long and guttural. “I don’t care!”

He froze in place, hands halfway to his waistband, and you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. That neurotic, overtired, rule-following brain of his was calculating, weighing the comfort of a hot shower against the wrath of his barely conscious girlfriend.

Finally, you sighed. “Whatever. Just—be fast. And don’t get your hair wet.”

Spencer opened his mouth like he was about to protest—something about hygiene or flight germs or possibly the sanctity of scalp cleanliness—but one look at your face told him to cut his losses.

By the time he got out of the shower, the bathroom door creaking open quietly, towel slung low on his hips, and found spare clothes in the second drawer of your dresser (the one you'd unofficially reserved for him), you had already drifted back to sleep.

He moved gently, slipping on an old T-shirt and sweats and carefully easing into bed beside you. He tried to be careful, tried to match your breathing, tried not to jostle the mattress too much. He scooted behind you, winding an arm around your body, tucking his body against yours like a perfect puzzle piece.

Even in your sleep, you instinctively nudged closer, your head coming to rest on his chest, your body curving against his. It should’ve been a perfect moment.

But then—

“Did you sanitize?”

Your voice was slurred and drowsy but suspicious. Too suspicious.

Spencer stayed quiet.

He sanitized your fucking shower like he didn’t trust you to keep it clean yourself.

“I can’t—” you sighed, pulling away. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

And just like that, your warmth disappeared, taking with it the fleeting peace Spencer had hoped to find.

Spencer let out the softest, most pitiful exhale—half sigh, half whimper—as you peeled yourself away from his hold. The sheets rustled with protest as you threw them off your legs in a dramatic flourish that would've been funny if it weren't for the sheer, bone-deep fatigue clinging to both of you. You didn’t even open your eyes all the way. You didn’t need to. Your body was moving on instinct now, led by principle and pride.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching helplessly as you dragged your sleepy form out of the bed with the kind of slow, exaggerated misery that only someone who’d just started to fall back into a good sleep could produce. Your blanket trailed behind you, caught on your foot, and when you reached down to yank it free, you muttered something under your breath that sounded like a curse aimed squarely at him.

Spencer stayed frozen, guilt draped over his shoulders like another weighted blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he finally said, his voice hushed but urgent, like he knew if he raised it even a little, you'd bolt. “Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

You were already halfway to the door. “So is you climbing into bed an unsanitized like a reckless public health risk,” you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled forward.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry I cleaned your shower, I just—you know I can’t help it.”

You sighed, hard and sharp through your nose, arms crossed tightly over your chest as though holding yourself together. “We can have this argument tomorrow,” you muttered, voice strained. “I’m too tired right now.”

Spencer nodded slowly, guilt still weighing down his features. “So come back to bed,” he pleaded, soft and hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to ask.

“No. I’m mad at you,” you huffed, your tone petulant but cracking at the edges. You turned your face slightly away from him as if even looking at him would break the last thread of your patience.

There was a beat of silence, tense and stretched. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I can just go home then… I’ll come over tomorrow.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer emotional mess of being woken up, being irritated, feeling like your effort and your space weren’t enough for the person you love—all of it slammed into you at once no warning. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him to do whatever he wanted—but instead, all that came out was a strangled, breathless sob.

Your shoulders shook as the tears slipped down, hot and fast. The kind of crying that happens when you’ve held it in too long when your chest tightens up and your throat closes, and suddenly you’re not just crying about one thing, but everything.

Spencer immediately scrambled out of bed, panic flooding his features. “Hey—hey, no, please don’t cry,” he said in a rush, crossing the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want to be here—God, please don’t cry—”

He reached for you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if you’d swat him away. “I’m such an idiot,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face, helpless. “You clean your place better than I do mine, I just—after cases, I get weird, and I didn’t want to bring the jet germs into your space, and I overthought it and—”

You just kept crying. Silent now, but still unraveling.

“I love your shower,” he said desperately. “I love you. I want to be here. Please don’t make me go.”

Your face crumpled even more. You didn’t have the energy to yell. Didn’t have the willpower to keep storming off.

“I just wanted to sleep next to you,” you whispered through the tears, voice tiny and cracked. “That’s all I wanted.”

Spencer’s heart broke right there in his chest.

“Okay,” he said immediately, wrapping his arms around you. “Okay. I’ve got you. Come here. We’ll go to bed. No more disturbances. Just sleep. You and me.”

And this time, when he guided you back to the bed, you let him.

Well—for a second.

“Wait.”

Spencer froze mid-step, one arm still around you, the other half-lifting the blanket. He held his breath like the wrong response might send you spiraling again.

“Yes, baby?” he asked, soft and cautious.

You sniffled, then let out the tiniest, soggiest giggle through your still-wobbly breath. “I need to blow my nose now.”

He blinked. Then smiled, wide and helpless, pure affection melting across his features.

“Okay,” he said, already turning to grab the tissue box from your nightstand like it was the most urgent task he’d ever been assigned. “Emergency tissue protocol engaged.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound breaking through the remnants of your tears like sunlight through clouds. “Cover your ears; I’m going into the bathroom.”

Spencer furrowed his brows, confused but obedient. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to hear me!” you called over your shoulder as you hurried toward the bathroom, tissue clutched in hand like a weapon.

He blinked after you, then shrugged, deadpan: “...I’ve had worse fluids of yours on me—”

“EW!” you yelped from inside the bathroom, your voice muffled by the door you slammed behind you. “Why would you say that?! You absolute menace!”

Spencer chuckled to himself, crawling back into bed and tucking the blankets around him with a smug grin. “I was just saying,” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well you could still hear him. “Boundaries seem a little inconsistent.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound somewhere between scandalized and exhausted. “You’re so lucky I love you,” you shouted through a noseful of tissues. “If we were six months earlier into this relationship, I’d be drafting the breakup text right now.”

Spencer smiled, stretching out in the bed with his hands folded under his head like the little shit he absolutely was. “You’d never,” he called back, sing-songy and far too comfortable. “You’re too emotionally invested.”

You flung the door open so hard it could have bounced off the stopper. “Keep talking, Doctor Reid, and I will send you home just to prove a point.”

He sat up, eyes wide, all mock innocence. “I’m silent. I’m asleep. I don’t even exist. I’m vapor.” He dove under the covers in a ridiculous display of peacekeeping, burrowing himself down to the chin and blinking up at you like a chastised golden retriever.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again. Not just a giggle this time, but an actual, warm laugh that curled in your chest.

You trudged back to bed, dramatically wiping your nose one last time before dropping the tissues in the little wastebasket by the nightstand. “You’re annoying,” you said as you climbed in.

“And yet, you let me stay.” He opened his arms wide, a smug little smile creeping in again. “Incredible.”

You glared at him but curled into his side anyway, letting your head rest on his chest with a huffy sigh.

“I cleaned your shower because I’m obsessive-compulsive and could only see in germs,” he mumbled into your hair. “Not because I think you’re dirty.”

“I know,” you whispered, already half-asleep. “But next time? Just… don’t make it sound like I live in filth.”

“I’d never.”

“You basically did.”

Spencer kissed your forehead. “You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“You’re literally falling asleep on me right now.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tightened his arms around you, and finally, you both fell asleep this time.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[fic-girlie]

Can you write something about Tommy teasing Joel about how desperately in love he is with his gf. Like, how protective he is of her and how she turned him "soft" and has him "wrapped around her little finger". Maybe even Ellie joins in on mocking him lol

Soft on you

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Tommy and Ellie tease Joel for being completely in love—and completely whipped. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, soft banter, Tommy and Ellie teasing Joel

The air in Joel’s workshop is thick with the familiar scent of sawdust mixed with the faint tang of sweat and leather. Late afternoon sunlight filters through the high windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the warm light. You’re sitting on the creaky wooden floor beside the workbench, legs crossed and fingers idly tracing the grain of a worn piece of wood. Joel is nearby, crouched over a crate he’s repairing, his hands steady and sure as he sands the rough edges with careful precision.

He’s always been a man of few words, the kind who lets his actions speak louder than anything else. But watching him now — the slight furrow of his brow, the way his jaw clenches just before he relaxes it — you can see how much he cares. How much he’s softened since you came into his life. And you love him all the more for it.

The familiar creak of the front door opening breaks the quiet. Footsteps, slow and confident, echo from the hallway. You glance up and see Tommy walking in, that knowing grin already plastered across his face like he’s about to launch into something. Behind him, Ellie lingers in the doorway, eyes bright with amusement and mischief.

“Hey, Joel,” Tommy calls, voice light and teasing as he steps fully inside. “Got a minute for your big brother?”

Joel’s hands pause mid-sand, and his entire body stiffens just slightly, like he’s bracing himself. You watch the subtle tightening of his lips as he replies, voice low and cautious, “What do you want, Tommy?”

Tommy steps closer, a playful glint in his eye. “Just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re still not completely whipped.”

You nearly choke on your breath, caught off guard by the sudden jab. Joel shoots Tommy a look sharp enough to cut glass, but there’s a flicker of reluctant amusement at the edges of his mouth.

“Whipped?” Joel grumbles, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “What the hell you talkin’ about?”

Ellie pushes off the doorway, sliding into the workshop with her trademark grin. She leans casually against the workbench, folding her arms as she delivers her verdict with the sort of smug satisfaction only a kid who’s seen it all can muster: “Oh, come on, Joel. You’re about as subtle as a damn bull in a china shop.” She shoots a glance at you, then back to Joel, punctuating her statement with teasing sweetness: “She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, hasn’t she?”

You catch the faintest flicker of a blush coloring Joel’s cheeks, the hint of a vulnerability he rarely lets show. His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a brief moment, but you see it — the unspoken truth in his eyes.

Tommy laughs, stepping even closer until he’s almost shoulder to shoulder with Joel. “Man, you used to be so tough, so stoic. Now? You’re like a damn puppy whenever she’s around. Protective doesn’t even cover it — you’re a bear with a cub.”

You laugh softly, heart swelling with warmth when you see Joel’s eyes find yours, a flicker of something fierce and tender swimming in their depths. You can feel the weight of his unspoken promise — to keep you safe, to love you fiercely, without hesitation.

Joel clears his throat, voice rough but steady, trying to regain his usual composure. “She ain’t like any other woman, Tommy. And I ain’t about to let anything happen to her.”

Ellie grins, clearly enjoying the moment. “See? I told you.” Her eyes gleam with playful affection. “You made a real man out of him — soft in all the right places.” Then she winks at you, like she’s just crowned you queen of the castle. “Lucky girl.”

Your fingers find Joel’s hand, slipping easily into the warmth of his palm. His skin is rough and scarred, the kind of hands that have weathered every hardship the world could throw at him — but right now, in your grip, those hands are gentle, grounding.

Joel finally pushes himself up from the stool, brushing sawdust off his jeans. “Alright, alright. Enough with the teasing.” But the smile tugging at his lips is soft and full of love.

Tommy claps him on the back, still chuckling. “I’m serious, though. You’re good for him. You’ve changed him — made him better.”

You glance up at Joel, heart swelling with a fierce protectiveness of your own. “And you’re not so bad yourself,” you say quietly, squeezing his hand.

Joel’s eyes darken just a bit, flickering with heat and something almost shy. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he mutters, but you can see the pride there, too.

Ellie chuckles, nudging your shoulder. “You guys are hopeless.”

Laughter fills the workshop, warm and easy. It’s one of those rare moments when everything feels right — the teasing, the love, the bonds of family that have grown stronger through every hard day. Joel’s protective nature has always been fierce, but now it’s softened by the quiet intimacy between you, the gentle way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

——

Later that night, after the teasing has settled and the house is quiet, you find Joel sitting on the porch steps, the sky above a canvas of deepening blues and fading pinks. The faint scent of pine drifts on the cool night air. He hasn’t said much since Tommy and Ellie left, but you know that’s his way of letting it all settle.

You slip onto the step beside him, close enough to feel the steady warmth of his body. For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is comfortable, a shared space that says more than words ever could.

“Tommy’s relentless, huh?” you finally murmur, your voice soft against the night.

Joel chuckles, that low, rumbling sound that always sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah. Figured he’d take the chance while he had it.”

You shift a little, leaning against him, feeling the solid weight of him there. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He turns his head, his eyes dark and honest as they meet yours. “Not when it comes from them. Especially not when it’s true.”

You brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear and smile, heart full. “You’re so protective. It’s endearing.”

Joel’s lips twitch into a grin, the old spark returning to his eyes. “Maybe. But it’s ’cause I care. You’re everything to me.”

Your chest tightens with the kind of ache that only comes from knowing you’re deeply seen and fiercely loved. You reach out, tracing gentle circles on the back of his hand with your thumb, savoring the quiet intimacy.

“Have I really softened up that much?” Joel teases, the old rough edge of humour back in his voice.

“You’re practically a marshmallow,” you laugh, nudging him playfully.

He nudges back, mock offense flashing in his eyes. “Don’t you dare tell Tommy that.”

“I just might,” you warn, grinning.

Joel’s gaze lingers on you, warm and unwavering. “Doesn’t matter what they say. I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.”

You stay like that, wrapped in the quiet comfort of the evening, the kind of love that’s steady and true, unshakable beneath the ever-changing sky. Outside, stars begin to blink awake, small, silent witnesses to the story unfolding between two people who have found home in each other.

[sixx-sixx-sixx]

LADY BRIDGERTON - Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader (smut)

Summary: Reader has been married to Anthony Bridgerton for too long, it feels, although it has only been a few years. In that short time, not only has he only touched her naked body once, but he comes home most nights smelling of sweat and another woman’s perfume. Lady Whistledown has caught wind of this, and the gossip sends Lady Bridgerton over the edge. Anthony takes the time to give his wife exactly what she’s asking for.

Warnings: smut; badly written smut lol; infidelity; arguments about infidelity; possibly out of character anthony; I’ve only watched season 1 of Bridgerton; breeding kink; unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it but this is a married couple); female reader/use of she/her pronouns; as always, proofread to the best of my ability

“Do you wish to make a fool of me?” Anthony leaned down to whisper in his young wife’s ear, a firm hand grabbing her elbow as he interrupted her conversation with a young man from Russia, or Hungary. He didn’t pay much mind to the boy so much as the woman who bore his last name, fully aware of the way she had been subtly flirting with many men that night. Taking count of the glasses of bubbles she had — she was nursing her fourth flute, Anthony had decided it was enough.

Don’t make a scene.

Lady Bridgerton felt an intense urge to strike her husband across his cheek, how dare he accuse her of making a fool out of him. All evening she had overheard whispers of Anthony’s name from nasty gossipers. The young Bridgertons had been the central characters in the latest edition of Lady Whistledown. Rumor has it that Lord Bridgerton had continued an affair with a certain singer, without bothering to hide it from his young wife. Even worse? Lady Bridgerton knew, as they all knew, and never seemed to let the truth affect how she presented herself to those around her.

“Would you like me to answer that truthfully, my dear husband?” She turned her gaze towards him, her eyes alight with a burning fury towards the unfaithful man she had devoted her life to. She jerked her arm away from his grip and started to lift the glass to her painted lips. Anthony grabbed the dainty piece of glass and shook his head, “I think you’ve had enough. It’s time for you to go home.”

A bitter laugh escaped her mouth before she could stop it, as a few heads turned to observe the titular couple. “If that is your wish, Mr. Bridgerton.” She turned on her heel and started to make her way out to the cold air, cursing herself for leaving her coat in the carriage. She didn’t even bother to wait for her husband to catch up as she informed the valet they would be leaving.

The carriage ride to the estate wasn’t anything special. She would sit and seethe in silence during the ride, her eyes burning a hole through Anthony’s forehead as he sat across from her. The argument began once the couple was behind the safety of their bedroom door, standing in front of each other with defenses up. “We have been married for two years, Anthony! Two years and the only time you have touched me was on our wedding night. Yet every night you come home, to OUR bed, smelling like some whore’s perfume! I am left to listen to the ton gossip about MY empty bed!” She nearly hissed the words to punctuate her accusations. Anthony had never seen such an outburst from the young woman, she had never spoken to him like that before. She was standing before him, the drinks she had at the ball fueling her anger and simultaneously allowing the anger to sober her head.

“I know that I wasn’t who you wanted to marry, I understand that this was just a beneficial arrangement for you. But I expect that as the woman who now holds your family name, who will one day bear your children, that you could at the very least respect me!” She was angry that he had just stood there and watched her yell, but at the same time, she wouldn’t let him get a word in.

“You cannot expect me to be a dutiful wife and lady if you refuse to grant me at least the tiniest shred of dignity. You, sir, make a fool of yourself, I am merely seeking that same kind of attention you seek from Siena.” Her voice dripped with sickly sweet venom as she spat the woman’s name.

Anthony allowed the woman to speak her mind on his infidelity, finally admitting to himself that he had been unfair to her. He frequently came into their room in the middle of the night when he expected the woman to be asleep. In the beginning of the marriage, he had at least tried to hide the evidence, changing his clothes before he climbed under the blankets next to her. Now, she was accustomed to him laying down beside her without even taking off the shirt that was stained with Siena’s stage makeup and that reeked of her pungent perfume.

“I do not understand, Anthony. I can come to terms with a loveless marriage, but I am so exhausted by knowing you’re giving her that kind of attention, and I have remained loyal to you despite the obvious signs of your affair-“ her rant was abruptly cut short when Anthony floated over to her, his hands gripping her cheeks with fervor as he crashed his lips to hers. Taking only a moment to stand in shock, she pressed her lips back against his, her hand reaching to grip onto the front of his overcoat. Desperately reaching for more, trying to edge him closer to their bed but ultimately allowing him full control over her mind, body and soul. She let out a disappointed whimper when his lips parted from hers, his face inches from her own.

“What is it that you want from me, woman? You wish for me to touch you the way I touch her? Or do you believe my hands to be too stained?” She hated how close his lips were, desperately trying to reach forward as he spoke his mind. She didn’t really care how improper the words sounded as they came from his mouth, because she DID want him to touch her- not just touch, she wanted him to fuck her the way he fucked his mistress.

She took a moment to find her words, not expecting her confrontation to lead to this moment. “Anthony, I am your wife. All I want is for you to- to fuck me the way a husband fucks his wife.”

Understanding that he had a year’s worth of missing passion to make up for, and seeing that deep down he had no other choice than to obey the woman before him, he easily obliged. In this moment, Siena didn’t exist to him. He was purely focused on making sure his duties as a husband were thoroughly taken care of. Tonight, he would go to sleep smelling of his wife’s soft scent, making sure to cover the woman in marks of his affection.

Little time was wasted in getting their clothes off. A mess of hands clashing together to try and undo buttons and layers and loops, the couple grasping at each other as though they were desperate for the other as a life source.

Anthony paused for a moment to admire his lady’s body in the soft candlelight, letting his hands first run over the delectable curve of her hips, trailing up her sides before settling on her supple breasts.

“I’m sorry that I have spent so long torturing you, making you only imagine my hands touching you like this. I promise, my lady, I will do a much better job at attending to whatever it is you wish from me.” Anthony promised as his eyes stayed locked with hers. Her pupils were blown wide, and he realized he didn’t even know what color her irises were meant to be. He told himself he’d be a better husband to her after this, wanting to ensure her place in society as his wife. He’d fuck her full of his seed tonight, and every night after that, to make sure that Lady Whistledown could never accuse him of neglecting his wife’s desires again.

“Please, my lord, please--“ Lady Bridgerton sounded deliciously desperate, and it excited Anthony in a way that he had never experienced in his years-long affairs with Siena. It spurred him to plunge his cock deeper into his wife, his hand pushing her thigh down to her shoulder as he positioned her to angle himself deeper. She would probably think about the pressure against her cervix for the rest of her life, praying to God that she’d be able to experience this side of her husband for the rest of their lives together.

“What is it that you want, Lady Bridgerton? Tell me with words, my love, I want to hear you say it.” In this close position he could make sure she could look into his eyes to see he was genuine in this moment.

She was surprised at his stamina and determination tonight, focused more on her body than chasing his own release. A complete contrast to their wedding night, she felt like he treated the consummation as a chore. This was a much, much better experience. She had lost count of the times he had made her cum tonight, and the ways he had coaxed her orgasms from her.

“Anthony- Christ! Please don’t stop, want you to fuck me full til i’m round with your child-“ her voice was ragged and on the verge of giving out after not holding back a single sound. She didn’t care how pathetic she sounded begging for what seemed like the bare minimum from her husband.

Anthony leaned down to capture her lips in a messy kiss, reaching down to grab her hand that was tangled in the sheets beneath her. He caught any noises that escaped her, the sounds muffled against his own mouth, moving to hold her hand above her head. She clutched at his hand and whimpered his name as his hips stilled after a few sloppy thrusts, thick ropes coating her walls.

Anthony stayed put for a moment so as to not waste a drop, pulling his lips from hers before ghosting them over the hammering pulse in her neck. He gently maneuvered her pliable body into a resting position, slowly pulling himself from her and getting up from the bed.

After he had gently cleaned up the mess he had made of the woman, Anthony peppered soft kisses over her stomach as he made his way up to lay down next to her. She instantly curled into his chest and closed her eyes, taking her time in coming down from the cloud she was on. She could feel his fingers gently combing through her mussed hair, the sensation slowly bringing her back to earth.

“Are you alright, Lady Bridgerton?” Anthony spoke softly to not spook her, his arms locked safely around her keeping her pressed to his body. Her lips quirked into a smile and he took notice of the way her cheek dimpled, his thumb moving to stroke over the small impression.

“I am absolutely content, Lord Bridgerton.” She opened her eyes to look up at her husband’s face. Anthony smiled as he kissed her again, a kiss so tender that nearly brought tears to her eyes.

“I may not be the perfect husband, but I vow to do better by you. I will end things with Siena and tend to the parts of you that I’ve been neglectful of.” Anthony made a promise to her after he had pulled away. His wife reached up to grab his hand in hers, moving it to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles before she spoke.

“You can use all of the sweet words that you want, you’ll still have to prove yourself with actions.” She squeezed his hand gently, “But I think this has been good start.”

[hyabbstay]

just a little bit - c.s.b. & c.y.j.

yeonjun x afab!reader x soobin

genre: smut (minors DO NOT INTERACT!)

content warning: porn without plot, threesome, afab!reader, jun and soob take turns, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (WRAP it before u tap it pLS) oral sex (m & f receiving), masturbation (m), voyeurism, lots of bodily fluids, sloppy seconds, pussy slapping, recording, choi soobin has a big dick, slight objectification, soobin calls reader a slut while yeonjun calls reader sweetheart LOL, lmao yeonjun is more romantic than soob here he might be a little in love, pussydrunk!soob, yeonbin bickering, sexual tension if you squint, probably forgot some just let me know, NOT PROOFREAD it's like 5am here and im tired

wc: 3.1k

song rec: just a little bit by kids of 88 (hello teen wolf fans!)

･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.

"That's it, take Yeonjun's cock like a good slut."

"F-fuck," the older man threw his head back at the way you clenched around his girthy cock, hot, slick, and greedy. He rolled his hips into yours, making you cry out through your panties stuffed in your mouth to muffle your moans. "Seriously, we can't just be friends anymore after this - ah - I'll lose my shit thinking about your pussy all day."

From his seat by the dresser, Soobin tightened his grip on his stiff cock, already leaking precum. He watched Yeonjun's cock slam in and out of your pussy. The older man liked to pull out completely, drag his length along your clit until you whined helplessly, then ram it back in, punching a cry out of you. Soobin licked his lips and listened to the symphony of his best friends' sweat slicked skin smacking against each other, the squelches each time Yeonjun's cock pummeled your wet hole, your muffled whining, and Yeonjun's pornographic moans.

Soobin found it delicious to watch, but he couldn't deny he wanted to ruin you just as badly as Yeonjun did, too. Raw you like an animal in heat, abuse your wet pussy and fill it deep, dripping with a mix of his and Yeonjun's hot semen.

You ripped the panties from your mouth and began gasping loudly. Yeonjun could feel your hot cavern pulsate around his length, locking him in a vice-like grip. His hips began to stutter, erratic in his movement. Soobin leaned forward just slightly. He knew what was coming and decided to edge himself a little bit, letting go of his dripping cock. As he slowly licked the slick off of his palm, Soobin suppressed his eyes from rolling back, watching the scandalous scene unfold in front of him.

Yeonjun’s mouth hung open in ecstasy, eyes shut tight, reveling in the sensation of your pussy clenching around him.

“So,” pant, “fucking,” pant, “good.” Your best friend punctuated each word with a powerful thrust, allowing streak after thick streak of cum to coat your walls. You could’ve sworn the intensity of your orgasm drove you insane. Warm and sticky fluid flooded your hole, covering his cock and meeting his release. Your legs and thighs buzzed with pleasure, and your hole felt so raw. The sensation in your womb was both sensual and dirty. So filthy.

“What a filthy slut,” Soobin groaned, sucking in air through clenched teeth. “You like being pounded by your best friend’s cock?”

Lost in pleasure while Yeonjun fucks the remainder of his semen into you, you manage to let out a weak “Yeah.”

The man behind you slows his thrusts and eventually slips out of you. Soobin looks up at him, and they exchange sly looks. Soobin stands up, shucking off the rest of his clothes, leaving his cock proudly on display. You were in huge trouble.

“Wanna make it two of your best friends’ cocks? Gonna let me fill you up with my cum, too?” Soobin leaned in close, eyes dark, and spanked your ass. You screamed in surprise, feeling Yeonjun’s cum drip out of you and onto the sheets.

“Answer me, slut.”

“Y-yes,” you groaned, glassy eyes begging him to cream inside you, “I w-want all your cum in m-my pussy, Bin-ah.”

Yeonjun was spent. He moved to the chair and reached for his phone. You had an inkling of what was going to happen next.

“Jun-ah,” Soobin called while manhandling you onto your back, not caring about the cum that poured out of your hole, “get back here and take a video of your mess first.”

Yeonjun hummed and sauntered over, phone in hand with the flash on. Both men pushed your thighs apart, leaving your dripping snatch exposed. “So wet and full of my cum,” the older man watched the screen closely as three of Soobin’s fingers invaded your hole, fucking the slick back inside. He slapped your pussy, earning a moan from you. Smrking, he did it again, watching the strings of your arousal stretch out as he pulled his hand away. You whined out his name, embarrassed by the wet sounds coming from your folds.

“Bin, I ate her out earlier before you walked in,” Yeonjun smirked. “She’s so fucking tasty, exactly like we imagined.”

Shit, how long have these two been planning to get in your pants? Since you started coming over to their apartment? Since you accidentally flashed them at the pool? That one spin the bottle game where you had to make out with Yeonjun?

Or that incident at the movie theater where you caught Soobin touching himself through his pants during a sex scene? You moaned, remembering that smirk he gave you back then and the way he continued palming his cock.

If you’d gotten the hint back then, you could’ve been cumming on their cocks much sooner.

“‘M gonna eat this pussy out first, dyin’ to taste you.” Soobin hasn’t gotten started yet, but his words slightly slurred together, as if he was already pussydrunk by the thought of drowning in your arousal. He flattened his tongue and licked a fat stripe from your hole to your clit. He hummed as he savored your slick fluids coating his tongue, while you cried out like a bitch in heat. Fuck their neighbors; you were getting the best head of your life tonight.

“Still dripping so much after being used as Junnie’s cumdump?” Soobin tutted, “You’re insatiable.”

His head disappeared between your legs as he began sucking on your hole, as if trying to drink up the filthy mixture of yours and Yeonjun’s cum. You screamed when he stuck his tongue inside and forced the wet muscle to explore your pussy. Yeonjun had to switch hands to hold the camera steady and place the other hand on your abdomen to keep you from thrashing around in pleasure. His best friend was too pussy-drunk to mind you pulling his hair, thirsty for more of his tongue action.

“Y/N’s so greedy,” Yeonjun remarked. “Soobin, wanna teach her a lesson?”

The younger man only responded by withdrawing his tongue and laving it over your clit before sucking wetly.

He scooped up the dripping mix of arousal from your hole and pulled out his soaked digits to hold them up for his friend, all the while keeping his hot tongue on you. Yeonjun hungrily wrapped his plump lips around Soobin’s fingers, suckling on them lightly to get a taste of yours and his own cum. Admittedly, you would’ve enjoyed the erotic scene of the two men if it weren't for Soobin’s relentless attack on your folds. Each stripe that he pressed onto your sensitive snatch brought you closer to the edge. 

Yeonjun let go of the other’s fingers with a lewd pop and resumed filming the same fingers plunging inside you again.

The older man watched in amusement, eyes drifting to see your fucked out expression, body covered in sweat from fucking him earlier. You met his piercing gaze. He slowly moved the phone towards you, recording your sorry state for them to beat their cocks to later. Much to your surprise, he delicately brushed a strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead. The loving gesture reminded you for a split second that you were close friends.

Close friends that somehow ended up this way.

The sweet gesture was quickly swept away by the sight of Yeonjun licking his lips. He watched you with blown pupils and spoke.

“Who’s making you feel this good, baby? Hm?” He asked in a low voice, tongue grazing the shell of your ear.

“Y-you!" you moaned, hips grinding into Soobin’s face. His moan sent vibrations through your pussy. “You and S-Soobin-ah! So good I’m gonna cum!”

“Then cum.” 

At that, Soobin, who had been carefully tracing little circles on your bundle of nerves, latched his lips onto your clit and resumed his frenzied sucking while pounding his fingers into your slick. He shook his head from side to side, the movement intensifying the rough drag of his tongue on you. The salacious squelching, lewd moans, and smell of sex permeated the air again. You screamed brokenly while creaming all over his mouth. Yeonjun held the camera right above the both of you, capturing the sexual act in all its glory.

You tried to make eye contact with the camera, but Soobin’s persistent licking at your spent folds kept your eyes rolling back so much you thought they would get stuck that way.

You came down from your high, and Soobin polished off his meal, greedily sucking every last drop from your hole and his own fingers. Fuck, your best friends could keep your legs twitching for days on end. You wouldn’t mind that one bit.

Damn, you need both of them in you.

Soobin was a mess. His bangs stuck to his forehead from the sweat and juices on his face, but his gaze was eager, showing no signs of fatigue from your earlier activities.

“Time for my cock, babe. Take it like the slut you are, alright? I’ll make it fit.” He gripped his length and pumped it, lining it up with your hole before entering you.

The stretch was incredible. Without a doubt, he was thicker than Yeonjun. It was as if you felt every ridge, every vein that bulged from his dick as he sank further and further into you. When he bottomed out, Soobin could hardly hold himself back from pulling back and slamming in.

Embarrassingly, you heard the squelch of your juices as Soobin adjusted his position while you got accustomed to the size of his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned “Gonna fuck you stupid on my cock, slut.”

And he began pummeling into you a lot more forcefully than Yeonjun did. His technique was desperate, messy, and a little insane. You had half a mind to be a little scared that he might break you.

“Fuck! S’big and so good, Soobin!”

Still sensitive, you moaned out his name. He satisfied his oral fixation by sealing his lips over your tit, moaning into your burning flesh. His thrusts were fast and harsh, barely giving you time to breathe, so you had no choice but to bask in the sensation of Soobin’s dick abusing your pussy.

The wet sounds of your skin meeting were also affecting Yeonjun, who began groaning like a pornstar again. His other hand traveled to his now fully hard cock and began stroking again, his eyes flickering between the scene recorded on the screen and reality. The older man fixed his gaze on the sight of you and Soobin’s hips meeting. He watched it all—the way his cock disappeared into your cunt, the wetness that accumulated around his friends’ lower halves as you both kept meeting each other's thrusts.

The way Soobin speared you on his cock like a toy, he treated you like his personal cumdump. He released your tits from his mouth and joined Yeonjun in watching his dick plunging into your heat, each time emerging a lot wetter than the last.

In between pants, Soobin said something that made you clench harder around his pulsating length, “Yeonjunnie, fuck her mouth. Make her take both of us at once.”

At least Yeonjun had the decency to ask you, “Would you like that, baby? Want me to cum down your throat, too?”

Halfway through a moan, you nodded furiously. It took too much energy to form coherent words, but you tried for him.

“P-please,” you choked out, “Wan’ it in my m-mouth.”

“Good girl,” Yeonjun praised, positioning your head so you hung slightly from the edge of the bed. You watched with lidded eyes as he collected his arousal from the tip with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone and stroked himself with it. He tapped his veiny cock against your waiting lips. “Gonna pump my cum down your throat now, beautiful.”

Eagerly, you wrapped your lips around the older man’s tip, giving it a little suck before allowing him to thrust the rest of his length down your hot mouth. Both the taste of your cum and his from earlier still lingered on his skin, and you moaned around him as you realized this. You took into your hands what your mouth couldn’t take, twisting them while relaxing your muscles to take him deeper. 

Yeonjun barely captured your sinful position on camera before he dropped his phone, sending it clattering to the floor.

They should really set up a tripod next time.

Next time.

He quickly became erratic in his movements. He couldn’t believe his wettest, wildest dreams came true tonight. He threw his head back in ecstasy while you swallowed him whole, sweat running down his chest and the sides of his face.

Fuck, fuck, and what if he looked at his best friend right now-

Soobin, still pummeling relentlessly into your battered cunt, stared right back at him. They held eye contact while thrusting into both your holes, chests heaving from the pleasure that drowned their hot bodies and addled their lust-ridden minds. For them, nothing else existed in this moment except for the sound of their skin repeatedly coming in contact with your holes, the squelch of juices and spit, the scent of sex, the buzz that lit their lower halves on fire, and the humid air that sent perspiration dripping down their bodies to your equally spent one.

“Think you can last longer than me, Jun-ah?” The younger challenged, pulling out almost completely then slamming back into you forcefully. You whined around Yeonjun’s cock.

“Huh,” the older huffed, “I’ll even let her ride me after this, then I’ll fuck her in front of that mirror Y/N and I bought together over there.”

Soobin spared the dirty floor-length mirror a glance, “Yeah? You’re nasty. I could guess how many times your conceited ass came all over that thing.”

Yeonjun’s hand found its way to your throat, groaning when he saw the slight outline of his cock. “You’re nastier, Bin-ah. You hide Y/N’s sweaters whenever she comes over and cum all over them at night, dirty perv.”

Again, you let out another moan and desperately humped against Soobin’s hips, trying to get his dick deeper into you. All the dirty confessions they’re making in front of you made you gush out more juices. Soobin clicked his tongue and suddenly pulled out of you, taking a moment to appreciate the sticky strings of arousal that connected his member to your cunt. You whined at the loss of contact and Yeonjun was quick to thrust that down your throat again.

Meanwhile, Soobin pushed your knees up to your chest and aligned his cock with your entrance.

“Little slut wants more?” He sneered, “I’ll give you more, then. We’ve got all night.”

He sheathed his cock in the deepest he could go, invading your folds once more and pushing your juices in. Soobin let out the hottest, most desperate moan he’s made so far and began panting again. His hips moved at a rapid pace, causing clear-white fluid to form around where the base of his cock and your pussy met. You could feel the wetness spread further on your thighs and pour onto Yeonjun’s sheets.

The older man watched this development greedily, pulling out of you momentarily to give you room to rest and moan loudly as Soobin abused your leaking hole. Seeking leverage, you felt around until your hand found Yeonjun’s thigh. He grabbed your tits, pinching your nipples and rolling them in his fingers, causing them to harden. You sobbed, grasping at his thigh tighter.

“Yeonjunnie,” you gasped, “c-cock…”

He quickly complied, pushing his hips back into your mouth to receive the pleasure your tongue and cheeks gave him. 

You moaned around Yeonjun’s cock, but you could hear the latter scoff at the statement.

Soobin delivered a harsh slap to your ass, making you impossibly tighter, your juices and tightness simultaneously sucking him in and pushing him out.

“Fuck, baby, your cunt’s so greedy ‘n hot.” He groaned, “Gonna stuff this pussy day and night so it’ll never be empty, you like that?”

It’s always a competition between these two, you thought.

“I’m close, sweetheart,” Yeonjun panted, pushing back his sweaty hair to bask in the feeling of you swallowing his dick. “Take it like the good girl you are, hm? Give me another thing to think about every night.”

Soobin’s mouth hung open in pleasure, but he still had the energy to roll his eyes at the older man. He began to indulge you in more dirty talk.

“What a complete slut. Already came around Junnie and me several times but can still give us more, hm? Gonna fucking pound this pussy until all you can cum around is our cocks, right?”

He laid his palm on your abdomen and used his thumb to draw figures on your clit. You keened.

Coupled with his erratic thrusts, thumb motions, and Yeonjun’s fingers on your pebbled nipples, you were suddenly flooded with a white-hot pleasure. Your body thrashed around to no avail as your two best friends held you in place. 

The three of you were a sight to behold. Yeonjun’s cock twitched in your mouth, and he released thick spurts of cum in you as you moaned around him, letting him coat your tongue with his essence. You did your best to swallow, although you began to choke from the pleasure Soobin was giving you below.

The younger man ruthlessly snapped his hips into your wetness, ropes of cum shooting into your hole and kissing your cervix for the second time that night, filling you up with his hot semen. His moans came from deep within his chest, and you found that incredibly hot. You couldn’t see his face but imagined his blissed-out expression from emptying his balls in you.

In the middle if it all, your cunt met Soobin’s cum with your own, clenching uncontrollably while struggling to take in the semen Yeonjun spilled in your mouth. Each spurt into both your holes brought you closer to blacking out from the sheer pleasure.

The three of you relished in the sounds and sensations of your orgasms, the room a mess of moans and cries and squelches. Once they pulled out, your exhausted bodies went slack. Both men fell to either side of you on the bed, heaving deep breaths. Still abuzz with the effects of your orgasm, you became aware of yours and Soobin’s cum seeping out of your abused pussy. You could still feel the warm cum smeared on your chin, courtesy of Yeonjun.

On your left, the culprit quietly laughed and reached over to stroke your hair, “That was intense, baby. You okay?” he whispered, “Soobin did a number on you.”

You grinned weakly, “Says the one who first pulled me in here to eat me out.”

“Hey,” Soobin suddenly said, “We should do this again.”

“How soon?” Yeonjun smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You felt Soobin’s hand on your thigh, getting closer to your still-sensitive core.

There’s your answer.

[em1i2a3]

I have a request! Where the reader is on her period and she has a lot of cramps and Bob takes care of her 🤧

Affection

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re in extreme pain from your period cramps, and Bob is the first person to jump in to help you.

Warnings: No warnings, just fluff, lots and lots of fluff, and Comfort too (reader and Bob are very close friends)

Author’s Note: Thought I’d give y’all something light…Because ummm…I’m stirring a pot of angst and it’s stewing and simmering…The emotional bricks are at the ready lol. So I thought we’d actually just relax with this one a bit 😂 (thanks for the request BTW anon! :))

Word Count: 3,984

The kitchen was dim, steeped in the kind of quiet that only exists at 2:32 a.m–where the world was pausing between breaths. The under-cabinet lights were casting a soft amber glow against the tile, reflecting faintly off the sheen of sweat along your forehead. The red coil of the stovetop glowed like an ember, pulsing lazy hazes of warmth that didn’t seem to touch the chill in your limbs.

You were bent at the waist, forehead pressed to the cool marble counter as if you could siphon relief from its surface. The stone was slick beneath your skin–smooth and icy–and it did little to ground you. Your breath came shallow and fast through your nose, each inhale shaky, each exhale punctuated by a quiet whimper you couldn’t suppress.

Your shirt clung to your back, damp with sweat, the cotton twisting uncomfortably beneath your arms. You were overheating and freezing all at once–skin clammy, spine prickling, stomach coiled so tightly you swore it was tying itself in knots. The pain wasn’t sharp, not exactly–it was deeper than that. A dragging, molten ache that curled low in your abdomen seemed to radiate down your legs and all the way to your back, it was as if your body had been caught in a vice and someone kept twisting the handle and laughing.

Every few seconds at this point, a new wave crested–hot and unbearable–and your hand flew to your lower belly instinctively, fingers pressing hard into the tender flesh like the pressure alone might hold the worst of it at bay.

It didn’t. It never did.

A low groan slipped from your throat as the kettle finally began to whistle–sharp and rising, like it was mocking the sharpness in your gut. But you couldn’t move. Your muscles were locked in place, spine bowed forward, with your knees trembling beneath you.

You just needed one more minute. Just one more wave to pass. Then maybe you could stand up fully and stop the annoying whistling.

Then. Your ears caught the sound of footsteps, padding in from the hallway behind you.

”O-Oh…Sorry–I-I didn’t think anyone was u-up–“ Your head turned slightly at the sound of his voice, forehead lifting just enough to glance over your shoulder. The amber light from beneath the cabinets spilled across the entrance–and caught Bob standing there in all his soft, sleepy awkwardness.

He froze like a deer in the light, clutching an empty glass in one hand, like he’d just come to get water and stumbled into something he wasn’t sure he should be seeing. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, flattened on one side and wild on the other, and he was swimming in a faded navy hoodie that hung loose around his shoulders. Grey sweatpants clung low on his hips, and his bare feet shifted uncertainly against the tile.

His eyes–still heavy-lidded from sleep–tracked you slowly. From the way your body was braced against the counter to the sweat that began to bead at your temple, to the tremble in your knees. You could see his eyes soften at the sight, almost like he was trying to figure out what was wrong without asking you–because he knew you got frustrated when people were concerned for you.

Bob’s grip tightened slightly around the glass in his hand, knuckles paling. You could tell he was trying to play it cool–not alarm you, not smother you–but there was no mistaking the way his mouth parted, just slightly, like he was about to ask something, though he choked it back.

He took a cautious step towards you, shifting his weight to one foot like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go–like he was waiting for some kind of cue from you. He didn’t ask if you were okay. He knew you didn’t like being asked that when you clearly weren’t. Instead his eyes continued to move over you, noticing the grip you had around your stomach. His mind immediately jumped to the conclusion it was something you ate–and the dread settled into him quickly. The chicken was the first thing that came to his head.

He’d insisted on making the team dinner, he had even waved off Walker’s offer to order Thai and physically blocked Ana from touching the stove because he said ‘No, l-let me do it! I-It’ll be a surprise!’

You watched his face slowly twist into a horrified expression. The dawning belief that he’d positioned everyone settling in his bone. That he was the reason you were hunched over a countertop at two in the morning like you’d been run over by a semi.

”I-I didn’t…Oh my god,” He blurted, stepping a bit closer to you, his free hand flailing slightly like he didn’t know where to put it, “I-I knew I shouldn’t have tried to make that recipe from memory. I-I mean I checked the chicken so many times. I-I know it was a little dry but…I swear…Wait…Oh crap…If Y-Yelena wakes up p-puking she’s gonna kill me and b-bury me in the woods I–.” Your laugh cut him off from continuing. A short, low wheeze that hurt to let out–but the kind that broke through your clenched teeth anyway. Your whole body shuddered with it, and you winced, but it was worth doing.

”Bob.” You said quietly, turning your head toward him as best you could, one hand still braced on your stomach, “As much as it was dry, and as much as I needed to chug water just to swallow it…Your food didn’t do this to me.” You added, your eyes snapping shut as another surge of pain twisted your insides around, before returning your forehead to the counter.

Bob blinked like he’d just been slapped with a wet towel–stunned out of his guilt spiral by your laugh, your voice, your reassurance. His posture softened almost immediately. The hand that had been flailing now just hovered awkwardly in the air before slowly lowering to his side, fingers curling around the edge of the counter like he needed something to steady him.

”O-Oh…” He breathed, “S-So then…W-What’s happening with you then?” He asked, reaching over to turn off the whistling kettle, his movements clumsy but quiet, his eyes still locked onto your figure, seeing the way you slowly swayed from side to side.

You lifted your head–only an inch or two–to look up at him again, and that was enough.

When his eyes met yours, everything in his face changed.

Tears were forming. They weren’t falling yet, but they were there–thick and glassy, clinging to your lashes like they were holding on for dear life. Your lips were slightly parted, trembling just enough to betray you, and your breath hitched audible as you tried to blink them away.

His brows pulled together instantly. Deep. Concerned. His whole expression shifted like something was cracking behind it–worry rising slowly, curling under his features like a rising tide. His lips parted slightly, jaw ticking with hesitation, but his eyes…His eyes said everything.

It was the look he got when someone on the team was bleeding but too stubborn to say so. The one he wore when he thought he wasn’t allowed to step in–but he desperately, desperately wanted to.

“It’s just cramps Bob…I’ll be fine. You should just…Get what you need and go back to bed.” You sniffled, wiping your eyes off quickly, averting your gaze from him. For a moment Bob didn’t move, he just stood there, staring down at you like it pained him not to get closer. You tried to be casual about the tears streaming down your face now–tried to pretend like your body wasn’t unraveling.

But Bob just shook his head. The kind of quiet refusal that didn’t come with volume–but from depth.

“W-Why…Would I-I do that when you’re n-not okay?” His voice cracked on the last word, and immediately your eyes returned to his, taken back by the softness in his tone–by the way he wasn’t trying to fix anything yet, and by the way he was just being present.

”I don’t need help,” You said barely above a whisper, “It’s just pain…It’ll pass.” Bob took a moment, and let out a short breath, before putting his empty glass on the counter and leaning forward, bringing himself down so he was eye to eye with you. You could feel his breath mixing with yours in the space between you.

The under-cabinet lighting, soft and golden, carved warm halos along the edges of his face. And for the first time since he stepped into the kitchen, you saw the fullness of his eyes–blue like deep water, not just bright but saturated, with something rich and aching caught beneath the surface. The amber glow softened them, turned the outer rim to shadow but made the center gleam, like starlight reflected off a dark lake.

They shimmered.

Not from light alone–but from the way he was looking at you. From the way he saw you.

Not just someone in pain.

You.

Not just a teammate or a friend–you.

The muscles in your jaw tensed as your eyes welled again.

Bob didn’t blink.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Unsteady.

“When…W-When was the last time someone a-actually took care of you, Y/N?” You swallowed hard.

That was the kind of question that shouldn’t have hit like it did. But it knocked the air from your lungs with its gentleness. The honesty in it. The fact that he wasn’t asking to prove something–he was asking because he saw it.

The exhaustion. The weight. The way you always powered through everything because it was easier than asking. Because you thought maybe you weren’t allowed to ask.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Your lips parted to try, but no sound came out.

Bob didn’t push.

Instead, he lowered his voice even more–barely audible now, like a secret meant only for you.

“B-Because… I-I want to help. I want to take c-care of you right now. Because I care about you. And I–” He glanced away for a moment, jaw tightening, before forcing himself to meet your eyes again. “And I see you’re s-struggling. And I don’t think you should have to go through this alone.”

The words were simple.

But the sincerity behind them wrapped around you like a blanket–warm and devastating. There was no pity in his voice. No pressure.

Only care.

Only Bob.

You didn’t say anything right away. Your eyes stayed locked with his, and something in your chest cracked open. Not loudly. Not visibly. But something shifted.

Slowly, with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, you nodded.

“O-Okay.” You stuttered, feeling your pulse beating in your throat, “Fine…” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and certain–like your quiet surrender meant more to him than anything else.

”I’ll help you to the couch,” He said, already adjusting his stance, “Then I-I’ll make your tea…That…Which one i-is it again?” You stared up at him.

”The gross raspberry leaf one…” You replied, watching a soft, sheepish smile appear over his lips.

”Y-Yeah that one…And then I’ll steal W-Walkers heating pad from the closet…S-Should help you a bit with the pain, alright?” You nodded at his plan, feeling his arm gently slip under yours, bracing your weight against his side.

”C’mon…I-I’ve got you.” Bob helped you to the couch with a kind of patience you didn’t know anyone still had.

Not rushed. Not overly careful. Just present–his arm braced solid and steady around your waist, one hand hovering protectively near your elbow in case you stumbled. The living room was dim, still cast in that same honeyed glow that the kitchen had, and the couch–your favorite end seat–looked like a sanctuary carved out of lowlight and flannel.

Bob eased you down onto it with a reverence that made your chest ache. His hands didn’t linger, but the warmth of them remained even after they left your skin. You slumped back into the cushions with a breath that felt just a little deeper than the ones before, muscles uncoiling slightly now that you weren’t upright anymore.

“H-Hold on,” Bob murmured, eyes flicking to the side.

He crossed the room in quick, quiet steps and tugged the large fleece blanket off of Walker’s ridiculous leather recliner–one of those overpriced monstrosities with fake cupholders and lumbar massage settings he claimed were “good for his spine.” Bob brought the blanket back and unfolded it gently over your shoulders, tucking it in around your arms like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Then he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked the TV on, lowering the volume with a few soft clicks before handing it to you.

“News is on, if you want to change it,”He said, crouching beside you. “I’ll be r-right back, okay? Just going to get the tea, heating pad…M-Maybe a hoodie in case you’re still cold.” He added, repeating the list he mentally made in his head.

You nodded, too overwhelmed to say much more than a quiet “Okay.” Bob brushed his hand over the blanket once more before slipping down the hall. You could hear him moving–cupboards opening, the kettle whistling again. The low, comforting clink of a mug set on the counter. The closet door creaked open, followed by a quiet “shit” when something fell off the top shelf.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it. Even through the pain. Especially through the pain.

A few minutes passed. The TV played on quietly in the background–some late-night anchor talking about overnight weather patterns and airport closures. It was white noise. Background to the warmth slowly returning to your limbs, to the softness of the blanket around your shoulders. The pain was there still, but it had become a little more manageable with the fabric wrapped around you–which was already a good sign that you would actually get a semblance of sleep tonight.

Then he returned.

He had the tea in one hand–the mug carefully braced with a napkin wrapped around the handle– and the heating pad folded in the crook of his arm with a hoodie covering it. He crossed the room in three steps and set the tea down gently on the side table next to you.

“Still p-pretty hot,” He murmured, “C-Careful.” You watched him as he knelt again beside the outlet and plugged in the heating pad. He held the hoodie out to you, but you shook your head. The little orange light flickered on briefly, before turning a dark red. Bob tested the temperature with his hand, feeling around the flat end with his palm, then he shifted closer to you.

“I-Is it okay if I…” he trailed off, eyes flicking to your abdomen, then back to your face. “If I help you with this?”

You nodded wordlessly, the pain still etched into your features but softened now by trust. You didn’t need to speak for him to see it.

He shifted forward slowly, folding one knee onto the couch cushion beside you. The pad was already warm–radiating a low, comforting heat as he carefully uncurled the cord from around the folded fabric. You could smell him now, fully–clean linen, spearmint, and that faint trace of cinnamon that always clung to his hoodie when he wore it throughout the day. It wrapped around you just as much as the blanket did, thick and soothing.

Bob held the heating pad open and reached for the hem of the blanket tucked around you.

“L-Lift up just a little?” He asked, voice low.

You obeyed, slow and stiff, and he slid the pad forward, pressing it gently across the curve of your lower abdomen. His hands ghosted beneath the blanket, through the thin barrier of your cotton sleep shirt–his fingers warm, a little rough from old calluses, but so careful it made your breath catch in your throat.

He smoothed the pad into place with open palms, applying a light pressure–not too much–just enough to let the heat sink into your skin. His thumbs brushed your sides on the way out, knuckles skimming the soft give of your waist through the fabric before he pulled back.

“D-Does that feel okay?” He stuttered.

“Yeah,” You whispered. “Yeah…It helps.”

Bob looked at the pad, frowning a little. “Wish these things worked better. I mean, it’s warm, b-but it doesn’t wrap all the way around, y-you know? Just heats the front.” You let out a dry laugh.

”Probably because Walker cheaped out and bought a throw away…” Bob’s smile flickered, small and crooked.

“I c-could’ve made one better in the fifth grade with a sock and a microwave.”

You tilted your head with a smirk. “Yeah? You gonna patent it?”

His eyes met yours and held. “Only if I can put your name on it too.”

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward–close.

Then, without another word, Bob settled beside you, his body angled slightly so he could still glance at your face while giving you space. The heating pad glowed faintly beneath the blanket, casting soft orange pulses like a heart beating slow and steady in the dark. You took the mug from the side table with both hands—fingers curling around the ceramic for warmth more than anything else.

The raspberry leaf tea was bitter, herbal, not exactly pleasant, but the heat soaked into your chest with each sip, loosening the tightness in your ribs. You cradled the mug and leaned a little into the couch cushions, letting yourself sink further into the moment, into the quiet that had grown easy now between the two of you.

Bob was watching the news like it mattered–eyes narrowed slightly at the forecast ticker running along the bottom of the screen. When he spoke, it was soft, conversational, like he didn’t want to break the atmosphere.

“D-Do you think it’s the s-storms that really c-cause more accidents or if people just…F-Forget how to drive?”

You glanced over at him. His hair was still tousled, his jaw faintly shadowed with very very light stubble. “A little of both,” You said, sipping again. “Storms and stupidity. Dangerous combo.”

He let out a breathy laugh through his nose, then looked down at the mug in your hands. “T-Tea helping?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Not magic or anything, but it’s better.”

You talked like that for a little while. Quiet things. Small things. Bob asked if you’d ever seen a tornado up close. You told him about the one time you had to shelter in a Walmart freezer with a bunch of other customers because they were within a tornado zone. He winced and muttered something about how “no one deserves that.”

Eventually, the tea was gone and you set the mug down with a small sigh, shifting under the blanket to get more comfortable. The pain had dulled but hadn’t left. It had just relocated. Mostly in your back now, a deep, dragging throb nestled in your lower spine.

Bob must’ve noticed your subtle wince, because his head tilted slightly, as concern tugged at his brow again. “Y-You still hurting?”

“Just my back,” You murmured, pressing your palm against the base of it. “Feels like something’s pulling at the muscles though…That’s all.”

He hesitated, then gently peeled off the hoodie he was still wearing. Underneath, he wore a simple black t-shirt–thin enough that you could see the dip of his collarbone, the lines of muscle in his arms. His movements were unhurried, like he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but you still caught the way he swallowed before glancing at you.

”I–I could help with t-that…If y-you want.” He started, seeing the way you tilted your head at him, raising your eyebrows slightly, “I-I mean…I run pretty hot,” He said, almost sheepish. “L-Like, body temp-wise. I-It’s…It’s kinda just...How it is. S-Sometimes I sleep with the window open even when it’s snowing ’cause I get too warm.” He paused, looking down at you with hesitant sincerity. “So I thought maybe… I-I could just… Lie with you? J-Just hold you, maybe. Like–with my chest against your back, and the blanket and everything might…Y-You know…I-Insulate the heat.” You considered it for a moment, then gave a slow, small nod.

“Okay,” You whispered. “Yeah. That actually…That sounds really good.”

Relief bloomed on his face so quickly it made you want to reach for him. He gave you a quick, grateful smile and then turned, padding over to the wide sill beneath the living room window. The throw pillows you usually kept for decoration were stacked in a lopsided pile, half-flattened by time and sun. Bob scooped up three and brought them back over, crouching beside you again. He carefully arranged them along the edge of the couch, creating a makeshift bed—just enough space for you to curl into without losing the heating pad or the blanket.

“You sure you’re comfortable lying on your side?” He asked, already adjusting one of the cushions to support your knees.

“Yeah,” You murmured, shifting with his help. The motion was slow, a little stiff, but manageable. You rolled gently onto your left side, facing the TV, wincing as the dull ache pulled through your spine. Bob waited until you were settled, then carefully eased himself onto the couch behind you.

His movements were hesitant, precise.

He slid onto his side, chest brushing lightly to your back, one arm stretching out under the pillow you were lying on–so that his wrist dangled off the edge of the couch, palm up, loose in the open air. The other arm came around you, slow and cautious, like he didn’t want to startle you. His hand hovered just above your stomach, eyes flicking to yours.

You gave a small nod, shifting your hips back just an inch–enough to close the space between your bodies without making a show of it.

Bob placed his hand gently over the heating pad. You couldn’t tell if his palm was causing the pad to be warmer, but you could feel the temperature change almost in an instant. The newfound heat sank through the fabric of your shirt like a balm, and you felt your muscles instinctively ease.

His touch didn’t wander. He didn’t stroke or squeeze. He just…Rested there. Solid. Steady.

You felt safe wrapped up in his arms, but then again it was Bob…He was always safe to you regardless of everything that happened with The Void and everything.

You let your hand drift slowly, fingers reaching up the curve of the couch until you found his other hand–the one still hanging just off the side. Your fingertips brushed his wrist first, then his palm. He stilled for a moment, startled, but then his fingers curled up and around yours. No hesitation. Just soft, certain pressure.

No words were exchanged and the quiet deepened around you like a hush after a snowfall, the soft cadence of late-night weather reports humming in the background. Your body, which had felt wrung out and trembling before, began to feel like it might belong to you again–bit by bit.

His chest rose and fell against your back, the rhythm slow, soothing. And when his thumb began to unconsciously trace over your knuckles, your eyes fluttered shut.

“Thank you Bob.” You whispered into the dark. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

”You’re welcome Y/N…”

[lazysoulwriter]

you blocked pedro pascal?! - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡content: tinder match gone wrong (but right), mistaken identity, funny meet-cute, flustered reader, playful banter, pedro being too charming for his own good, coffee date setup, light and cute.

---

You: are you actually Pedro Pascal or is this like… some dude named Kyle with too much free time and a good VPN Pedro: that’s a very specific accusationand it’s me. promise. You: sure it is, “Pedro”alright Kyle, have fun catfishing someone else lol

Blocked.

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

You had forgotten about it within the hour. Another tinder fake-out. It happened. You’d been burned before—there was once a guy pretending to be Andrew Garfield who sent you stock photos and then asked for feet pics. Absolutely not.

So when you saw Pedro Pascal again—in person—you were in CVS, in your deadest hoodie and mismatched socks, restocking toothpaste and chips after a mentally exhausting week. You were already feeling grimy and sleepy and deeply un-cute when a voice behind you said:

“Excuse me…”

You turned around, clutching a sad tube of toothpaste in one hand.

There he was.

Pedro. Pascal. Looking real, looking famous, looking like someone who absolutely should not be shopping for gum next to your sleepy self.

He gave you a slow, amused smile. “You’re the girl who blocked me on tinder, aren’t you?”

You blinked. Your brain full-on shut down. “W–what?”

“Yup,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “Profile name ‘sunflowerpunk’?”

You could’ve died.

“Oh my God,” you mumbled, half hiding your face behind the toothpaste. “You’re real?”

“I am real,” he said, casually leaning on his cart like you hadn’t accused him of being a guy named Kyle with a VPN. “Also, not named Kyle. Unless we’re playing a new game I don’t know about.”

“I—okay, in my defense, there are so many fake celebrity accounts.”

He nodded, pretending to be solemn. “I get it. I’m just some guy on tinder with a nice camera roll and emotional damage. Suspicious.”

You covered your face with your hand. “This is so humiliating.”

Pedro stepped a little closer, lowering his voice just enough to make your knees weak. “You really blocked me without giving me a chance to prove I was real?”

“You were typing with perfect punctuation and no typos,” you muttered. “That was suspicious.”

“Wow.” He laughed. “So you ghosted me because I know how to use a semicolon?”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Okay. Maybe I overreacted.”

“Maybe,” he echoed playfully. Then: “So… how are you planning to make it up to me?”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “Um.”

Pedro tilted his head. “I’m thinking coffee.”

“Oh.”

“Now.”

“Now?”

He grinned. “Before you block me again.”

You stared at him. “You're really pushing this, huh?”

“I’m persistent,” he said. “And I don’t like being ghosted. Especially not by someone who made me smile on a Tuesday night.”

You looked at him for a moment longer—tousled hair, gentle eyes, still holding gum—and felt your heart do something treacherous.

“…Fine. But I’m picking the place.”

“Deal.” He handed over a CVS receipt like it was a contract. “Lead the way.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[-harmonytbh]

the wayward kind still love deep

summary: Smoke returns to the Delta after years of war and silence, he seeks the woman he never stopped loving, but the past, both sweet and bitter, won’t let them move on without a fight. (angst, longing)

pairing: smoke x black plus sized!reader, platonic!stack x reader

warnings: cursing, mentions of war, sexual tension and suggestive content.

author's note: I haven't written fanfics since my Team Mindless days, but I'm a Mississippi girl obsessed with Sinners and decided to give it a go...be easy on me. will definitely continue this. Also, a comma hates to see me coming, so ignore any improper punctuation and typos. This was one of those do it scared moments lol

Nothing prepared her for the light rapping against her window shutters before dawn that morning. She leaned bleary-eyed over the windowsill trying to make sense of the dark figure gazing up at her from the dewy ground below her window. The cicadas were still screeching their nightly song, and lightning bugs flitted here and there.  Once her eyes acclimated to the inky darkness she knew instantly. Felt it in her bones. Felt it in the thump-thump-thump of her heart against her ribcage. It was Elijah…or “Smoke” now, she supposed. Some time around their thirteenth year, she watched the light leave Elijah’s eyes. She noticed the way the smooth brown surface of his face became a brick wall not even she could penetrate. Smiles were few and far between, laughter even more rare. That was Smoke. The Elijah she knew was foolhardy and goofy, the first to crack a joke or play a prank with his other half—the easygoing and charming Elias, or “Stack” now. Yes, the Moore boys were men now and with that came new identities and an air of mystique that alienated them. 

“Smoke?” She called out cautiously. She knew it was him. Of course, she knew it was him. She’d bet her left pinky toe on it, but the question was more of a inquiry about what the hell he wanted with her at the ass-crack of dawn after seven years of silence. 

“Yeah it’s me honey. Come fishin’ wid me,” he called back plainly. Like it was normal. Like it was broad daylight. Like it wasn’t THE ASS-CRACK of dawn. 

“So I s’pose them German trenches an’ Chicago gangways finally rid ya of whatever lil sense ya did have Lijah, huh?” 

“So I s’pose ya want me tuh make a scene in fronta God and evr’ybody, huh?” He retorted easily, and she had no doubt he would make good on his promise. She kissed her teeth and stepped away from her window. 

He sighed audibly as he saw the light from her oil lamp wash her room in golden light. Smoke swore to himself if he ever came back to the Delta for her that he would come proper. Ask her family for her hand and do all the typical gentlemanly shit. And there would be time for that, but he and Stack had just rolled into town an hour ago under the cloak of darkness with stolen money, beer, wine, and enough stories to fill a library. He wasn’t feeling too gentlemanly. He wanted—no—needed to see her as soon as the tires on the truck crunched to a halt at the gravel fork in their shared road. He would make an honest woman out her if that’s what she wanted, but for tonight, all he wanted to do was sneak off into the night like they used to do before all of this. Before he was one half of the notorious SmokeStack twins, before he was drafted to fight for a country that spit in his face when his shiny boots reconnected with the soil that was made of him and held his mother and father. Smoke shoved his trembling hands into the rough tweed of his neatly tailored pants and felt around for a cig to calm his nerves. As he flicked the lighter, she emerged from the house looking more beautiful than any woman had a right to look before the first tinges of daylight threatened the horizon. His heart slammed in his chest. His girl, in the flesh. Not in a fleeting fever dream under the barrage of artillery, not in the hazy memory of a daydream before running a play. She stood before him, all woman, every luscious inch of her. His eyes raked over her possessively, committing this new iteration of her to memory for later…hopefully there would be no need for later. She was all legs and mouth last time he saw her, but in his absence she had blossomed into a beautiful woman. Filled out was too loose a description for the way she had transformed over these past seven years, and he felt the male parts of him stirring at the thought of what other parts of her had matured while he was away. He shook his head to banish the thought, hopefully there would be need for that later. She cocked her head to the side, curls spilling from beneath a bandana she tied around the front of her head, a mild flash of annoyance in her eyes. 

“An’ how ya figure we gon’ fish with no poles or bait Elijah?” she rasped sleepily, looking around him for evidence of fishing materials and tutting when her suspicions were validated. 

“Yo Pa still keeps some fixins in the shed, right?” he said back hopefully, watching as she turned on her heels and switched toward the back of the house muttering under her breath.  

“Good God a’mighty,” he groaned just low enough for her to faintly make out. 

“Stop lookin’ at me like that Lijah, ‘fore I knock da fire from ya mannish ass,” she spat over her shoulder before gesturing at him to help her open the rickety shed door. 

After grabbing what they needed, they set off toward the creek on at the back of her family’s property. Their spot. An uncomfortable silence enveloped them as the meandered through the dark, the cacophony of the Mississippi countryside punctuating their steps as the full moon overhead washed everything in a dreamy milky haze. 

“I must be dreaming,” she thought to herself, “Surely I fell off that mare yesterday, and I’m laid up in my mama’s bed hallucinatin’.” 

“Where Stack?” She finally asked after several minutes of tense silence. She didn’t miss the quick smirk at the mention of his brother. Still partners in crime. 

“Restin' back at the house. Surely he’ll wait and come pay ya a visit at a more respectable hour, unlike his uncouth pig of a brother,” he joked back easily, and she found herself smiling despite herself. 

She had missed him—both of them. For their early childhoods they were inseparable. As time went on, and life got rough, she and the twins clung to each other. When Smoke was eventually drafted and Stack joined him in service voluntarily, it wounded her. She was unsure how she would continue without their company. Her days were filled with chores around the farm, learning roots at the feet of her mama, and missing the Moore boys somethin’ fierce. She’d send many a letter by Lil Sammie, hoping they made it all those miles away to them, but aside from a short postcard from Stack from Paris, she didn’t hear a peep. 

“An’ why couldn’t ya wait, Smoke?” She asked stopping to square her shoulders in his direction. He removed his cap and rested it against his chest. Her breath caught at the serious gaze in his eyes, the moonlight fanning out over his lashes that seemed to stretch further than any cotton field she’d ever seen. His jaw jumped in the way it only did when he had something to say and didn’t know how to spit it out. 

“Cause I missed ya honey, an’ I couldn’t go another minute without layin’ eyes on ya,” he replied frankly, not daring to break eye contact. So there it was. The perfect words…six years too late. 

“It only took ya half a decade to say that, Elijah. What in the hell that s’posed tuh do fuh me now? I’m happy. Livin’ my life. Don’t come disturbin’ me now cause ya figured out whatever is out dere in dat big wide world of your’n ain’t shit,” she spat back through hot tears. 

You could say many many things about the twins, but you can’t say they didn’t have audacity. Ever since they were boys, they bent the world around them to their will. They walked like God sewed gold into the seat of their britches, and they helped him hang the stars with their own hands. Damn her if she didn’t believe it herself for a while. That was before she met Titus. Now, she didn’t especially love Titus, but she liked him just fine. He was kind, thoughtful, and sensible. He wanted a simple life with her and maybe a few kids, maybe not. What more can she ask for? Not this, this being jerked around by Elijah. Yes she still loved him, never stopped and probably never will, but he wasn’t the marrying kind. 

“I know, baby. I know. I got all ya letters from Sammie. I still have every single one. They kept me from losin’ my good sense over there in the war. Knew I had someone waiting on me tuh git back, knew I had somethin' tuh live for,” he cooed lowly, stepping forward to envelop her into an embrace. 

She jumped back like he was a scalding hot pot. Just like that, the cage of his countenance returned, and he continued stomping toward the creek. 

“Knew ya weren’t gon’ be my biggest fan darlin’ but damn. I expected a warmer reception than dis heah,” he spat bitterly, shaking his head adorned in immaculate waves. 

“Well damn, Smoke. What did ya really expect? I wrote cha fuh years, waited on ya fuh years. Didya think time stops fuh Elijah Moore?” 

He stopped in his tracks and spun around quickly.  

“Nuh uh, never, but I thought it might fuh us,” he said simply before stopping down by the creek bank and unceremoniously dropping their poles and bait. 

“At any rate princess, somethin’ made ya saddity ass come out tuh come fish wid me, so might as well enjoy the moment, huh?” He grumbled before lighting another cigarette. 

“Fuck ya, Elijah Moore,” she said, jutting her chin forward, white hot shame blooming in her chest. He was right, he still had a hold on her and even though she wanted to hate him, wanted to tell him to take a long walk off a short ledge, she knew she would do anything to share this moment with him. 

“If only I was that lucky, baby.” 

Part Two

[gr4cier4cie]

♡ after midnight (can't be a good girl) ♡

or: the drivers may be rough, but they'll always be sure to smooth you over afterwards. featuring: carlos sainz, max verstappen, daniel ricciardo, lando norris ♡

warnings: explicit sexual content ahead!! thank you to @mikeyspinkcup for this ask, sorry i derailed from it a lil lol was feeling freaky when i wrote this, XOXO always from gracie!!!

♡

carlos sainz ♡

oh i just know this man is trying to get you pregnant every single time you fuck. it could be an extravagant hotel room overlooking monte carlo or a gala bathroom with all the lights off and he's still clawing at your clothes, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and shoulder, molding you into the position that best suits him. he's not mean about it, no. he's sweet. saccharine, undercut with the slightest tint of restrained anger. he's vexed beyond words that he wants you like this. he's vexed that he can't keep himself in his pants for more than thirty seconds every time he finds himself searching for a whiff of your perfume. "mi zorrita," he'll whisper when he sinks into you, your hair (so pretty, so pure, so damn ruinous) wrapped around his tanned fingers. around his fist. "my perfect girl. so good for me." and when you unmistakably exhale a breathy, sniveling whine, scrambling for his bicep as his cock kisses the spongy surface of your cervix, he'll curl two fingers into your mouth to muffle the strangled sounds of your pleasure, lips pressed to your ear, words punctuated by every hard snap of his hips. "¿esto duele? bien. debería."

that doesn't mean he won't take care of you. in fact, it's the opposite. when you come down from the high, he's peppering kisses to your sweaty hairline, smoothing his knuckles across the blooming marks of purple littering your skin. fixing your clothes and cleaning the sticky mess between your thighs if you're out, zipping up your dress with the kind of reverence that has your stomach spasming violently. he'll run you a shower if you're at home, will stand underneath the stream of scalding warmth alongside you and stare at the rivulets of water trailing across your skin, will follow their path with his tongue if you'll let him. he's attuned to what you want, what you need. sometimes he'll whisper into your neck as he coats his hands in soap and traces the soft lines of your body with a touch so gentle you swear it's not even there. "i love you," he'll say. "te amo, mi princesita."

♡

max verstappen ♡

did someone say light daddy kink? because yeah. sorry, but yeah. max wants you to want him. need him. wants you to despair for him the same way he yearns for you, for your touch and your smile and the taste of your skin lingering on his tongue like a memory imprinted into the ivory of his bones. and he's a firm believer of hard work; if you want something, schatje, you're going to have to work for it. he wants to teach you, and, moreover, he wants you to learn. adapt to him. and when i say it's hard to break him, i mean it. he'll leave you wanting for weeks while he's away with strict orders to keep your hands off what is his—your pleasure is his, so why would he let you come without him? that's just bad manners. if you're good (which you usually are), he'll come home and fuck you to heaven and back. he'd drag you down to hell if you asked nicely, too. and no doubt he's snarling words you can barely understand into the curve of your shoulder: "pretty girl. did i leave you too long?" and when you whimper, nod shakily in response, he'll go mean, bark with bite. "maybe it'll be longer next time, hmm? you didn't learn, did you, schatje? can't ever listen to me, can you?"

but he won't leave you forever, no. max stakes claims the same way he plants trophies on your nightstand. once he has you, he'll do everything in his power to keep you. he'll clean you up (once he's done licking up the mess he can reach), run you a bath, massage the curve of your spine and grin at the way you melt into his touch entirely. he'd braid your hair neatly, pull the up blankets to your chin, kiss your temple with longing you couldn't believe you owned. because you might have been his, but he was equally, if not more, of yours.

��

daniel ricciardo ♡

i have 110% certainty that this man asked you to sit on his face ten seconds into knowing you. it's simply an aftereffect of his effortless charm, the salacious way he runs his tongue along his canines, inviting thrill. danger. you. and, furthermore, i have 130% certainty that he asked if he could film it. what can he say? he's just getting older. "memory issues," he says with the sort of cheeky, one-sided grin that has a flash of molten heat spreading across your navel. "gotta keep it all up in here somehow," he continues as the blinking red flash of his decades-old camera catches the way his hands search hungrily for skin, more animal than man. he likes you on top, spine arched under the leading touch of his palm pressed to the small of your back, likes the way you sob when he's so far up your cunt you feel him in your ribs. and he likes it when you reciprocate. likes how you're desperate to get on your knees, to brace your shaky hand around his tattooed thigh. he knows you like them, his tattoos. he doesn't spare seconds using that to his advantage. you're easy to rile, easy to calm. wild. his type.

he won't turn off the camera, after. he'll leave it running as he carries you off the frame, cradled in arms he knows are meant to hold you. he'll clean you up (or, you'll let him make a mess of you yet again) in the shower, the shit-eating grin plastered to his face mirrored on your own. you'll kiss the column of his throat as he washes his hair, and he'll breathe your name into the back of your neck. he's gentle with you, steering you with a hand around your waist back to bed, kissing the tip of your nose or the curve of your chin as you drift off. only then will he reach across the bedside table and turn the camera off, tucking it into his bag for safekeeping. it goes everywhere with him, after all. he'd hate to lose it.

♡

lando norris ♡

speaking of cameras, lando isn't above stealing a few flicks for himself, either. he's a fan of fine art, and you're the perfect muse. he doesn't bother being inconspicuous, however; every person within a five-foot radius of you should know about the fact that his black leather wallet—one he continues to 'misplace'—contains a rather risque polaroid of you laying on your back, hands cupping bare tits splattered with his cum. and to make matters worse, he adores mirrors. specifically, fucking you in front of them. he made you watch, of course. made you watch his cock slide in and out of your soaked folds, an arm wrapped tight around your waist while the other slid up to the back of your neck, breaking the haze of your blurry-eyed pleasure. "look at us," he'd murmur, choking on a laugh as your cunt tightened. "we look good, yeah?" he'd tap the side of your face slightly when the only answer you find yourself capable of exhibiting is a withheld gasp of his name, clicking his tongue. "good girls answer me when i talk to 'em, baby."

he's never domineering. doesn't push you anywhere you don't already find yourself going. it is not an afterthought, to take care of you. he doesn’t let you go, not even when your body goes slack against his, not even when your breaths grow heavier against the line of his collarbones. not even when you hum, too spent to say anything. he just smiles—that boyish, sickeningly lovesick grin that always makes your heart ache, fingers gliding up and down your spine, soothing, grounding. and even as sleep starts to pull you under, he stays right there—holding you like you’re his most precious win. because damn him, loving you feels better than any podium ever could.

♡

note: this is not proofread at all and THIS WAS NOT WHAT THE ORIGINAL ASK WAS AT ALL IM SO SORRY I RAN WITH IT!! + there's a part two in the making obviously w more of the grid so stay tuned!!!!!! LOOOVE FROM GRACIE!!! ♡