sweetie!!

"Ohh," he drawled, grin widening as his hands automatically found your hips. "Noticed the movie's boring all of a sudden?"

You didn't answer, you were too preoccupied with wanting to achieve something else. You just leaned in, kissing him very softly at first, lips brushing his like you. But the second he hummed against your mouth, the sound very teasing, made your body feel airy, and you melted into him. Your fingers slid into his caramel hair, tugging lightly, and suddenly the kiss wasn't soft at all. It was hungry.

Hawks groaned when your tongue brushed his, his wings twitching behind him. "Damn, baby. Thought you just wanted cuddles."

Your hips betrayed you, grinding down against his sweats, your thin shorts doing nothing to hide how hot and wet you were already getting. He felt it immediately, cock twitching beneath the fabric, and laughed softly against your lips.

"Ahh, so that's what this is." His grip on your hips tightened, rolling you forward once, making you gasp into his mouth. "You're needy."

You nodded, breaking the kiss just long enough to whimper. "Come on, please, Kei, you've been teasing me all-"

The sound wrecked him. His cock hardened fast under you, straining against his sweats as you rocked your hips again, the friction sparking through your nerves like fire. Hawks let out a shaky laugh before groaning breathily, tilting his head back against the couch, lips parted as he watched you grind on him like you couldn't stop yourself.

"God, look at you," he groaned, his feathers fluttering. "Making a mess of me without even trying."

You buried your face in his neck, moaning softly as your clit rubbed perfectly against the outline of his cock. The more you rocked, the wetter you got, the fabric sticking between your thighs. Hawks could feel it, every slick drag, and it made him curse under his breath.

He slid one hand under your shirt, palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. The other anchored you by the small of your back, pressing you harder against him. "Don't stop, baby. Rub yourself on me- fuck- you feel so good like this."

Your moans got louder, muffled against his skin, your hips moving faster now, desperate for release. Hawks smirked through his own groans, voice rough in your ear.

"You're gonna cum just from humping me, huh? My needy little girl- fuck, I love it."

His words only pushed you closer, your body trembling as the friction built up unbearable. Hawks hissed when you clenched around nothing, your orgasm hitting hard, soaking right through your shorts and staining the front of his sweats.

He let out a sharp groan, rutting up into you once, grinding you down against his cock to drag it out. "Shit- fuck, baby."

You collapsed against his chest, panting, thighs still trembling around his hips. Hawks chuckled lowly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hands rubbing up and down your back.

"Movie's definitely ruined now," he teased. "But hey... round two sounds better anyway."

"I like the sound of that," you reply in the same tone, giving a deep kiss. He dragged his knuckles down your spine before squeezing your ass just hard enough to make you gasp while he moved your hips hard against him. The sight of you, so desperate and wet and still grinding against him without even realising, made his cock ache. 

Your hips rolled helplessly, your wet shorts sliding against the thick outline of his cock beneath his sweats. The friction was intoxicating and it made tears pricked your eyes as you whimpered. Hawks groaned low in his throat, his hands clamping down on your hips tigher and guiding your movements, making you rut against him harder. "That's it. Grind yourself on me. Fuck, you're so wet, baby, soaking right through. You hear that?"

And you did. The slick drag of your cunt against the fabric filled the quiet space between his moans. Your head dropped to his shoulder once more, breathless whines spilling out as you humped him faster, chasing another release. Hawks tilted his head, brushing his lips along your ear.

"You're already falling apart," he murmured. "And I haven't even touched your pussy properly yet. My needy girl."

You clenched around nothing, your thighs shaking as the tension coiled tight again. "K-Kei, I'm- ah- gonna-"

"Do it." His grip tightened even further, forcing your hips to grind in rough, quick circles against the thick bulge in his sweats. "Cum on me again. Make a mess of my cock without me even fucking you."

Your orgasm hit sharp and hot, a cry breaking free as your body convulsed against him, soaking his lap even more. Hawks hissed, rutting up once to prolong it, groaning at how wet you'd made him. "That's my girl," he praised.

Do not copy, steal, modify, use for ai, translate, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly. Mention of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

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Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

“I didn’t.” You said, walking towards him, sliding your shirt off. His brows furrowed so adorably at that.

“But you said-”

“I needed a break. And I did just have it. I’m ovulating.” You explained, walking until you were directly in front of him and you looked down. His eyes stared back at you, all scrunched and confused. He tilted his head to the side like a puppy.

You slid your right knee between his legs and spread them while burying both your hands in his hair. He visibly shivered at the touch and he let his legs fall open for you.

“Oh, I get it now.” He said timidly, leaning into your hands. You pulled slightly and he made a small whimpering sound, letting his eyes fall shut and his mouth open slightly.

“My cute little puppy.” You teased him, dragging your hands from his scalp to the sides of his face and then his shoulders. You started kneeling down and he watched you do it, his breath coming out his parted lips in shallow little gasps.

“You think I should’ve gone with them?” You asked innocently, when you were fully seated on your knees between his legs. And he shook his head immediately, all frantic.

“No, no. No, I’m glad you stayed.” He squeaked out, as you started mouthing at his crouch through his pants. You kept your eyes on his while you alternated between wrapping your mouth around his bulge and pressing your tongue up against it. His little gasps were intermingled with quiet moans now, his hands moving restlessly at his sides. He so obviously was desperate to bury them in your hair. You smiled around his bulge, fondly, as you realized he was waiting for permission.

“You’re so well trained.” You backed away, starting to palm his hardening cock.

“Thank you?” He breathed out a laugh. You pressed real hard against him then and that laugh turned into a low moan while his eyes rolled into his head before they closed and the back of his head fell backwards until it hit the back of the couch.

You pulled the waist band of his sweatpants down, revealing his boxers underneath. They were soaked with your spit too. His cock threatened to peak out from under the top of them, creating a tent. “You got hard so quickly.”

“Well, yeah!” he replied, head still resting against the back of the couch but he angled his neck slightly so he could look at you from the side. His cheeks were red.

“I bet you’re already leaking too.” You smirked, rubbing the inside of his thighs. You felt him shiver under your touch.

“Probably.” He mumbled, embarrassed, closing his eyes again.

“You know that study where some scientists trained a dog to associate the sound of a bell with food? And after a while the dog started salivating just from hearing the bell?”

He groaned, and covered his face with his hands.

“You’ve turned me into a dog.” He said from under his hands, his voice muffled slightly. You laughed at that.

“A very good dog.” You smiled. He spread the fingers on one of his hands to peek at you with one eye.

“A very good boy.” You praised, and his hands dropped to the side.

“You drive me crazy.”

“Good.”

You pulled his underwear down just enough to reveal his cock. It was fully hard now and tinted slightly pink at the head. A small bead of precum sat at the hole at the tip of it.

“Knew it.” You smirked, before quickly taking his length into your mouth. He wasn’t huge, just 6 inches, so you managed to get the entirety of it between your lips. He choked out a surprised high pitched and girly moan, shaking his head, humiliated by the sound of it.

You slid your mouth up and down, your hands resting on the v-line of his hips with your thumbs moving up and down softly. You hummed quietly around him and his hips jolted at the vibration, hitting the back of your throat with his dick. You gagged on it slightly, starting to pull off but you got your bearings and swallowed him down again.

“I’m sorry!” He said when he realized what he’d done, finally letting his hands gently caress your scalp under your hair as an apology.

You pulled off to tell him it was okay, before sucking him down again.

You kept on bobbing up and down, slowing down whenever his breath would quicken too fast. You didn’t want him to cum like this. It took until the third time you brought him to that edge for him to say something.

“Pleaseeee.” He whined before letting his head fall back again. You pulled off him with a pop, replacing your mouth with your hand. You stroked him gently and slowly, watching his throat work around nothing as he swallowed.

“You know better than to think that I’ll let you get off that quickly.” You stood up and his head snapped up to watch you. You reached behind you to unhook your bra, and his eyes widened. You scoffed out a chuckle at his reaction before unbuttoning your jeans and pulling them down, your panties with them.

You let him stare for a few moments, awe struck, before placing your legs on either side of his and sitting down. You could feel him struggle to keep his hips from grinding up into your wetness.

“See? Well trained.” You smirked before kissing him, open mouthed and desperate. His back moved forward off the couch towards you, and you moaned when his chest finally met yours. You wrapped your arms around his back, and he did the same, helpless leaning up into you while you kissed him. He whimpered softly into your mouth when your tongues clashed.

He let you lead the kiss, following you backwards when you moved back and letting you press into him when you decided to. And he kept his hips so good and still. So, to reward him, you grinded down, feeling the slide of your arousal against his length. He opened his mouth to moan and you bit his bottom lip and pulled it back slightly before letting it snap back.

“Baby..” He purred, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck.

You chuckled.

“You want me to fuck you?” He nodded into your neck, peppering little kisses there.

“You’re so cute.”

“Mhmm.” He hummed against your skin.

“Wanna try a new position. Is that okay?” You asked, pushing him gently away from your neck so he could look at you in the eyes.

“I wanna do whatever you wanna do.” He said, cupping your face with his right hand, looking at you with very little thought behind his eyes. You loved when he went all stupid for you, nothing on his mind but his and your pleasure.

You nodded and pecked his lips with a quick kiss before standing up and off his lap. He whined at the loss.

“It’s just for a second.” You laughed. You gestured for him to slide his butt down to the edge of the couch and he did.

“This isn’t new.” But then you picked up his legs from the underside of his knees, spreading them in the air.

“Oh.”

“This okay?” You asked, kneeling down between his legs again and lining his cock up to your entrance.

“Yes. I just feel… really exposed. But in a good way. A submissive pleasurable way.” He hooked his arms under his own legs, holding them up with you.

“That’s the idea, baby.” You put him inside of you then, slowly filling yourself up with him. He groaned as it happened, eyes fluttering and struggling to stay open.

“Keep ‘em on me.”

“Okay… Okay mommy.”

“Oh. You’re such a good boy.” You moaned softly in surprise, leaning forward to kiss him again.

“Love when you fuck me.” He whispered between kisses. You started to move your hips front and back, like you had the cock and he had the cunt. And all he could do was take it while you kissed him.

“Such a good boy for me.” You let your lips part but kept your noses pressed against each other. “Take me so good.”

He kept making cute little moans, looking up at you so prettily through his lashes.

“You’re pretty like a girl.” You told him and he jolted his hips before he could stop himself, like before.

“You like that? Being pretty like a girl for me?”

“Yeah, fuck.” He gently led you upwards so he could take one of your tits in his mouth, sucking gently. You gasped at the suction, fucking yourself onto him faster.

“Mommy..” He whimpered around you, taking his hands from under his legs to wrap one around you and to hold your other breast with the other. You could hear he was close when his moans got shorter and more fast paced against your skin. He was barely sucking now, his brain finding the effort too hard to concentrate on and so he just kept his mouth wrapped around you, his tongue gently caressing your nipple inside his mouth.

“Want you to cum for me, baby. Want you to cum and then eat me out until I do.” You instructed him, and he nodded, backing away from your chest.

You went faster, sliding up and down easier with how wet and open you were for him now. His hands slid over top of yours where they held his legs up and open.

“‘M gonna cum. ‘M gonna cum for you.” His sounds were really cute and pathetic now, squeaking out from his throat and past his lips.

“Cum baby.” You gave him permission and he whimpered one more time before letting out one long guttural moan, and then another one, while he spurted inside of you. You kept moving on him through it, and you watched his face twist in pleasure as it happened.

You started to slow down, and his moans grew quieter until they were just breaths ghosting over his lips. His eyes, which were scrunched close as he came, slowly eased and eventually opened, and he looked up at you with blown pupils.

“I love you.” He panted, placing his hands on either side of your face.

"What the hell?" You blinked through the crust on your lashes.

He seemed just as confused (what was this trend with people knocking on your door acting like you were in the wrong place), staring blankly at your bedhead and rumpled clothing.

"It is eight in the morning." His eyes narrowed slightly, "Get dressed come down for breakfast, we will leave shortly after." With that he turned on his heel and started to march back towards the kitchen.

Get dressed for what exactly? Leave for where? You had no plans for the day and your family hung out in their pajamas at home, so what was going on?

You called after him, "Damian, wait! What do you mean? What am I getting dressed for? Where are we going?" He paused and turned back to face you, again staring intently at the mess on your head instead of looking you in the eyes.

"The museum. Dress warm." With that the little shit turned back around and walked briskly away. Except he's still shorter than you so he wasn't not moving all that quick yet.

With that, what else could you do but go back inside and start getting dressed? It was all that out of the ordinary for your family to drag you to some media event, it looked good to have all the members of the family accounted for and smiling. Besides you didn't want to give anyone else a reason to come to your room, and Damian hadn't given you much space to argue. You didn't want to go, but since yesterday no one had cared much about what you wanted.

~~~~~~

One perk of being a Wayne was, of course, the access to high end things. Your choice of clothing for the day was comfortable and looked nice on you, nice enough for a museum, in case the press found out and photos ended up online. You'd even managed to wrangle your hair into something cute.

After finishing up, you went over to the dining room, where Bruce was already seated at the head of the table, reading the morning paper. You had seen him scroll through the news on his phone before, his performative-ass just liked the optics of reading the paper on a Saturday morning in his robe. What a prick.

Wait, why was he still in his robe if you were going to the museum? If this was Damian trying to embarrass you again, you swore you'd put laxatives in his food.

Bruce cleared his throat, setting the paper aside, "Good morning, (Name). How did you sleep?"

With Damian it was still tolerable, what with his eyes being a pleasant green, but the way Bruce seemed to be trying to bore a hole in your head with the way he was staring pointedly at you was unsettling. (Especially with those freaky icy blues, thank god the eyes you'd inherited had been from your mother.)

In fact, you'd noticed the same thing last night at dinner, the whole family had a major staring problem and they were all completely shameless about it.

"I slept fine." You had not slept fine, a few minutes of scrolling had turned into a few hours and you had slept way later than intended. That, combined with your premature awakening this morning had you feeling a little more irritable than usual. "How about you?"

Your father hadn't smiled at you in a few years, but the way his stare (terrifying) softened meant that he was pleased enough. You would punch him if he couldn't beat the crap out of you in half a second. Maybe when he was old and gray, or the next time he would get brutally injured on patrol, trust, you would be ready to swing.

He picked the newspaper back up. "I slept quite well, thank you for asking." He hesitated for a moment, seeming slightly unsure whether to proceed or let you start picking at your breakfast in peace.

Of course, you could never have peace. For two breakfasts straight your father had tormented you with awkward conversation.

"I hear you have a busy day today, going to the museum with your brothers?"

He wasn't coming? That was... good and bad. On one hand, Bruce not coming meant that you didn't have to talk to anyone. Your 'siblings' would probably leave you alone if you didn't engage. On the other hand, that was running on your previous assumptions about your family. So far, you had the most experience with the new Bruce; Jason was a comfortable second, but his odd behavior last night meant you didn't want to get too confident in how well you could read him.

And it really was like your family had been replaced by aliens.

Coming to get you for breakfast? Taking you places? Making eager conversation? Hell, you hadn't even eaten with them in a few weeks.

You knew they hadn't actually been replaced, but what was up with them? You also weren't sure how much of this you could take. You had a life damnit, and you didn't want to be dragged around by some weirdos instead of living it.

Bruce was staring again.

"Yeah I- " Just then, Dick strolled in stretching his arms above his head with a 'pop'.

His eyes immediately found you, sitting a few seats down from Bruce, and brightened.

"Hey hey you're up! That's good, Damian said you'd had a bit of a rough morning?"

Your face started to heat up, that little asshole. You were definitely putting laxatives in his food, but maybe also when he was either old or injured. He was just as likely to kick your ass.

You weren't sure how to act around Dick, honestly. Out of everyone, he'd stayed the most cordial with you. Sure, it stung when he went from 'Dickie' to just 'Dick', but you had to grow out of the nickname at one point anyway.

Dick and you were incredibly close when you were younger, before Jason died. All three of you were, but Dick had always been a natural big brother, while Jason took some time to adjust. 'Little Wing' and 'Chickadee', his little baby siblings, he'd say.

He didn't call you that anymore.

It stung just to be around him, especially when he was interacting with someone else in the family. It hurt because that Dick was still there, your Dickie, but he just didn't treat you like that anymore. Instead he gave them- Jason, then Tim, then Damian- the brother that you missed so dearly.

He wasn't mean to you, not like Damian was or even Jason at times. Instead he just seemed uncomfortable around you. Constantly finding an excuse to leave when you two were alone, skipping over you during conversations, and making empty promises when he absolutely had to talk. He'd promised to 'hang out more around the manor and spend some time' with you so many times, but so far, he'd never followed through.

"Um, yeah sorry wasn't expecting to..." There wasn't really a way to phrase this without sounding blunt, "be woken up like that."

He winced exaggeratedly, "Oof, yeah sorry about that. We wanted to tell you about the plan last night at dinner, but you went to bed early and it slipped my mind."

"That's cool, but is there like a special occasion? Is there like a new gallery or do you want to be seen by the press?"

Of course this was when Bruce decided to chip in. Old or injured, you had to remind yourself.

"Again with the press? Honestly, (name), you'd think we don't spend any time together outside of publicity." His tone was clipped again, but fuck it, you weren't going to let him say things like that and pin it on you.

You had a perfectly valid reason for thinking that way, but you couldn't get too mouthy. He wasn't old or injured yet. "Of course not, its just that for a while, the press has been invited to most public places we've gone, I just wanted to know if that would be the same today."

It was a little bold. Reading between the lines, you were directly telling him that every time you'd accompanied them to a public place, it had been for the papers. They'd, obviously, gone many places together as a family field trip, but your invitation never seemed to make it.

With that, you put your head down and started on your plate, Bruce Wayne be damned.

Dick's face fell for a split second, and in a strained voice he said, "No no, nothing like that. Just thought that today was a nice day for an outing. Bruce has some work so he won't be joining us, but we'll have fun. Day out with your big brothers! Oh well, and Damian I suppose, but he'll behave don't worry.

We'll all behave."

And wasn't that ominous? Bruce's 'work' was clearly something Batman related, but why was Dick being so cryptic? And what did he mean by behavior?

You didn't really have time to ask before you felt fingers on the back of your neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(A/n: Here she is! Oh the blood, sweat, and tears that went into this I can't even begin to tell you. But she's out now! I'm not completely happy with this tbh, but I thought that something is better than nothing and that you all deserved more story. Anyway, museum time (!!) next, buckle in for things to start getting a little more intense.

Not too intense tho, because we're still gonna keep this kind of light, but definitely a little more interesting. Well you know the drill, I crave your feedback and I really hope you enjoyed! <3)

He returned your kiss happily. When you parted, he handed you your cup. “Thank you,” you shuddered, wrapping your fingers around the blessed heat. You wore thick gloves, but the cold had seeped deep into your bones.

“I woke up quite late today,” you confessed, leaning your weight against him. Spencer adjusted, slipping his arm around your shoulders, his hand rubbing over your upper arm. “I barely had time to get ready, and then I saw the snow, and then I had to run through the snow,” you sighed, a little exasperated with the morning.

Spencer listened. Carefully, he brushed away the melting snow from your coat, then lifted his hand to gently pick a few flakes from your hair.

“I look terrible,” you mumbled, tucking hair behind your ear.

“You look beautiful.”

A small smile touched your lips, and you turned to nuzzle closer into his side, making him smile.“When’s the subway coming?” you asked, taking a sip of the hot coffee.

“Two minutes,” he said, checking the overhead display.

Spencer knew that the air was bitingly cold. He felt it in the way your body trembled slightly against his side. His hand moved up and down your arm. But, he couldn't feel the cold himself. Not the sting on his cheeks, not the chill seeping through his coat. A warmth had settled in his chest, radiating outwards, insulating him completely. The source was currently taking a careful sip of coffee and he found he couldn't look away.

He stared down at you, utterly captivated, his own coffee forgotten and cooling in his hand. You were watching the rails, but then your gaze, always so observant, a trait he adored, drifted to a businessman nearby. He saw you quint slightly, trying to decipher the small label on a folder in the man’s hand. Spencer had to press his lips together to suppress a fond smile.

Your attention then wandered, drifting slowly downward until you were staring at Spencer's shoes. You stayed like that for a long moment, and Spencer’s heart sped up. He realized exactly what you were doing. You were trying to get a glimpse of his socks without having to ask.

Obliging, he pushed one foot forward slightly, angling it to give you a clear view of his sock. He repeated the motion with the other foot. He knew you were aware of his habit of wearing mismatched socks, and the fact that you took such genuine interest in which patterns he’d chosen today made him incredibly happy.

“Snowflakes and snowmen,” you mumbled. Then you looked up, your eyes meeting his. “They’re so cute, Spencer.”

“They seemed seasonally appropriate,” he smiled softly at you.

You were a remarkably fast coffee drinker. He wasn’t shocked at all to see you drain the last of it just as the approaching train began to vibrate through the platform. A trait that even he regarded with awe.

As the train’s lights appeared in the tunnel, he took your empty cup and tossed your cup into a nearby bin. You thanked him with a delighted smile, already reaching for his hand.

The subway car was relatively empty. Spencer led you to a pair of seats near the middle, a spot he favored for its view. Given you didn't spend much time on the subway, he wanted you to have the window.

"Here," he said softly, gesturing for you to take the seat by the glass before settling in beside you. He finally took a long sip of his own, now lukewarm, coffee. As the doors shut, he noticed you looking around carefully.

Spencer understood instantly. He leaned in closer. "The team doesn't take this subway."

You turned to look at him, your expression one of mild surprise. A guilty smile touched your lips. "Oh. Okay."

Some of the tension seemed to leave your shoulders. You let out a small sigh and slowly lowered your head to rest your cheek against the his coat. He could still see your eyes, though now half-lidded, continuing to track the other passengers.

Only when he felt your body truly relax, did he carefully shift. He lifted his arm from the seatback and draped it around your shoulders, drawing you in a little more.

You pressed closer, turning into him, burying your face i his chest. Spencer's free hand now came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through your hair. He pressed a kiss to your crown.

Feeling you grow heavy against him, he whispered into your hair. "Hey, don't fall asleep on me." He knew you were a deeply groggy waker. Once sleep claimed you, even for ten minutes, it would take you ages to reorient yourself. A state he loved but knew was less than ideal right before a workday.

"Okay," you mumbled. You didn't move an inch.

Spencer smiled to himself, utterly endeared. He held perfectly still, even as his muscles began to protest. He finished his coffee one handed. When the cup was empty, he scanned the car, spotted a small trash bin by the doors, and leaned just far enough to deposit it without jostling you.

“Do you need help with your files today?” Spencer asked softly, turning his head to press his lips to your crown once more.

You thought for a moment. “I think you’ve been helping enough,” you smiled against his chest before raising your head to look at him

“I could always do more.”

“Mmm, no, that’s fine,” you said softly. “Don’t want the others to notice just yet.” You were still keeping your relationship under wraps after all. “Besides, I really don’t have many to work on today. Thank you though.”

Spencer nodded. His gaze remained fixed on you, tracing the lines of your face as the weak winter sun streamed through the grimy window lighting up your profile. The subway car was nearly empty. One of the small perks of being two overworked FBI agents keeping unconventional hours. You smiled, watching him watch you.

He lifted a hand, his fingers tenderly framing the side of your face. Gently, he pulled you closer and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you,” he mumbled against your skin.

You hadn’t seen each other over the weekend. It was unplanned. Spencer had wanted to call, but he’d overthought it. You’d spent most of the previous week together. Three evenings at his apartment lost in books and takeout, followed by two intense days side by side on a draining case. By Friday, doubt had crept in. He wasn’t sure if you’d want more of him so soon.

“I missed you too,” you murmured, your eyelashes fluttering slightly at the tender contact.

He stared at you then, his expression softening. He knew he was looking at you with what Garcia would call “heart eyes,” but in this moment, he didn’t have the capacity to feel self conscious about it. It was nice, more than nice, to know that someone had genuinely missed his presence. Because so often he couldn’t even stand his own.

“Wait,” you mumbled suddenly, pulling away slightly. You turned in your seat and began to rummage through your handbag. “I went shopping this weekend and found something.”

His heart did a funny little skip when you finally let out an “aha!” and pulled out a small object. “Here.”

It was a keychain. A simple one, featuring the iconic Starfleet insignia from Star Trek.

“You mentioned,” your voice softening, “a few months ago, that you used to watch Star Trek with your mom when you were younger. And I saw the DVD sets in your living room.” You looked up at him. “I thought you might like this.”

Your tone held a note of nervousness. You were worried it might seem silly, or that remembering such an offhand detail from a conversation long before you started dating might come across as strange, maybe even intense.

But for Spencer, it was anything but intense. Weird? No. It was the opposite of weird. You had not only listened, but remembered.

He lifted it closer, his thumb brushing over it. “Thank you,” he breathed out, the words feeling utterly insufficient. “That’s really… that’s incredibly thoughtful of you.” He managed the sentence without a single stutter, a victory considering his heart was hammering against his ribs.

You smiled softly, still slightly nervous. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Spencer mumbled, his gaze still locked on the keychain. He loved that it came from you.

Then, he grabbed his satchel. He turned it, found a metal ring on the strap, and carefully clipped the keychain into place. You watched the entire process with a delighted smile.

Finally, he looked up, meeting your eyes. He was completely smitten. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for thinking of me.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied, your own smile now matching his joy.

The two of you seemed to live in these comfortable silences and shared stares. You smiled softly, breaking the quiet.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

You rummaged through your bag again and pulled out a small tube of lip gloss. “Help me?” you asked, handing it to him.

He held it carefully in his palm. He glanced at your gloved hands, then back at the tube.

“Can’t really do it with my gloves on, and I’m freezing—I don’t want to take them off,” you explained, shooting him a grin that was just a little too bright to be entirely innocent.

Spencer squinted his eyes slightly. He had a distinct feeling you weren’t freezing that much anymore, tucked against him as you were. He also had a strong suspicion that you were perfectly capable of applying lip gloss while wearing gloves. It seemed you wanted him to do it. And who was he to deny you anything?

He stared at the lip gloss for a moment before slowly uncapping it. He handed you the cap, which you took, your smile widening. You turned your body slightly towards him.

Spencer held the open tube, examining it. Then his gaze flicked up to your lips. “I’ve never done this before,” he mumbled.

“I know,” you grinned, utterly unhelpful.

He suppressed his own smile. He knew you were doing this on purpose. He lifted his free hand to cradle your jaw, turning your face just slightly towards the light. As he did, your eyes dipped to his neck. Yep. A blush was creeping up above his collar.

“Hey,” you said softly. You took the chance to brush a hand over his thigh. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just some lip gloss. We can reapply it any time.”

He nodded. Right. He was treating this too seriously. He just wanted to do right by you, that was all.

He then softly tilted your chin upward with his thumb. He started at one corner of your upper lip, his eyebrows furrowing in deep concentration as you watched him, your own lips barely holding back a smile. He traced the bow of your lip, then gliding it slowly across. He never wavered, though his hand jerked for a second when the train gave an unexpected lurch.

When he was done, he pulled back slightly, studying his work. “I think I'm done.”

There was no mirror. You’d forgotten your compact in your rush, having packed it in your overnight bag instead of your handbag for what was supposed to be a simple paperwork day. You smiled softly, your lips feeling pleasantly slick “Thank you, Spencer,” you said, taking the lip gloss from his hand and tucking it into your coat pocket.

Spencer’s eyes, however, remained fixed on you. Or, more specifically, on your lips, now gleaming softly.

“What?”

He blinked, his focus shifting to your eyes. “Is it… okay if I kiss you?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing again, this time in genuine uncertainty. He seemed to be confused if it would smudge his work.

“Yeah, of course, but—” you started.

It was too late. The sight of you was irresistible. He leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, his own parting slightly against the slick surface.

You let him kiss you, before you pulled away first. You stared at him. He stared back, confusion and a flicker of worry replacing the earlier satisfaction in his eyes.

“What?”

You bit your lip, not replying, just waiting.

He was about to ask again when he felt it. A tingling sensation on his lips. He immediately bit his own lip, as if to test the feeling, then his fingers came up to tentatively touch his mouth.

“My lips are… burning,” he stated plainly.

You bit your lip again, this time failing to hide your giggle. “I was trying to warn you before you kissed me,” you managed, watching as he brushed the back of his hand over his lips.

“Ouch,” he mumbled to himself.

You giggled again, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound.

“How do you apply this every day?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern as he continued to rub his tingling lips together.

“You get used to it,” you shrugged. You reached up and gently pushed his fidgeting hand away. Leaning closer, you used your thumb to softly wipe away the excess shine from his skin. Sweeping over his top lip, his bottom lip, paying special attention to the corners where the gloss had strayed.

“Thank you,” Spencer mumbled, the words slightly muffled as you worked.

Once you were done, you giggled again and Spencer responded with a long sigh. He pulled you back into his arms, this time pressing a safe kiss to your temple. He kept his face nestled against your hair.

“When am I allowed to kiss you,” he asked, “without feeling like my lips are spontaneously combusting?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “Usually it mellows out in about 15 to 30 minutes.”

Spencer let out the most dramatic sigh imaginable and you giggled again, nestling closer. You knew he wouldn’t be able to last that long without stealing another kiss.

You were sprawled on your stomach on Spencer's bed, chin propped on a pillow, slowly turning the pages of a book.

It was a children’s book, one Spencer had had since he was small. He hadn’t exactly handed it to you. You’d discovered it peeking from a shelf earlier, and when you’d held it up with a questioning glance, he’d simply nodded, before he’d vanished into the bathroom.

You were deeply curious about tiny Spencer. You traced the illustrations, wondering which parts had captivated that brilliant young mind the most. On the inside of the back cover, you saw a slightly faded sticker. A perfect pink heart. You could almost see the focused little boy, tongue peeking out in concentration, pressing it there.

A moment later, the mattress dipped beside you. Spencer's warm hand came to rest on your back on top of your sweater. You turned your head, resting your chin on your shoulder to look up at him.

“Interesting book,” you smiled.

He smiled back. “It was my favorite.” His hand began moving along your spine, then slipped beneath your sweater to rest against the bare skin of your waist. You shivered.

“Cold,” you mumbled, though you made no move to pull away, turning your gaze back to the book. His hands were always cold.

He just squeezed your waist apologetically, before his hand retreated to rub circles over the fabric again.

“I’m going to wash my hair,” he announced after a moment. “And then I’ll do yours, okay?”

Earlier, when you’d first arrived, you’d caught him sliding a book under a stack of papers. With a little teasing, he’d reluctantly showed you it. It was a book on simple hairstyles for fathers and their daughters. He’d confessed that he’d noticed you often experimenting in front of his mirror and sometimes seen you sigh and give up on a particularly tricky braid or twist.

“I just thought… I could make it easier for you. Be an extra set of hands,” he’d admitted. “So far, I’ve only truly mastered the basic three strand braid.” (He’d practiced, you later learned, on wool from his knitting supplies.)

You closed the book placing it on the nightstand before rolling onto your back. Spencer’s hand, which had been resting on your back, shifted to accommodate the movement, his hand now resting on your stomach.

You propped your head up on the pillow to look at him. He was watching you, waiting for your ‘okay’ to go start his routine.

“Do you need any help?” the words slipping out before you could overthink them.

“Help?” Spencer’s hand stilled. His brow furrowed slightly. “It’s just a quick wash.”

You sat up, drawing your knees to your chest. Spencer’s hand drifted from your stomach to rest on your pulled up knees. “I know,” you murmured. You reached out, your fingers gently tucking a curl behind his ear. The gesture made his eyes soften. “I just thought… I could help.” You tilted your head, offering a small smile.

Spencer’s eyebrows knitted together more deeply. The concept seemed to genuinely puzzle him. In, wash, out, back to you in under ten minutes. That was his usual routine. He’d never considered it a two person activity.

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” you added quickly, seeing the gears turning in his head. You didn’t want him to feel pressured.

But he was already shaking his head. “No, it’s okay,” he replied. “You can help, if you want to.”

“I’d love to,” you smiled.

You swung your legs off the bed and stood. Spencer, still looking adorably perplexed, remained seated for a second before you reached for his hands. He took them , letting you pull him to his feet. You led him to the bathroom, flipping on the light to reveal the neat space.

You both stared at the bathtub for a moment. “Should I get you a chair?”

Spencer shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I can sit on the floor.” He gestured toward the bath mat.

You bit your lip, your concern obvious.

“The floor is clean,” he said softly, his gaze holding yours. He knew you were wondering if he was forcing himself to push past his germaphobia just to indulge you. He gave your hand a little squeeze. “I cleaned it thoroughly two days ago.”

“Okay,” you relented. “Do you want to lean forward?” you asked, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows in preparation.

But Spencer shook his head. “No,” he said softly. Instead of kneeling to face the tub, he settled on the mat, sitting with his back against its side. He was tall enough that by tipping his head back, it could rest perfectly over the rim, his neck cradled by the porcelain edge.

You knelt beside him, resting your weight on your bent legs. Spencer’s head was tilted back, his eyes looking up at you from an inverted angle.

“Does this not hurt your neck?” you asked, unable to hide the concern in your voice.

“No,” he replied. You still looked doubtful but didn’t press further.

Spencer fell quiet, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this. Having his hair washed by someone else? Was it a normal thing for couples to do? The last time had been his mother, when he was thirteen and had the flu too badly to manage it himself.

He was slightly bewildered by everything, yet he felt fuzzy and warm. Logically, he could have done this himself, more efficiently and in less time. Yet, he wanted you to continue. So he stayed perfectly still.

You stood up and gathered a stack of hand towels, returning to kneel beside him. “Lift your head for a second,” you murmured. He complied, and you carefully bundled the soft cotton beneath his neck. He immediately let out a relieved sigh.

You smiled softly at the sound, though it felt a bit strained. Nerves of your own were beginning to flutter. You bit your lip, focusing on the task. Gently, you combed your fingers through his loose curls, spreading them out over the edge of the tub to ensure they were all gathered.

“Would you like to take your sweater off?” you suggested softly, your hand drifting from his hair to rest lightly on his chest. “You might get wet.”

“No.”

The word came out louder and harsher than he’d intended, startling both of you. His own abruptness made him flinch.

“Sorry,” he whispered immediately. He cleared his throat. “No, I’d… I’d prefer to keep it on.” His hand came up, his long fingers gently covering yours where it still rested on his sweater. He’d half expected you to pull away after his sudden loudness, but you didn't.

“Okay.” Your fingers squeezed his before you slowly withdrew your hand. “I’m going to turn on the water, okay?” you asked softly, reaching for the shower head. Spencer gave a soft hum. You arranged the bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the tub’s ledge, then finally turned the knob.

You stood, bending over as you tested the temperature on your inner wrist before directing the stream onto his crown. He flinched, but instantly stilled as your fingers followed the water, smoothing his curls and shielding his forehead.

After a while, you glanced down and found him watching you. You smiled and a smile immediately spread across his face.

After a couple of minutes, you turned the water off, setting the shower head aside to apply the shampoo. But you paused, your forearms leaning on the edge of the tub as you looked at him.

“Spencer.” You said his name so sweetly he almost melted right there.

“Hm?” He turned his head slightly toward the sound of your voice. The only sounds were the drip… drip… from the shower head and the soft patter of water falling from his hair onto the porcelain.

“You can close your eyes,” you whispered. “It’s just me.” Your thumb stroked across his temple. “I won’t hurt you.”

You couldn’t know for certain, but you could imagine. You could imagine what showering in a place like prison had been like for him. The constant vigilance. You wondered if the bloodshot eyes he had had when you interrogated hadn't just from sleep deprivation, but from shampoo stinging his corneas because closing his eyes for even a second felt like a risk.

Spencer stared at you, utterly caught off guard. “I know you won’t,” he whispered back after a while.

You could see him thinking it over. Your hand drifted down, coming to rest softly on his chest. He didn’t seem to care that your palm was damp. You waited, giving him all the time he needed. And then, he let his eyelids fall shut.

In the quiet, he could practically hear your proud smile.

When you turned the water back on to rinse, he flinched again, his eyes flying open. But your hand was there, brushing over his chest, and he let his eyelids drift shut once more. Your hand then drifted back to his hair, working through his curls.

Five peaceful minutes passed, filled with the sound of running water and the soft scent of his shampoo. You bent lower, your lips near his ear. “You okay?”

Spencer’s response was a thumbs up. The gesture was so unexpected that a giggle escaped you.

At one point, you got momentarily distracted reaching for the conditioner bottle. Your grip on the shower head shifted and a sudden shot directly across his cheek and into his nose.

Spencer bolted upright with a gasp, water streaming down his face.

You stared at him in utter horror, your free hand flying to your mouth. “Oh, Spencer, I’m so—”

But before you could finish the apology, he chuckled. He swiped the water from his eyes, blinking rapidly, and looked down at his now thoroughly drenched sweater. A genuine laugh followed.

Your own panic melted into relieved giggles. “I’m so sorry!” you laughed.

“It’s fine,” he chuckled, shaking his head like a wet puppy, sending a few droplets your way. “Really. Just… a bit of a shock to the system.”

He settled back against the tub, rearranging the towel under his neck with a wry smile. “Don’t try to drown me again, please.”

“I’ll try my best,” you grinned, before you went back to work.

After a while, a comfortable quiet settled over the bathroom, broken only by the patter of water. Spencer’s hand, which had been absently resting on your calf, would occasionally give a gentle squeeze, making you smile. But after about ten minutes, the touches stopped. His hand went slack against your leg.

You glanced over, your gaze drifting from his pretty face to the watch on his wrist. Ten minutes. Exactly. The ten minutes he’d been allotted and had forced himself to adhere to in a very different place.

Spencer’s eyes were shut tight now, but not in peace. You could see the clench of his jaw. He was trying to force the memories back. He remembered scrubbing his skin raw and red, convinced it was the only way to scour away not just dirt, but the pervasive feeling of violation.

He squeezed his eyes tighter, until you turned the shower head off.

“Spencer.” Your whisper was so soft.

“Yeah?” he kept his eyes shut, afraid of what you might see in them if he opened them.

“You’re in your bathroom,” you murmured. “I promise, nothing bad will happen here.” You let the assurance hang for a moment. “We can take all the time we want washing your hair. It’s okay. There’s no timer.” Your wet hand came up to his cheek, your thumb brushing tenderly over his skin.

Spencer’s eyelids fluttered, then opened, meeting your gaze. What he found there wasn’t pity or impatience, but tenderness that made his throat feel tight.

“It’s just us,” you whispered again.

A flush of embarrassment tried to warm his cheeks, but it evaporated before it could fully form, chased away by the pure affection he saw in your eyes. He didn’t dare be cocky, but he knew things,he was a genius, after all, and he knew the meaning of that tender look. A shaky smile touched his lips.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Nothing to apologize for.”

He also noticed that you didn’t stand up after that. You remained kneeling on the floor beside him, your knees brushing against his thigh.

Spencer appreciated that more than words could express. His heart felt too large and too tender for his chest, and a wave of emotion threatened to crest behind his eyes. It was a kindness like yours he hadn't allowed himself to experience in years, maybe ever. He was certain a tear had escaped, mingling with the bathwater on his temple, and he was equally certain you had seen it, because one of your hands slipped from his hair to the skin of his neck, your thumb stroking his pulse point.

In that moment, he resisted an almost overwhelming urge to pull you into his lap and simply hold you and not let go until morning. The thought that someone like you would devote such care to him…

Twenty minutes passed. It was only when you finally turned the water off for the last time that Spencer connected the dots. He’d seen you glance at his watch. Not just once, repeatedly. You had stopped at the twenty minute mark. Not ten.

You hadn’t just wanted to help. You had done this on purpose. You had seen the prison schedule he still imposed on himself and you had deliberately broken it for him. You had shown him it was safe to take his time, that the old rules no longer applied here. His heart ached with a gratitude so intense it was almost painful.

As you let your fingers drift through his rinsed curls, checking for any lingering shampoo, he raised his head. Water dripped freely from his hair onto his already damp sweater, but he didn’t care.

Then, he gently took the shower head from your hand. You gave it over, a look of confusion knitting your brows. What you certainly didn’t expect was for him to flick the water back on and direct a spray right at your shoulder and chest.

You let out a startled yelp, jumping back slightly. “Spencer!”

He turned the water off, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “Revenge,” he stated simply. He was about to set the shower head back in its cradle, when you snatched the shower head right back. With a quick flick of your wrist, you sent a spray directly at his hip. A surprised laugh burst from him, and just like that, a full blown water war erupted in the bathroom.

For the next five minutes, you both ducked and weaved, trying to gain control of the spray until Spencer finally held it high above your head, both of you utterly drenched from head to toe.

He finally placed the shower head back in its cradle. He sat on the edge of the tub and you slumped down next to him. A contented sigh left you as you leaned your dripping head against his shoulder. “Guess we both just took a shower,” your voice still laced with giggles.

Spencer pressed a kiss to your wet hair. “You started it.”

“I guess I did,” you grinned.

He just leaned his cheek against the top of your head, a serene smile on his face as he soaked in the moment. After a while, you lifted your head to start tidying, putting the caps back on the shampoo bottles and lining them up on the tub’s ledge.

As you were rearranging them, Spencer’s hand came to rest on your arm. “You’re freezing,” he mumbled concerned.

He took your chilled hand in his and led you, dripping a trail on the floor, back to the bedroom. There, he went straight to his dresser, pulling out a soft sweater. “Here,” he said, handing it to you.

You didn’t need telling twice. You hurriedly peeled off your soaked shirt and pulled his sweater over your head. As you buried your nose in the collar, you heard him rummaging in the closet for a dry one for himself.

“I’ll just put this in the wash bag,” you said, holding up your wet shirt before padding back to the bathroom. You took a moment to wring it out over the tub before dropping it into the hamper.

When you returned to the bedroom, Spencer had his back to you, his damp shirt already off. He had his bare back to you, a towel in his hands as he roughly ruffled it through his hair, his other hand clutching the curls at his nape as if wringing out the last of the water.

The sight was unexpected and you panicked. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like this. You immediately averted your eyes.

You turned on your heel and retreated back into the bathroom, pulling the door almost shut behind you. You would wait for the call of your name or the sound of a drawer closing, before you ventured back out.

You certainly didn’t expect him to follow you. But a moment later, the bathroom door nudged open wider, and Spencer stepped in, dropping his own wet shirt into the bag. He came to stand quietly behind you.

“Is my sweater warm enough?” he asked softly, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. He gently turned you around to check for himself, his gaze scanning for any goosebumps.

When you faced him, he was still shirtless. Your eyes, wide with surprise, flew to his face instead of letting your eyes wander. You were confused, extremely so. But Spencer seemed… fine. More than fine.

“Yeah—yeah, it’s warm,” your voice quieter than you intended. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You kept your eyes locked on his, until he gave a small smile and walked past you.

He went to the bathroom cabinet behind the mirror, opening it to retrieve some cream.

Without overthinking, the words left your lips. “Do you need help?”

Spencer met your eyes in the mirror’s reflection, and his answer was devoid of his usual hesitation. “Yes.”

You moved to stand beside him as he leaned back against the sink, offering you the tube. You took it, your fingers brushing his. “Where exactly?”

He didn’t speak, just lifted a hand and pointed to the left side of his ribcage. The place where the worst of the blows had landed in prison. The bruises were no longer visible, but pain still flared up during stressful days in the field.

You squeezed a small amount of the cream onto your fingertip. “Is that enough?” you asked, holding it up.

He nodded, a slight nervousness finally flickering in his eyes as he watched you. The last time he’d been shirtless in front of someone, was prison.

As you began to apply the cream to the spot, your slightly wet hands made contact with his warm skin. He shuddered for a second and you smiled apologetically.

While you worked, Spencer’s own hands came up to touch your hair. His fingers combed through the damp strands, brushing them back from your forehead before twirling a single curl around his index finger. He smiled softly, watching you with an expression of such tenderness it made your heart skip. You were so pretty, he thought, and so sweet, your brow furrowed in concentration as you tended to him with a care he hadn’t known in years.

He lifted his hand from your hair to gently frame your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. Your eyelashes fluttered at the touch, but you didn’t pull away, your hands still working gently on his side. You reached for a little more cream.

Spencer's chin dipped to his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure what had shifted in him during those twenty minutes under the water. But suddenly, standing here shirtless before you didn’t feel as scary as he thought it would be. You had been so tender while washing his hair, that he couldn't imagine feeling this vulnerable, with anyone else.

He let his hand fall away from your face, giving you back the space to finish.

You worked until the last of the cream was absorbed, then closed the tube and placed it back in the cabinet. Before you could even ask if he needed anything else, his arms were around you, pulling you into a hug.

You didn’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around him in return. Your hands slid up and down his bare back chasing away the last of the chill from the bathroom. Spencer buried his face in the curve of your neck, breathing in the scent of his own sweater on your skin, holding you so tightly around the waist.

“Thank you so much,” Spencer whispered into the warmth of your neck. “For everything.” He nuzzled even deeper. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

Your hands continued their path up and down the bare skin of his back. “You’re welcome,” you whispered.

You pulled back just enough to frame his face with your hands, your thumbs stroking his cheeks. The smile you gave him made him smile right back. He leaned in, closing the small distance to kiss you. You kissed him back, your hands now falling to rest lightly at your sides.

Spencer broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch. His hands came up to cradle your face. “You can touch me,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

You nuzzled into his palm, smiling softly before your gaze drifted down, drawn back to the place on his ribs. “Does it hurt a lot?” your hands lifted, coming to rest lightly on his waist.

He shook his head, his own hands moving to thread gently through your damp hair, brushing it back from your forehead. “Only when I twist my torso too much.”

You nodded, your attention still focused on him. Your thumb came up to brush over the area of the old injury. “You have a birthmark here,” you mumbled, your finger drifting to the opposite side of his ribs.

Spencer glanced down. “Yeah,” he said, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched you trace your thumb over it.

“Cute,” you mumbled, almost to yourself, before finally looking up to meet his gaze again. His smile combined with the affection in his eyes, suddenly made you shy. And you ducked your head, stepping back into his arms and pressing your face against his chest.

Spencer hugged you back instantly. One arm around your waist, while his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.

Five minutes later, with a soft sweater now covering his torso, Spencer settled you in front of him on the bed. He sat with his legs parted, creating space for you to sit between them, your back to his chest. He gathered your hair in his hands, thankfully not so wet anymore.

He began to brush it in a way that made your eyes drift shut. “Do you want one braid or two?” he asked, his voice close to your ear.

“Two? If that’s okay with you?”

“Yeah. I think I can manage that.” His hands drifted from your hair to your hips, giving them a squeeze, siletly asking you to scoot back closer to him. You immediately complied, settling more firmly against his chest and crossing your legs in front of you.

Spencer parted your hair down the middle, dividing it into two equal sections. He started with your left side, while you busied your hands by toying with the fabric of his sweatpants around his knees.

“You have really pretty hair,” Spencer mumbled, almost to himself.

You turned your head to look at him, causing him to quickly grip the half formed braid. You smiled at him as your free hand drifted up to touch a curl at his own temple. “So do you.”

Spencer’s response was to lean forward and press a sweet kiss to your lips, his smile transferring from his mouth to yours. You grinned against his lips before turning your back to him once more.

In the comfortable quiet, he suddenly spoke. “Do you like puzzles?”

He finished the first braid, securing the end with a small hair tie he’d produced from the pocket of his sweatpants. You tilted your head back to rest against his shoulder, looking up at him. “I think so. I haven’t done one in a while, but I used to love them when I was a kid,” you smiled, letting yourself relax into his chest.

Spencer’s arms immediately came around your waist, holding you gently against him. “Would you like to do one with me?” he asked, his tone hesitant. “Sometime? Whenever you feel like it?”

You glanced up and caught a certain tiredness in his eyes. Wanting to let him rest, you slowly sat forward again, giving him better access to your other side so he could finish the second braid more quickly.

He continued, his fingers starting on the second section of hair. “I saw one with a sunflower field in the store,” he said. “And there was another one with two swans. I think you’d like those. They’re only five hundred pieces, so it wouldn’t take us too long.”

You were about to agree to his plans, but he just kept on talking. “Did you know that swans mate for life? They perform these elaborate courtship dances—dipping their heads underwater, ruffling their feathers, and nudging each other.”

Because you loved the sound of his voice, you didn’t immediately realize he was rambling because he was nervous. It wasn’t until you noticed the second braid was taking much longer than the first, his fingers fumbling slightly over the strands, that you understood.

You looked over your shoulder. “Spencer.”

He stopped talking immediately, his hands stilling in your hair.

“Why are you so nervous?” you whispered.

Spencer dropped his hands from the half formed braid, realizing it was uneven anyway. He let out a sigh as you turned in his arms, shifting so you were facing him, your knees bumping against his thighs. His gaze was somewhere over your shoulder, unable to meet your eyes.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. A faint blush colored his cheeks. “You make me nervous.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed again, the words tumbling out in an embarrassed whisper. “You’re really nice to me, and you’re really pretty.” He chanced a quick glance at your face before looking away again. Obviously there was much more he wanted to say, but his fear of being too much remained. So, he stuck with these two adjectives. “And sometimes I think I’m dreaming.”

He swallowed, his voice dropping even lower. “I just… I can’t believe you’re here. And sometimes I worry that you won’t be one day.” He finally met your eyes.

You tilted your head even further, and for a split second, something flickered in your eyes, pain? he wasn't sure, but it was gone so quickly Spencer was sure he’d imagined it.

“I’m here as long as you want me to be, Spencer.”

Spencer could have sworn, for just a moment, that your smile seemed pained around the edges, but then your hands came up to gently frame his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

“You don’t have to be nervous around me,” you murmured. “I like you just the way you are. And you’re really wonderful, Spencer Reid.”

Spencer felt dizzy from the sheer kindness you offered so freely.

“And I’d love to do a puzzle with you,” you continued, your smile warming again. “The swan one seems lovely.”

The tension seeped out of his shoulders. He nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “Okay.” he whispered, the word full of happiness.

You smiled softly. “Okay,” you whispered back.

You stared at each other for a while, just smiling. Mostly, it was him gently twirling the one finished braid that rested over your shoulder, his fingers playing with the end of it, before you finally turned back around.

He pressed a kiss to the patch of bare skin on your shoulder. You knew it was his wordless way of thanking you. You just squeezed his knee beside you as his fingers began weaving the second braid.

Once he was done, you immediately scrambled up from the bed. “Be right back!” you chirped, padding quickly to the bathroom to see yourself in the mirror.

Spencer remained sitting cross legged on the bed, listening. A moment later, a delighted squeak echoed from the bathroom, and he couldn’t help the proud smile that spread across his face. That smile only grew when you bounded back into the room, still beaming, and launched yourself onto the mattress beside him with a happy bounce.

“You are a professional, Spencer Reid!” you declared, your eyes shining. You knelt on the bed facing him, taking his face in your hands. “I’m so proud of you.” Then you proceeded to cover his face in kisses, one on his lips, another at the corner of his smiling mouth, a final peck on the tip of his nose.

Spencer’s heart hammered against his ribs. It was an almost disorienting happiness. A part of him still couldn’t reconcile that this domestic bliss was supposed to be his life.

You finally plopped down beside him, sinking into the pillows with a contented sigh. You gazed up at the ceiling for a second before lifting a hand to gently feel the braids, a soft smile playing on your lips.

Spencer watched you for a long moment. Then, he quietly got up and moved to the door, flicking off the main light. The room was only illuminated only by the two small nightlights on each side of the bed.

He settled into bed and you didn’t hesitate to curl into his side. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close until your legs tangled with his. Spencer rested his head against yours, his damp hair cool against your temple.

You squirmed playfully. “Your hair is still wet,” you mumbled, as a few stray droplets dripped onto your cheek.

In response, Spencer just shook his head more vigorously, a mischievous grin on his face.

You giggled, trying to wriggle away from the damp assault. He stopped immediately when you managed to put a few inches of space between you, turning his head to look at you with a soft smile. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he conceded.

He pulled you back by the waist, settling you against him once more.

Spencer’s favorite thing, he realized in that moment, was how wonderful silence could be with you. He used to despise it more than anything, the silence only amplified his own loneliness. But prison had been filled with terrifying noise. Afterward, he had craved his silence. Yet that, too, had its cost, leaving him alone with his own thoughts.

Having you in his arms was the perfect solution. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn't quiet, either. You were someone he loved being around, someone who, without even trying, quieted the storms in his mind.

Overwhelmed by a surge of pure gratitude, Spencer pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. Then another. And another, until a trail of gentle kisses dotted your hairline.

You simply smiled into his chest.

After a while, you shifted, propping your chin on his chest to look up at him. “Where else do you have birthmarks?”

Spencer tilted his head on the pillow to look at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Why?”

“Just curious,” you smiled, your fingers playing with his sweater.

He thought for a second, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. “You saw the one on my ribs,” he mumbled.

You nodded, your hand wandering to the hem of his sweater, your fingertips brushing the skin just above his waistband. You glanced up at him, waiting for permission. Spencer looked down at your hand, then back at your face, and gave your waist a squeeze.

Slowly, you slipped your hand under the soft fabric, pulling it up just enough to reveal the small mark you’d seen earlier. You brushed your thumb over it. “Pretty,” you mumbled.

He shivered at the touch, his breath hitching slightly before he spoke again. “I think there’s one on my hip, too.”

You glanced down, letting your hand drift lower until you found it. “Oh yeah,” you smiled. He watched your face, his own smile soft.

“Do you have any birthmarks?” he asked, his fingers splaying over the small of your back.

“Yeah,” you smiled. You tugged at the hem of your sweater pulling it up to reveal your side. You pointed to a spot just above your waist. “Here.”

He leaned in closer, squinting in the dim light. “It looks like a little heart,” he mumbled. He slowly let go of you to prop himself up on one elbow, peering at the mark.

“Yeah, it kinda does,” you agreed, your smile widening as he traced its outline with the very tip of his index finger. You let your hand drift back into his hair, combing through the still damp curls at his temple.

“Any others?”

You lifted the sweater a little further, guiding his attention to a spot between your ribs. Spencer’s eyes found it immediately. He touched it softly. You kept your hand in his hair, gently brushing it back from his forehead.

His fingers stilled and his expression shifted subtly. “Where did you get that scar from?” he asked, his finger moving to gently trace a thin line a few inches below the birthmark on your ribs.

You looked down, your own hands drifting to cover his where they rested on your stomach. “P.E.,” you mumbled, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips. “In high school. Tried to be impressive on the uneven bars. It… didn’t go well. Hurt like hell.”

Spencer’s face immediately fell into a sympathetic pout. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the old scar once more, as if he could somehow soothe the long ago hurt. He laid back down next to you.

Your hands drifted beneath his sweater. “You have scars, too,” you mumbled. You’d seen them earlier, but hadn’t commented. But now, with him asking about yours, you felt you could gently broach the subject.

Your fingers found the ridge of one just above his hip bone. You didn’t lift his sweater, but you knew where it was from your earlier glimpse.

“Yeah,” he breathed, the word slightly breathless, more from the tenderness of your touch than from any discomfort. You traced the first one, asking the question with just a gentle touch.

“Prison.” was all he said.

You could feel your own fingers twitch for a second, before you consciously softened your touch again. He saw you bite your lip, realizing how long and deep it was.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers brushing up and down through your hair. Then, his other hand came up and slowly pulled the hem of his own sweater up, baring his entire torso to the soft light. He seemed surprised by his own action, and so were you. He leaned his head back against the pillow, tilting it so he could keep watching your face, his hand remaining on the back of your head.

You traced the scar for a while, before your fingers moved to another, this one on the soft skin at the side of his waist. You looked up at him waiting.

He hesitated, his breath catching. But as he stared at you, taking in your sweet eyes, the way you subconsciously leaned into the hand cradling your head the adoring look on your face, the words felt less dangerous.

He swallowed. “School,” he whispered. He bit the inside of his cheek nervously, but your expression didn’t change. “I was pushed around by a couple of students during lunch. Ended up on a metal fence.” The admission was almost lost in the rustle of the sheets, but you heard it. You heard the old, buried humiliation.

He had just admitted to you that he’d been bullied in school. For some reason, that felt harder. He knew you knew about the violence in prison. But for you to also know he’d been pushed around, hurt, as a boy… it shamed him. Embarrassment crept up his neck. He was a grown man, an FBI agent, yet it felt like nothing had changed. He had always been a victim, the one shoved against fences, the one overpowered, never quite able to save himself. and now he'd told you about it. Exposed himself.

You traced the scar softly, your touch unbearably gentle, before looking up at him. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Spencer shook his head, brushing his thumb over the curve of your skull. “Not your fault,” he whispered back, his voice thick.

Then, slowly, he took your hand with his free one, guiding it away from his side and laying it flat over his heart, before tugging the hem of his sweater back down. You saw the shadow of shame that had fallen over his eyes.

You probably thought his reluctance was about the bullying scars, about not wanting to revisit any more of that. And that was part of it. But it wasn’t all of it.

There was another mark, a small one, tucked just under his ribcage. He didn’t want you to see it. Not tonight. It was tiny, almost insignificant, but he knew with your eye for detail, you’d find it, and you’d ask. And he couldn’t tell you that story.

Not the story of how his mom, in the middle of an episode when he was ten, had lashed out with a hand that usually only stroked his hair or turned the pages of a book. It wasn’t her fault. She had no control. He’d never blamed her, not for a second. But the tiny scar was a relic of a home life that could be physically fraught, too.

He knew your empathy had no bounds. He’d already asked so much of it tonight. He couldn’t lay this at your feet, too.

And more than that… he wanted you to meet his mom one day. He dreamed of it. He wanted you to see for yourself what a wondrous, brilliant, sweet person she was, to hear her laugh and discuss literature with her. He didn’t want that future meeting to be shadowed, even in the slightest, by your knowledge of that one small mark. He wanted you to know her, not the illness.

Spencer looked down as you settled more heavily against his chest. He brushed the hair away from your forehead with the very tips of his fingers. He could feel it in the way your head would lift slightly, then sink back down, as if fighting to stay awake just a moment longer.

He knew that sign. You were about to kiss him goodnight. You never went to sleep without it.

Anticipating you, he immediately tilted his head down, accommodating you so you wouldn’t have to stir too much. He nudged his nose gently against yours. You smiled, your eyes still closed, and met his lips in a slow kiss.

He kissed you back, his hand cradling the back of your head, and he let the kiss linger, stretching it out.

When you pulled back, a happy sigh escaped you, your eyes remained shut, a serene smile on your lips. Spencer nuzzled his nose against yours once more.

Then, you dropped your head back onto his chest, tightening your hold around his waist. His hand wandered down to rest on the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing up and down in a way he knew usually helped lull you to sleep.

It worked. It didn’t take five minutes before your breathing deepened, your body going completely limp against his.

Spencer smiled to himself, his eyes tracing your face in the soft glow of the nightlight. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight. He rarely did, not truly. The ghosts were often too loud.

He held you a little tighter, resting his cheek against the top of your head. You were just too bright, he thought. Maybe, tonight his ghosts would stay away.

Spencer was just sliding the last plate into the cupboard when his phone chimed. A glance at the screen made him smile. He swiped to answer, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Hi.” He could almost feel the smile in your voice when he answered.

“Hi, Spencer.” In the background, he detected the subtle rustle of fabric. Bed sheets, he deduced. You were in bed.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” you murmured, and he heard another shift, as if you were pulling the covers closer.

“Never,” he replied instantly. He put away a glass. “I was actually just thinking about you.”

“While doing your dishes?” you asked, skepticism coloring your words. You’d clearly heard the sound of glass.

A chuckle escaped him. “Yes. Specifically, while rinsing out the mug you used for your tea earlier.” He held the ceramic cup for a moment, tracing the rim with his thumb.

On the other end, he heard the sound of a smile. “Oh.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. Then, you whispered, “I miss you.”

The admission, coming just four hours after you’d hugged him goodbye at his door, made his heart swell.

“I miss you, too.”

As he closed the empty dishwasher and wiped his hands on a towel, the quiet of his apartment amplified your absence. It seemed colder too.

He could hear you shifting again. “Are you sure you’re not tired of me yet?” you mumbled. “I feel like I’ve been practically living at your place lately.”

“No,” he said firmly as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’m not tired of you. I never could be.” He closed a cupboard before adding, “And I love having you here. I already miss you messing up my bookshelf.”

Your embarrassed giggle made him smile. “Sorry,” you said, not sounding sorry at all. “I just… I really love looking at the things you love.”

For a fleeting second, a thought danced on the tip of his tongue. A quip about how if you wanted to see what he loved, all you’d need was a mirror. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and gave a slight shake of his head. It was too soon, too much.

“I don’t mind it at all. Really.” He pushed off from the counter, the conversation making the empty apartment feel a little less vast. “In fact, it’s starting to look a little too perfect in here. You should come over tomorrow and fix that.”

He could hear you smiling into the phone. He could almost see it. The image was so clear in his mind it made his own smile deepen as he slowly made his way to the bathroom.

“What are you up to?” he asked softly, setting the phone on the speaker setting and placing it on the sink.

“Oh, just laying in bed,” you said, your voice muffled slightly as if you’d turned into your pillow. A yawn followed the words. “I’m tired, but… I wanted to hear your voice before I drifted off.”

He smiled as he squeezed a stripe of toothpaste onto his brush. “Did you get a chance to continue your new book?” Spencer asked, beginning to brush his teeth.

He could hear you lighting up immediately. “Yes! It’s honestly amazing so far. Which, you wouldn’t necessarily think, considering it’s high fantasy, but the world building is so easy to understand. The first few chapters aren’t confusing at all. It’s fascinating really! The author…”

Spencer loved this. Listening to you talk so passionately about the things you love. He rinsed, spat, and wiped his mouth. By the time he was finished, he joined your ramble by asking a bunch of questions.

A comfortable silence settled between you again as he chose his sleepwear. “Which pyjamas did you choose?”

Of course you were listening that intently. He finished changing and slipped into bed. “Just a white t-shirt and some loose brown pants,” he said, pulling the covers up to his waist.

He heard you let out a wistful sigh. “And you look so handsome in those, and I’m missing out.”

The comment was so bold, that it startled a loud laugh from him.

“Is that so?” he managed, his voice still laced with laughter as he settled deeper into his pillows, the phone resting beside his head. You just giggled in confirmation.

Spencer’s phone buzzed loudly against his ear, making him flinch slightly. He pulled it away just enough to see a notification flash across the screen before settling it back against his cheek.

“Who’s texting you?”

“Garcia,” he said, shifting to lie flat on his back, his gaze fixed on his bedroom ceiling. His phone buzzed again.

“Why?” you asked, surprise coloring your tone. It was a fair question. Garcia was many things, but she was also deeply protective. After his time in prison, she’d become meticulous about his boundaries, offering outings but never pressing when he declined.

“She wants me to go out to a bar tonight,” Spencer sighed. He traced on his duvet with his finger.

“Really?” you sounded genuinely taken aback.

“Yeah,” he hummed. “She says it’ll be ‘good for me to mingle with people outside the BAU.’” He quoted her likely text verbatim, just as his phone buzzed a third time.

A silence stretched on your end of the line this time. He could almost feel the shift in the atmosphere. His heart sped up.

“Hey,” he said, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Your reply came after a beat, and then you added, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the static, “Garcia wants to set you up.”

Spencer’s eyebrows knitted together. “No, she doesn’t,” he countered immediately. “She just wants me to… meet people. Socialize.”

“Girls,” you corrected gently. “She wants you to meet girls, Spencer.”

“No, I—I don’t think that’s what she meant,” he stuttered, the rational part of his brain already connecting the dots he’d been trying to ignore. Garcia’s unusual insistence, the specific venue of a bar, the phrasing about ‘mingling.’

“Yeah,” your voice so quiet that it made his stomach twist. “It is.”

The line went quiet again, but this silence was heavy. Spencer felt a cold dread pool in his gut, scrambling his usually precise thoughts. The only thing that felt clear was the need to erase that tone from your voice.

“I’m not interested,” he finally blurted out. “I don’t… I don’t want to meet any girls.”

This time, he could hear the weak sound of your smile returning. “Well,” you said, and the soft warmth was seeping back into your tone, “that’s good to know.”

Relief washed over him. He bit his lower lip, a nervous habit, and tugged at the edge of his covers. His inexperience was showing as he nervously waited for you to say something else. You didn't.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Are you… are you upset?”

“Upset?” you repeated, genuine concern in your voice. “Why would I be upset?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He could feel his cheeks warm, grateful you couldn't see him. His lack of experience in relationships was showing again. “I just… I wanted to make sure.”

“I’m not upset, Spencer. I promise.”

A long pause followed. An extremely long one. Spencer didn’t break it. He sensed you were gathering your thoughts, on the verge of saying something more.

“But,” you began, then hesitated. “If you were interested in meeting other girls… I wouldn’t be mad at you.”

Spencer froze. His brilliant brain short circuited. “What?” he asked, the confusion in his voice utterly genuine.

“I’m just saying—” you continued softly, and he heard the faint rustle of your sheets as you shifted. “If you had any interest in wanting to meet someone else, you could. It’s… it’s okay.”

Okay? Nothing about that concept felt okay. A jumble of emotions, confusion, hurt, frustration, overcame him. He sat up abruptly in bed, the comforter pooling around his waist as he pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Why would I want that?” The question came out sharper than he intended.

He heard your small intake of breath. “I don’t know,” you said quietly, pulling back as you clearly registered the tone in his voice. “Forget I said anything.”

Spencer immedaitely felt guitly. He hadn’t meant to sound so irritated. He was just… he wasn’t comprehending. The reason behind you offering him an out ,he didn’t want and had never asked for, eluded him.

The silence stretched again. His phone buzzed against his ear and then buzzed again a moment later. The intrusive sound highlighted the quiet on your end.

He rested his elbows on his knees, phone still pressed to his ear. He brushed a hand over his face, trying to find the right words.

“I like you,” he said slowly. “Only you. And you’re my girlfriend.” He bit his finger nail nervously before pressing his palm against his knee “I have no interest in being with anyone else but you. Zero. None.”

He held his breath after the declaration, his free hand once again moving to rub over his brow, waiting. He was about to say your name, to check if you were still there, when you finally spoke.

“Okay.” It was a whisper. And you sounded… off. Choked up.

His own throat constricted in response. Had he said something wrong? Had he been too blunt? But then you spoke again, and your voice sounded normal again.

“Thank you.”

He bit his lip nervously, his fingers finding the edge of the comforter and twisting the fabric around his knees. The confusion wasn't fully gone. Spencer slowly laid back down.

“Don’t bite your nails. Please.”

You let out a disbelieving giggle. “How’d you know?”

“Because I know you,” he said simply, The sound of your laugh was a profound relief.

Your giggle subsided into a contented sigh. “Yeah,” you mumbled, your voice thick with affection. “You do.”

He heard the faint rustle of you turning onto your side, followed by a few soft taps. He imagined you placing your phone on speaker and setting it carefully on the pillow beside your head.

“Are you going to sleep now?” he asked, his voice softening, not wanting to intrude if you were drifting off.

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “Are you?”

Spencer hesitated. The truth was, he was far from sleepy. Like most nights, he was in bed more out of routine than rest. He knew the restless turning, eventually leading him to abandon his bed and pad to the living room for a book, or to his study to lose himself in work. It was the same cycle every night. But he didn’t want to burden you.

“Yeah,” he lied.

You stayed quiet for so long he thought you might have already slipped away. But then your voice came again. “That’s good.”

He smiled faintly in the dark, his fingers toying with the edge of his comforter. “What are you wearing?”

He could hear the smile in your voice when you answered. “Some purple shorts… and your sweater.”

“My sweater?” he asked, though he’d heard you perfectly.

You hummed in affirmation. Spencer’s smiled. The image of you curled up in his clothes, miles away, made him feel utterly happy.

“Will you stay on the phone with me until I fall asleep?” you asked, your words beginning to blend together with drowsiness.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“Good night,” he whispered back, settling more deeply into his own pillow.

“Night,” you whispered back.

Spencer kept the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes open in the dark, listening. He could soon hear your breathing even out. He remained perfectly still, afraid even the rustle of his sheets might disturb you.

The earlier conversation about Garcia, about you offering him a permission he never wanted, replayed in his mind, making his stomach twist unpleasantly. He bit his lower lip, gnawing on the worry.

He liked you. Only you. The concept of being interested in anyone else felt so deeply wrong that it made his stomach turn. Why would he look elsewhere when right now, he had the pleasure of listening to you sleep and knowing that you wanted his voice in your ear until you were dreaming. It was all he wanted. All he needed.

So why had you suggested otherwise?

Had he done something wrong? Failed to communicate something essential? He brushed a hand over his face frustrated.

He couldn’t get up, couldn’t pace, couldn’t lose himself in a book to quiet the chaos in his mind. Any movement risked waking you. So he remained in bed.

He re-analyzed every word, every pause, from the last hour. He over-analyzed his own actions over the past weeks. All he could do was lie there in the dark, listening to the sound of your sleep, and wonder what he’d missed.

The next morning, you were barely out of the bathroom, when a knock sounded at your apartment door. Frowning, you padded across the cool floor. You weren’t expecting anyone. You peered through the peephole and immediately let out a surprised sound.

You fumbled with the lock and pulled the door open. "Spencer!"

He stood there, a shy smile on his lips, his eyes taking you in. "Good morning." The smell of fresh coffee and bagels drifted into your apartment.

You self consciously reached up to brush through your hair at your temples. "This is a surprise," you said softly, stepping aside to let him in.

He moved past you. "A good one, I hope?" he asked, glancing back at you as he set the coffee and bagels down on the small table in your hallway, next to your scattered keys and mail.

"The best," you assured him, closing the door. You watched as he removed his jacket, finding an empty hook on your coat rack. He then bent to untie his shoes, lining them up neatly by the door.

Finally, he turned to face you fully. Without a word, his arms came around your waist, drawing you into a tight hug. He buried his face in the curve of your neck with a happy sigh. "I missed you last night," he mumbled, his breath warm against your skin. "And I woke up thinking I'd bring you some breakfast."

You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his back. You could have stayed there all morning. "That's so sweet of you," you whispered, your smile pressed against his shoulder.

He gave you one last squeeze before pulling back, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment before he turned to retrieve the paper bag. "Where would you like to eat?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over your small apartment.

You hesitated, a flicker of something, nervousness, maybe, crossing your face. "I, uh…" You bit your lip, thinking. "The living room is fine," you decided, leading the way. "As long as we promise not to get any crumbs on my couch." You threw him a sheepish look over your shoulder.

Spencer followed. While you had practically become a resident of his apartment, his visits to yours were less frequent. He let you sit first, his eyes watching to see which spot on the couch was your preferred one. Once you'd settled into the corner, curling your legs beneath you, he sank down beside you.

He carefully arranged the coffee and bagels on your coffee table, distributing napkins. But before he handed you your cup, he turned, his expression suddenly serious. “Is it really okay that I’m here?” he asked uncertain. “I know it’s unannounced and i don't want to intrdude.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “No, no, you’re more than fine, Spencer. It’s really okay,” you said, your tone sincere. “I missed you, too. So, I’m very glad you’re here.” You gave him a reassuring smile, hoping it would erase the slight crease of worry between his brows.

Spencer stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding only genuine warmth, his shoulders relaxed. He finally handed you your coffee, his fingers brushing yours.

“So,” you began, “which bakery did you go to?”

And just like that, he was off. He told you every single thing he saw on the way to your apartment. You listened, sipping your coffee.

A significant amount of time slipped by. The coffee cups were empty, the last crumbs of the bagels swept away. Now, your head was pillowed against the side of the couch, and your legs were draped partially across Spencer’s lap.

One hand rested gently on your shin, his thumb drawing circles on your skin. His other hand was softly brushing the hair back from your forehead. He’d smooth a strand back, then let his thumb drift down to trace your eyebrow, messing it up and then carefully smoothing it again.

“And you finished two books this morning?” you mumbled sleepily, your eyes half-closed.

“Well, yes,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “They were relatively short novels. I started re-reading War and Peace as well, but I didn’t get to finish it yet.” His thumb continued its gentle path over your eyebrow.

“Right,” you hummed, a sleepy smile playing on your lips. You scooted closer, your body seeking his warmth. Now your knees were settled more fully over his thigh, and you turned your head to rest your cheek against his shoulder, looking up at him. “How early did you wake up, exactly?” you asked, your tone teasing.

Spencer’s motions paused for a second. He hesitated, his gaze fixed somewhere on the far wall before it dropped down to meet yours.

“Not that early,” he finally said, the words deliberately vague. He wrapped his arm a little more firmly around your shoulders, pulling you closer against his side.

“Hm,” was all you hummed in response.

Spencer’s hand moved from your shoulder to cradle the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through your hair as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. Your hand began to trace the soft knit of his sweater, drifting up to the curve of his shoulder and down to his stomach.

After a moment, you tilted your head back, your movement causing his chin to slip from its perch. He looked down, and your eyes met.

“You look so handsome,” you mumbled. “Even this early in the morning.”

Your gaze drifted downward, and a grin touched your lips as you saw the blush creeping down his neck. Your grin widened when you flicked your eyes back up to confirm the blush was now staining his cheeks, even if it was fainter there.

“You are blushing, Spencer Reid,” you declared, your grin turning triumphant as you brought your hands up to gently frame his face.

“I am well aware, thank you,” he shot back.

“Are you mad?” you teased, your thumbs softly stroking his warm cheeks.

For just a split second, a flicker of genuine panic flashed in his eyes. The idea of you thinking that such a simple joke could make him angry, scared him. Reminding him that he was still utterly terrified of being seen as someone with a potential violent past because he'd been to prison. But then he saw the playfulness in your eyes and he relaxed, chastising himself internally for panicking.

“No,” he said softly. He leaned into your touch, his eyes holding yours. “I’m not mad.”

“You know,” you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper, “you look even more handsome when you’re blushing.”

That did it. With a groan, he launched his counterattack. His hands darted to your ribs, finding all the spots he’d memorized over previous tickle wars.

You shrieked with laughter, squirming against the cushions as he tickled you. Your defensive grabs at his wrists were futile. The force of your wriggling and his gentle pushing finally made you tumble backwards, landing flat on your back on the couch cushions.

He didn’t let up. Now towering over you, braced on one arm beside your head, he continued his merciless campaign with his free hand, his own smile bright-

“Stop, Spencer!” you laughed , your sides aching. And, he finally relented.

You looked up at him, breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly, a big smile on your face. His own smile was just as wide. “You’re still blushing,” you whispered.

Spencer squinted his eyes at you, the effect utterly ruined by the persistent flush on his neck. Then, without a word, he leaned down and captured your lips with his. Your hands immediately came up to tangle in his soft curls, and he carefully supported himself on his forearms to keep his weight off you.

He pulled back just enough to stare at you, his face inches from yours. You smiled up at him, soft and dazed.

He grinned. “You’re getting flustered, too.”

“What? No, I’m not!” you protested immediately.

“Yeah, you are,” he countered, his grin widening. “You always get this little, breathless smile right here,” he murmured, brushing his thumb ever so gently against the corner of your mouth. “And—” He paused, watching your face with rapt attention as you unconsciously tugged at your bottom lip with your finger. “You do that, too,” he finished, sounding immensely pleased with himself.

You promptly dropped your hand from your mouth, which only made his laughter bubble up. He buried his face in between your neck and shoulder, his body shaking slightly with laughter. You grumbled, but let your hand come up to card through his hair, your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp.

He melted into the touch, his laughter subsiding into a deep sigh as he relaxed his full weight against you. “You smell nice,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by your sweater.

“Well, yeah,” you chuckled. “I’m wearing your sweater, Spencer. Just complimenting yourself there, buddy.”

The moment the word left your lips, he went still. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. “Buddy?” he repeated, his tone carefully neutral, but one eyebrow was arched.

“It’s just an expression,” you smiled, trying to shrug it off.

“Don’t like it,” he hummed. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. “Boyfriend’s better.”

A grin spread across your face. “Okay,” you whispered, your heart doing a happy little flip. “My bad.” To make amends, you gently guided his head back down to the dip of your neck with one hand. With your other, you pressed softly against the small of his back, an invitation for him to settle more fully on top of you.

You felt him shift, his body aligning with yours, but he was careful, even now. He rested against you completely, yet he kept just enough of his weight braced on his elbows and knees to not press you too deeply into the cushions.

“What are you planning for tomorrow?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. You meant his classes at the university. You knew he had a seminar to teach.

“Collective efficacy,” Spencer mumbled into your neck, his voice already slurring slightly with drowsiness as he allowed himself to relax more fully against you.

“How it’s an alternative to the broken windows theory, which argues that efforts to prevent small crimes like vandalism and public drinking reduce the likelihood of more serious crime,” he began talking directly into the curve of your shoulder.

He rambled on and you listened, while continuing touching the soft curls at the nape of his neck and down the long line of his spine.

When he finally finished, he lifted his head to look at you. He found you smiling. He was utterly delighted that his ramblings could earn that look from you.

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” he asked, shifting just enough so he could see your eyes. Tomorrow was your first full, proper day off. Today was technically one too, but he knew you could never truly unwind the first day after a case. The adrenaline took longer to fade. He’d also noticed the now closed case file on your coffee table, a pen neatly laid across it. You’d finished your reports. He hoped, fiercely, that you’d actually rest tomorrow.

You proved him right. “Oh, I have a big day planned.” One hand still rested in his hair as he leaned down to press a long kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder where his sweater had slipped down.

“I’m going to wake up at noon,” you declared. You felt his lips curve into a smile against your shoulder. “And then I’ll order in, probably. Just a bunch of fries and pizza, maybe.” You scratched his scalp lightly, earning a hum from him. He began to pepper slow kisses along the ridge of your collarbone.

“And then,” you sighed with bliss, “I’ll watch really trashy TV. All day.”

Spencer’s trail of kisses migrated to the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Trashy TV?” he mumbled against your neck.

“Oh, you know,” you said, a grin in your voice. “The bad reality shows where all they do is argue about things that don’t matter, wear clothes that are too sparkly, and cry in limousines. It’s glorious brain off time.”

Spencer pressed a long kiss to your neck before lifting his head. He looked at you, his expression one of genuine confusion. You just smiled, reading his face effortlessly.

“You’re not familiar with it, are you?” you said, your fingers scratching affectionately behind his ear.

He shook his head, an apologetic wrinkle forming between his brows.“Hm, that’s okay,” you mumbled, shifting to brush your thumb over that little wrinkle until it smoothed away. “Just imagine a camera crew following people around the clock, and producers gently… encouraging drama to get more people to watch.”

“Sounds… entertaining,” Spencer said, and while his tone wasn’t exactly convincing, the effort to engage with your interests was. You smiled anyway, touched by the attempt.

“I hope you have fun,” he mumbled, leaning in to press a sweet kiss to your lips, still carefully holding his weight on his forearms.

“Same goes to you,” you smiled against his mouth.

He loved that you told him to have fun teaching, not just to ‘get through it’ or ‘good luck.’

“Don’t work tomorrow, okay?” Spencer mumbled, the words a soft command against your lips. He was already planning on taking every case file in your apartment with him when he left, ensuring you’d have no choice but to relax.

“Okay,” you agreed easily, pulling him back for another kiss.

Spencer was just about to ask if it would be alright to call you after his class tomorrow, when your phone rang.

Spencer interrupted the kiss with a soft sigh, reaching over to snag your phone from the table. He handed it to you. Your free hand remained tangled in his hair as you glanced at the screen, your expression softening. You mouthed a silent ‘sorry’ to him.

He just shook his head. As you swiped to answer, bringing the phone to your ear, Spencer didn’t pull away. Instead, he bent his head, nuzzling back into the crook of your neck, placing kisses along your jawline.

“Hi, JJ,” you said into the phone, your voice slightly strained as you tried to focus. You gave the back of Spencer’s head a gentle smack, knowing exactly what he was doing. After all, the team still didn't know about the two of you. He just grinned against your neck and continued.

He kissed a soft trail along your jaw, feeling you sigh and relax into the couch, until he felt you suddenly freeze beneath him.

“I, uh—” you stuttered into the phone.

Spencer immediately lifted his head. He stared down at you, watching the color drain slightly from your face.

“No, I can do that. That’s fine.” he saw you bite your lip and his stomach dropped. He knew something was wrong, when your hand fell away from his hair and you began to sit up, gently pushing at his shoulder. He scrambled off of you instantly.

“Yeah. I’ll be there at 9:30,” you said, your voice now carefully neutral. You ended the call and simply sat on the edge of the sofa for a moment, your back to him. You turned your phone off and set it down on the coffee table.

Spencer moved slowly, scooting over to sit beside you. He placed a hand on your back. “What was that about?” he asked quietly

“Oh, um.” He could see the effort it took as you plastered a smile on your face, turning to look at him. “JJ just needs someone to babysit Michael tomorrow. Her and Will are taking Henry to some comic convention that Michael has absolutely zero interest in.” You gave a hollow laugh, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Then you stood up abruptly, You grabbed the empty coffee cups and the crumpled bakery bag, hurrying toward the kitchen. “It’s no big deal.”

“What—what about your plans?” Spencer asked, following you, worry knitting his brows together. “Your day off?”

“Oh, that’s fine,” you called over your shoulder. You busied yourself in the kitchen, not looking at him. “I can do that anytime. Henry seemed really excited about the convention; I could hear him talking in the background. Wouldn’t want to ruin his plans.”

Spencer reached out, his hand gently closing around your upper arm, stopping your frantic cleaning. “Hey,” he said softly, turning you just enough to face him. “You can still change your mind. You were looking forward to your day.”

You shook your head, avoiding his eyes. “No, JJ needs my help. And I don’t want to disappoint Henry. It’s fine, Spencer.” You gave his chest a pat. “I can watch trashy TV any time.” Your smile was weak.

Spencer opened his mouth to point out that she asked you, and that ‘no’ was a complete sentence, especially on your first real day off in weeks. But you spoke quickly.

“Spencer, really, it’s fine. Michael’s a sweet kid. It’ll be fun.” You gave him a look that clearly said Please, drop it.

He closed his mouth, the argument dying on his tongue. He didn’t want to seem overbearing or like he was telling you what to do. He wanted to respect your choice, even if every instinct screamed that you were sidelining your own happiness. So he swallowed his concern and simply nodded, his hand falling from your arm.

The morning passed by. Spencer fought the urge to change your mind the entire time. JJ has a lot of friends, fellow parents, trusted sitters. She would understand. It’s your first day off. You were so excited.

He noticed the way your gaze lingered on the couch, aching for the day of glorious nothing you had planned, before you forced yourself to look away. His jaw tightened, words pressing at the back of his throat. But then the overthinking crept in. He didn’t want to push. He didn’t want to be too much.

┆WARNINGS .ᐟ enemies to lovers. slowburn. kryptonian!reader. clark kent is your mentor. kryptonian biology. sexual tension. +18, just a little smutty, angry make out. switch!reader and switch!dick grayson. reader is supergirl. dick grayson is nightwing/robin. reader is totally inspired by kara zor-el's background. also inspired by the runs "batman/superman: world's finest", "woman of tomorrow" and the animation "legion of superheros (2023)". this is the first part.

┆NOTES .ᐟ ──── So, guys, this is a long one, so buckle up and get comfy in your bed. You have no idea how happy I am to finally write something with a kryptonian reader! Most of the information I took from the comics, but when it comes to their biology, I got a little creative. Don't forget that, unlike Clark Kent, reader was raised under Krypton's culture and way of thinking. She's always a kryptonian first and human second.

ACT I ── I CAN GO ANYWHERE I WANT, JUST NOT HOME.

You remember everything as clearly as if it were happening again.

The day Krypton died is etched into your mind with a sharpness that makes your chest ache. The skies glowed a deep, unnatural red, and the ground beneath your feet trembled as if the planet itself were screaming. Crystal towers shivered on their foundations, and the streets you had walked a hundred times seemed to fracture before your eyes. Your home, your friends, your family, the countless memories of a civilization that had thrived for millennia, all of it was gone in an instant.

But before the chaos, there had been normal days.

You remember the mornings, waking in a crystal chamber that gleamed with the soft light of Rao. Your mother’s voice called you to lessons in physics and planetary studies, while your father prepared holographic models for the Science Council meetings. As a fourteen-year-old, you had been curious and wide-eyed, running along the skywalks that arched between spires, your mind full of experiments and questions about the stars. You and your friends would race through the gardens of floating platforms, the air clean and shimmering, filled with the hum of energy fields and the soft glimmer of floating light-orbs. Even in a society that prized discipline, there was enough space for laughter and love.

Then came the tremors.

You could still feel the subtle vibrations underneath your feet, like the pulse of some living heart deep beneath the planet’s crust. When Jor-El arrived at the Council, his voice was urgent, almost desperate. You could see it in your parents’ faces, the disbelief giving way to terror as the calculations were displayed, showing the core’s instability and the inevitable end of Krypton. Unlike the babies sent to safety, you could understand what was happening, feel the weight of knowledge crushing the room.

Your parents were among the few who truly believed him. The rest of the Council refused to acknowledge the danger, blinded by hubris and tradition. You remember the panic, the last instructions, the frantic whispers as your parents led you to the small spacecraft that would carry you away. Unlike Kal-El, who had been an infant and could only rely on instinct, you were awake, aware, able to see your world one last time. Crystal towers glowing, gardens suspended in the air, streets emptying as kryptonians run and scream in confusion.

All beneath the crimson light of Rao.

The launch itself was both terrifying and surreal. You felt the engines roar beneath you, the ship trembling as it tore away from the surface. Looking back, you saw the planet convulse, fissures racing across the continents like cracks in glass. Then came the blinding explosion, a flash that consumed everything, even the memory of home. You were hurled into the void, your body protected by the ship, your mind swirling with grief, fear, and the impossible responsibility of being one of the few left to carry Krypton’s legacy.

And as the stars grew around you, distant and cold, you held onto the memory of life before the end. The laughter of your friends in the gardens, the lessons in crystal classrooms, the smell of ozone in the city, and the warmth of your parents’ loving hands. They had saved you, given you a chance to live, and now the weight of survival pressed against your chest, heavier than any gravity you had ever known.

For thirty years, you floated through the void, suspended in the strange, timeless silence of the Phantom Zone. Time there was not like time on Krypton, it stretched and folded, leaving you both awake and dreamlike, yet utterly still. You had no gravity, no sunlight, no passage of seasons, only the dim echo of your own thoughts. At first, you clung to the images of your home, trying desperately to remember every detail. But as decades slipped by, those memories began to blur, and the world you had known became a distant, glowing shadow in your mind.

Then came the release.

Your small spacecraft emerged from the Phantom Zone and drifted into the solar system, finally under a sun that was not Rao. Earth’s yellow light bathed the ship, awakening your kryptonian cells. You were still a little girl, your body unchanged by the thirty years of suspended existence, though your mind carried the weight of centuries of grief.

When the ship finally touched down in a quiet, green valley, you emerged into a reality that was entirely foreign. Towering trees replaced crystal spires, the sky a brilliant blue instead of the red hue of your home. The air smelled of rain and earth, and you felt the strange warmth of gravity tugging at your limbs. It was then that they found you, a kind couple, ordinary in every way, yet their eyes held a warmth that reminded you faintly of your parents’ kindness. They took you in, gave you clothes that were soft and unfamiliar, and taught you the ways of Earth. They became your family in every sense that mattered, shielding you from the pain of loss while giving you a new place to call your own.

You soon realized that your spacecraft had not landed in some pristine, hidden place but had crashed into what your adoptive parents called a “lake house,” tucked away in a quiet, green stretch. The house itself was quaint, fragile, and utterly unlike the towering crystal spires and skywalks you had grown up with. It seemed almost laughably small, as if someone had shrunk a building down to toy size.

And then, one day, they took you to where they actually lived, a weird place called Chicago.

You could hardly believe your eyes. The city sprawled chaotically across the land, with buildings that scraped the sky yet felt crude, uneven, and disorganized compared to the gleaming symmetry of Kandor. Streets were cluttered with vehicles and people moving in every direction, honking and shouting, a jumble of noise and motion. There were no crystal towers rising effortlessly above the clouds, no floating platforms, no radiant light reflecting from perfectly smooth surfaces. Everything felt harsh and crude, a primitive world still learning to organize itself, stumbling blindly through its own chaos.

It’s easy to say your first days in the big city were overwhelming.

School was a particular challenge.

Children of your age ran about, shouting, laughing, and sometimes arguing, entirely unstructured and unpredictable. Their lessons seemed chaotic, with no grand libraries of holographic data or floating classrooms. Instead, there were chalkboards, books, and a teacher who spoke with patience but no sense of the precision or clarity you had been accustomed to. You longed for the clean order of Krypton’s education halls, where every lesson had a perfect sequence and every problem a clear solution.

“Poor girl,” your new mother murmured softly as you chewed the piece of bread, its rough texture strange against your tongue. You sat by the kitchen window, watching the sky beyond the glass, a vast stretch of blue where birds moved together in graceful, uncoordinated patterns. It was chaotic, yet beautiful in its own way.

Life here was unlike anything you had known. Humanity seemed almost careless in its living, their homes uneven, their routines imperfect, their emotions unguarded. Yet there was something comforting about it all. The normalcy of human life had its own quiet rhythm, its own fragile charm. They didn’t obsess over perfection or order like your people once did, instead, they embraced the mess of existence. Your adoptive parents tried to explain it all, the concept of “neighborhoods,” of “seasons,” of “holidays.” Words that felt clumsy and strangely disconnected, like fragments of a language not yet refined.

Still, you listened. You watched. You learned.

And everything was at peace, for a while.

It all began on an ordinary morning, or as ordinary as life on Earth could ever feel. The sunlight filtered weakly through the apartment windows, spilling across the faded wooden floor. You sat at the kitchen table, half-listening to the sound of your adoptive father flipping pancakes while the hum of the city buzzed faintly beyond the glass. Chicago was already awake, cars honking, trains screeching, the whole world moving in its loud, imperfect rhythm.

Then, for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

The sunlight shifted, brighter and warmer. It touched your skin, and a pulse shot through your body like a sudden heartbeat that wasn’t your own. You froze. The fork in your hand bent without you realizing it, metal twisting as easily as soft clay.

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

Your father turned around, puzzled. “Sweetheart? You okay?”

You forced a shaky smile, hiding the ruined fork beneath your napkin. But the feeling didn’t fade, it grew. The air seemed sharper, your hearing too clear. You could hear the soft tick of the kitchen clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator, even the sound of footsteps two floors above. Your heart raced. Every sound, every vibration, every breath in the apartment became distinct and overwhelming.

You stumbled to your bedroom, clutching your head. The sunlight followed you, streaming through the curtains, wrapping you in gold. And then it happened again, your hand brushed the edge of the dresser, and it splintered under your touch. Panic surged. You tried to steady yourself, but the floor groaned as if protesting your weight.

You took a deep breath, staring at your trembling hands. The light was everywhere now, every beam from the window felt alive, humming through your veins. You stepped closer to the window, your heart pounding so loudly it filled your ears.

You pushed the window open and leaned into the sunlight.

It was blinding.

And then you lifted.

It wasn't graceful, more like the world had forgotten to hold you down. You rose a few feet before panic snapped you back, sending you tumbling into a pile of blankets and books.

The crash echoed through the apartment.

Your mother rushed in, eyes wide. “Honey, are you all right? What was that sound?”

You looked up at her, your breath coming in quick gasps, the window curtains fluttering in the sudden draft. “I… I don’t know,” you whispered. But deep down, you did. The warmth in your veins, the weightlessness, the impossible strength, they were all echoes of what you were.

Kryptonian.

Later, as you stood alone by the window again, the city lights stretched below you and the sun sank over the skyline. You felt its energy coursing through you still. That was how you discovered what the yellow sun had done to you, how its light reshaped every cell, every breath, every heartbeat. Beneath its warmth, your body became something entirely different.

Magnificent and terrifying.

But you soon learned you weren’t the only one with extraordinary abilities. Humans had their own kind of champions, people in masks and capes who called themselves heroes, rushing into danger to save the day. You saw their images on television, heard their names whispered with admiration, yet you never paid them much attention. Krypton hadn’t needed “heroes.” It had order, science, and the Military Guild, a force powerful enough to maintain peace across an entire world.

At least, that’s what you had believed.

Before the core began to tremble.

Then, one evening, as the golden light of sunset poured through the apartment windows, you saw him. The television screen flickered with images of a man soaring through the air wrapped in blue and red. You froze. The newscaster’s voice faded into nothing as your eyes locked on the emblem on his chest.

That symbol.

Your breath caught. You knew it instantly, though you hadn’t seen it since Krypton’s final days, the crest of the House of El. The mark of Jor-El. It gleamed bright against his suit, unmistakable and impossible. He was kryptonian. He had to be.

You moved closer to the screen, your heart hammering in your chest. Every emotion you’d buried since the explosion came rushing back all at once. He spoke to the world in calm, steady words about hope, justice, and protecting life, but you barely heard him. All you could see was the echo of your home, alive again in that one symbol.

For a moment, you almost cried. After months of silence, of pretending to be human, of believing you were utterly alone in the universe… there he was.

Someone from Krypton.

You didn’t even think. The next thing you knew, the window was open, the air whipping past your face as you shot into the sky. The city lights of Chicago blurred beneath you. You didn’t know how to stop, didn’t care, your heart led you east, faster and faster, toward the shining skyline of Metropolis.

The impact had left a crater in the concrete. You sat at its center, dazed, smoke curling around the edges. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, and before you could gather your bearings, a shadow fell over you. Superman was already there, cape rippling, eyes calm and steady, the crest of El burning bright in the sunlight.

He landed lightly, as if gravity obeyed him out of respect.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice steady but kind.

You looked up at him, heart pounding, unable to find your words. “You’re real,” you whispered. “You… you’re from Krypton.”

You rose easily from the cratered ground, not a scratch on your body, even though the impact had left a massive hole in downtown Metropolis. Your gaze couldn’t leave his chest, locked on the familiar symbol, the emblem you had known your entire life.

“Is… your dad Jor-El?” you whispered, voice trembling.

For a moment, he just stared, surprise flickering across his features.

“How…?” he began, uncertain.

“I know your family,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know your parents...”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with history and loss. He took a slow step closer, his eyes softening, understanding dawning.

Your eyes filled with tears as you stumbled closer, wrapping your arms around him. You clung to his broad chest, sobbing uncontrollably, the child within you surfacing for the first time in months.

“Our home… it’s gone. F-forever,” you stammered between gasps, your voice breaking. “I… I watched it… explode from the spacecraft… your dad made it for me…”

He held you gently, letting you cry, his presence steady and grounding. For the first time since Krypton’s death, you allowed yourself to feel the weight of everything you had lost, the towers, the gardens, your friends, your family, all swept away in fire and light.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered softly, his hands resting on your shoulders. “I’ll help you. We’ll carry it together.”

So you let yourself be small again in his arms, letting the grief pour out as the two of you bonded over the memory of a dead planet, one that had shaped everything you were and everything you were yet to become. The day you destroyed half of downtown Metropolis, you didn’t just gain a mentor, you gained a father figure and a friend.

Your parents easily accepted Superman’s presence in your life. In truth, they were more relieved than anything else. Finally, someone who actually understood what was happening to their child. Clark was patient, calm, and endlessly kind, guiding you through every new and terrifying discovery as your powers began to unfold. For your parents, his presence was a gift, a steady anchor in a storm they couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Still, it wasn’t easy.

You scared that poor couple more times than you could count. There were nights when your strength slipped out of control, when doors came off their hinges or furniture cracked beneath your touch. And then there was the day your heat vision first flared to life, a blinding, searing light that split the air and nearly tore the small apartment in half. You could still remember your mother’s scream, your father’s desperate attempt to cover you, and the way Superman appeared almost instantly, his calm voice cutting through the chaos like sunlight through smoke.

After that, your parents stopped seeing him as just Superman. He became something more, a mentor, a guardian, and, in many ways, the reassurance that their child wasn’t cursed, just different. Under his guidance, you learned control and purpose. And though the fear never fully left your parents’ eyes, neither did the pride.

In exchange for his infinite calm and the quiet love he showed you, you gave him everything you had, every memory, every fragment of a world long gone. You told him about your home, about Krypton and its cities of crystal and light, about the people who once walked beneath its red sun. You told him about his family, their traditions, their brilliance, their hopes for the son who would one day outlive them all. Every story you shared felt like breathing life back into ghosts, a way to keep them from fading completely.

You even told him about the tiny baby launched into the stars by Jor-El. About him. How his father’s trembling hands placed him gently into the pod, how Lara’s voice cracked as she whispered her final goodbye. You painted the picture as if you’d been there yourself, every word carrying the weight of a history he could never remember but somehow still felt in his bones.

“And they made me babysit you a lot of times,” you said, absentmindedly playing with the hem of your shirt. The two of you sat on the rooftop of your parents’ lake house in the middle of Wisconsin, the quiet shimmer of Lake Geneva stretching out beneath the summer night sky. From inside, the faint clatter of dishes and the soft hum of conversation drifted through the open windows. Your mom was making dinner after unlocking your old spacecraft, showing Kal-El the few surviving remnants of your people’s technology.

“You were a really chubby baby,” you added with a small laugh, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. For a moment, Superman, the savior of the world, just smiled.

“I wish I could remember more,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the reflection of the stars rippling across the lake, the same stars that had once carried him here. There was a quiet ache in his voice, the kind born from longing for a life he never had the chance to know.

After a long moment of comfortable silence, he turned to look at you.

“You know, kid,” he began, his voice low but thoughtful, “we were born with a gift. A beautiful one. When used well, it can help the world find peace, give people something to hold on to, something to believe in.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah… most Earthlings seem to need that. To hold onto anything that gives them comfort.”

Your mind wandered for a moment, to the image of your mom praying quietly beside your dad in the living room.

There was religion on Krypton too.

Rao was the main god of your people.

“Earthlings?” Kal-El chuckled, breaking your train of thought.

You turned to him, puzzled. “What? Aren’t they Earthlings? Earth… things? I don’t know the exact terminology of this species.”

He grinned. “You mean Homo sapiens?”

“Oh, right,” you said, nodding seriously. “The monkey cousins.”

He laughed, a genuine, bright sound that carried softly over the lake, mingling with the hum of summer air and the quiet rhythm of waves against the dock.

“Okay, we need to work on that if you ever want to become a hero,” he said, trying not to laugh again. “That sounded super xenophobic.”

“Xeno–what?” you asked, brow furrowing. “And hero?”

Kal-El sighed, smiling as he looked out over the lake again. “Yeah. Someone who helps people. Someone who protects them, even when they don’t understand you.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Sounds exhausting.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah… sometimes it is. But it’s worth it.”

You looked down at your hands. “Before the explosion… I was training to be part of the Military Guild,” you said quietly, remembering the long hours of drills, simulations, and sparring with the other teens.

Kal-El gave you a confused look, one that reminded you he was human first and kryptonian second. You smiled faintly, realizing he had no idea what the Military Guild even was.

“So… what’s the Military Guild?” he asked.

You took a deep breath and began to explain, your voice soft but steady. “It’s… the organization where kryptonians train to protect our planet. Not just in combat, but in strategy, diplomacy, and leadership. They teach you how to defend your people, how to make decisions in impossible situations… how to survive and still do what’s right. It’s honor, duty, and responsibility, all rolled into one.”

Kal-El nodded slowly, absorbing every word. “Sounds like a lot to carry for a little girl,” he said.

“It is,” you admitted, your eyes drifting to the stars above the lake. “And it was everything I wanted. Everything I thought I was meant to be. But, who knows… maybe the hero stuff is kind of similar to being part of the Military Guild,” you said slowly, glancing at him. “If the main goal is to help people, then…”

“Then?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Then… I can try,” you said, a small, determined smile tugging at your lips. “Does… Supergirl sound good?”

Kal-El’s face lit up with a soft, approving smile. “It sounds perfect,” he said. “It suits you.”

You laughed quietly, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.

ACT II ── I THINK WE’RE TOTALLY DIFFERENT BUT OPPOSITES DO ATTRACT.

Soon enough, you were soaring through the bright blue skies above Metropolis, the wind whipping past your face, the city sprawling beneath you like a living map. The symbol of the House of El gleamed proudly on your chest, the crimson and gold catching the sunlight with every turn and dive. Kal-El had convinced you that wearing the emblem and adopting the colors of his family wasn’t about forgetting your roots or your own house, but it was about joining him on his journey, sharing in the responsibility of protecting this world.

You weren’t abandoning your own surname in favor of the El family; you were honoring them and your kryptonian parents, while stepping into your new role as Supergirl. And sure, wearing his famous symbol and colors also made it easier for the citizens of Metropolis to trust you.

As you and Kal-El soared above the city, people on the streets looked up in awe. Children pointed excitedly with eyes wide. You caught glimpses of cars pulling over, cameras flashing, and people pausing their daily routines just to witness the two of you flying together. You could feel their hope, subtle but tangible, flowing up to you from the streets. Every time you swooped past a skyscraper or hovered beside Kal-El, the emblem on your chest shone like a silent and honest promise, a symbol that you weren’t just another sidekick, but a protector in your own way.

But it is still a personal and sweet promise.

A promise that you came in peace.

That the Earthlings shouldn’t fear you.

“You ready for a race?” he asked, hovering beside you, his cape fluttering like a banner behind him.

“You’re on,” you replied, your heart pounding with excitement.

With a sudden burst of speed, you shot forward, feeling the exhilaration of flight pulse through every inch of your body. Kal-El laughed, the sound carried by the wind as he matched your pace effortlessly. You weaved between skyscrapers, banking sharply around towers, diving toward the river below and then soaring back up into the sunlight.

“You’re going down!” you shouted, eyes sparkling with determination.

“Not a chance,” he teased, and in a blur of red and blue, he surged past you. You twisted, diving beneath him, laughing as you gained ground. The city became a blur of glass, steel, and sunlight as the two of you raced higher and higher, your laughter mixing with the rush of wind.

When you finally slowed, floating side by side above the glowing skyline, your chest heaving and your cheeks flushed, Kal-El looked at you with that familiar, gentle pride in his eyes.

“Not bad, Supergirl,” he said, his voice warm. “You’re a natural.”

Yes, you were. He was right.

But if only the others saw it that way.

You weren’t unfamiliar with criticism, you’d grown up in a society that demanded perfection, where even small mistakes were frowned upon. You were used to that pressure, but under the Dark Knight’s cold, assessing glare, you almost froze.

It was the first time the three of you were working together on a mission, officially as Superman’s sidekick. Metropolis was under attack by a massive, hulking humanoid tearing through downtown, and adrenaline surged through you. You dove straight for its chest and immediately lost control. Your punches sent the creature crashing into buildings, and before you could stop yourself, your heat vision flared. Blinding beams of red seared through the air, shattering windows and splintering walls. Cars were overturned, storefronts obliterated, and apartments, innocent civilians’ homes, were caught in the crossfire.

You tried to pull back, but every movement, every effort to strike, carried too much power. Each swing, each blast, left a trail of destruction. Metropolis’ streets were a chaotic blur of debris and smoke, and you could feel the weight of every shattered window and crumbled wall in your chest.

Superman swooped beside you, his calm voice cutting through the chaos. “You need to control it! Focus on precision, not strength!”

You nodded, trying to steady your breathing.

Superman and Batman had already handled the giant humanoid with ease, and now you hovered above the rubble, staring at the damage you had caused to one of the apartment buildings. The cracks from your uncontrolled heat vision ran across balconies and walls like jagged scars.

Heavy footsteps echoed behind you, and you turned to see an elderly man glaring at you.

“Don’t worry, fellow citizen of Metropolis, the giant was neutralized—” you began, but he cut you off.

“My apartment! Look what you did to my apartment, you crazy—” He pointed furiously at the cracks and crumbling balcony. “—bitch!”

“Excuse me?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I saved it. You’re welcome.”

The two of you started shouting at each other, your voices carrying over the wreckage, while Superman and Batman stood a short distance away, talking in private, but you could hear every word.

“Look, just have your robot servants build you a better place,” you suggested, trying to reason logically.

The man froze, blinking at you as if you had sprouted a second head.

“Robot servants? Government-issued robots? Construction robots? Regular robots? Any robots at all?!”

“What kind of weird hellscape are you even from?!” he demanded, incredulous.

Now it was your turn to get angry. Your voice rose, echoing over the empty street.

“Krypton is… was great! Not like your backward planet! And this place? It’s… it’s like a jungle!”

He stared at you, mouth agape, completely bewildered.

You threw your hands up, exasperated. “Honestly, I try to help, and this is the gratitude I get?!”

“Your sidekick is a problem,” Batman said, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied his longtime friend and partner in the field. “You said we could trust her.”

Kal-El’s expression tightened, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his features. “We can trust her. She’s only been on Earth a couple of months. She’s doing her best.”

“It’s not good enough,” Batman replied flatly.

You stopped bickering with the elderly man and tuned out his indignant protests, your ears sharpening to catch every word of their conversation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kal-El asked, his voice laced with barely hidden offense.

“You were so eager to meet someone alive from Krypton that you didn’t stop to consider the consequences for the rest of us mere humans,” Batman said, his tone cold and precise. “She destroyed buildings, couldn’t control her powers, and the worst part… she doesn’t seem to care. With her abilities, that makes her a threat.”

Kal-El’s jaw clenched. “I don’t like what you’re implying,” he said quietly, his usually calm tone edged with a rare firmness.

You hovered silently, fists clenched at your sides, feeling a mixture of frustration and hurt. His words stung, not because they were untrue, but because you knew you were trying. You were really trying. Yet, in his eyes, your mistakes were unforgivable.

“You know nothing about me, Earthling,” you said to Batman, your face carefully blank, though your eyes betrayed you, glistening with unshed tears.

“Listen, kid—” Superman began, his voice calm but firm, trying to reach you. But you were already gone, streaking into the sky, leaving the city and their judgment behind, if only for a few moments of solitude. The wind tore past you, but it couldn’t carry away the ache and shame in your chest. You landed hard on the rooftop of your parents’ lake house, your unofficial gateway whenever you needed to breathe. The quiet shimmer of the lake stretched before you, calm and endless, a sharp contrast to the chaos still burning in your mind.

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks as you stared at your reflection in the water below.

“Stupid Batman,” you muttered under your breath, swiping at your eyes. “Ridiculous, fragile Earthlings. Ungrateful kind…”

Your voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and you clenched your fists, angry at yourself for crying.

The air shifted behind you, a subtle change in pressure that told you he was there before he spoke.

“Kid…”

You turned sharply, glaring at him as Superman hovered just a few feet away, cape swaying softly in the night breeze.

“Go away!” you snapped, voice breaking despite your best effort to sound strong.

He sighed, landing gently beside you, the rooftop creaking under his weight. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his expression soft with understanding.

“Batman was harsh,” he finally said. “He knows it. He won’t say it out loud but he realizes he went too far. He forgets sometimes that you’re still figuring this out.”

You frowned, arms crossed tightly. “He called me a threat.”

Kal-El’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “And now he’s trying to make it up to you in his own… Batman way.”

You turned to him, suspicious. “Which means what, exactly?”

“He asked me to tell you that he’s inviting you to patrol with him and Robin,” He said. “Said it would be ‘good tactical exposure’ for you.” He chuckled lightly. “Which, translated from Bat-speak, means he’s sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “He wants me to patrol… with his sidekick?”

He nodded. “I think it’s his way of showing he knows you’re trying.”

You looked away. The lake shimmered under the moonlight.

“…Maybe I’ll go,” you muttered. “But if that little bird makes fun of me, I’m flying straight back here.”

Kal-El laughed softly. “Fair enough, Supergirl.”

You arrived in Gotham just after dusk, the city’s stone and steel swallowing the last of the light. The air tasted colder here, full of a different kind of danger, and you felt it in your bones. You hovered above an alley two blocks from Crime Alley, cape billowing, when a figure dropped out of the shadows and landed in front of you with the easy grace of someone born to fall and never break.

Robin folded his arms, one eyebrow raised like he was mildly offended you’d assumed he wouldn’t be there on time. For a heartbeat the two of you just stared at each other, strangers linked by the weird little web Batman had spun.

“Nice of you to show,” he said. He was smaller up close than you expected, lean and quick-looking. “Try not to smash anything, okay? I’m on damage-control today.”

You blinked. “You’re… responsible for me not crashing anything?” You let the incredulity hang there. “What even is your power?”

Robin’s grin went smug. “I’m fast. And apparently smarter than you.”

“Smarter than me?” You cocked your head, mock-offended. “Oh nice—being smart is your superpower. Gonna hit them with your high school diploma, or are you saving that for dramatic effect?”

Before he could retort, a chimney on the rooftop across the street collapsed from an earlier attack from Bane, the bricks tumbled free. You froze, instincts spiking. Robin was already moving, a blur of motion. He sprinted, vaulted off a fire escape, and in a few fluid, acrobatic bounds he was on the ledge beside you, hands snatching at the falling bricks.

He knew your strenght.

And your lack of control.

“Don't punch things, ok?” he said, breathless from the dash but steady. “Use a soft touch here, this whole thing is already collapsing. Don’t blast. Just—precise.”

You inhaled, forcing your heat vision to a whisper and letting your strength ease. The bricks clattered harmlessly to the pavement as you and Robin didn't let it crash the parked cars and people on the street. For a brief moment, you had to admit, he did look good. He looked like someone who’d spent a lifetime solving problems without ever needing to punch them into submission.

But that fleeting admiration didn’t last long. Moments later, he turned to you with that infuriatingly confident grin.

“Fly me to that building,” he said casually, pointing to a nearby rooftop.

You shot him an ugly look. “What?”

“Fly me,” he repeated, eyes narrowing.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? Superman does that for Batman all the time.”

“Do I look like Superman?” you snapped, voice rising.

He shrugged, unfazed. “Of course not. You’re super incompetent.”

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back at Robin, when suddenly a voice crackled through his comms.

“Robin, move out,” Batman’s gravelly tone cut through the night air.

Robin’s smirk vanished, replaced by sharp focus. “Guess that’s our cue,” he muttered, turning toward you.

“Finally,” you said under your breath, rolling your eyes. “Lead the way, Mr. Perfect.”

And with that, the patrol began.

From the start, it was chaos. Robin moved with precise, calculated efficiency, scanning rooftops, alleyways, and the streets below with methodical attention to detail. You, on the other hand… well, you were Supergirl. You could fly faster than the speed of sound, lift cars like toys, and shrug off most hazards without a scratch.

So naturally, you did things your way.

Leap after leap, dive after dive, you’d swoop down on a suspect, only to accidentally blow open a dumpster or knock over a streetlamp. Every time, Robin would hiss at you:

“Cover! Stay quiet! You’re blowing your— shit.”

His patience snapped during a particularly disastrous rooftop chase. You’d tried to corral three petty thieves, but your heat vision accidentally scorched a vent and sent smoke billowing across the street, ruining the element of surprise. Robin skidded to a halt, arms flailing.

“Are you kidding me?!” he barked. “Do you ever think before you act?!”

You hovered midair. “I am thinking! I’m thinking I can handle it! Isn’t that what heroes do?”

Robin groaned, massaging his temples. “Heroes don’t burn buildings down! Heroes don’t blow their cover! Heroes—heroes think strategically!”

“Strategically?” you shot back, circling above him. “You mean slowly and boringly. I can do anything! I have powers! That’s the point!”

He finally snapped, eyes blazing beneath his mask. “I cannot believe you right now! Powers don’t mean brains! You’re going to get someone killed with that attitude!”

You hovered there for a moment, mouth open, realizing maybe… just maybe, he had a point. But only for a second.

“I’m not done proving I can do this,” you muttered. Robin groaned again, muttering something under his breath about “reckless kryptonian pride,” and took off toward the next rooftop. You followed, already anticipating the next clash and secretly enjoying it.

Even with all your years of training on Krypton, and every lesson Kal-El had drilled into you, there was still something oddly fascinating about Robin’s reactions. The twitch of his eyebrow, the way his jaw clenched, the sheer rage that twisted his face every time you ignored his orders.

The patrol had been one long, glorious argument from start to finish. And it ended, fittingly, in chaos.

He’d asked, again, for you to fly him to the other part of the city. Far from Gotham’s downtown.

So, naturally, you grabbed him by his cape and took off.

The Boy Wonder’s furious shouting echoed through the Gotham skyline for thirteen whole minutes as he flailed in the air like an angry, overcaffeinated ragdoll. You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound of his muffled protests only made you fly faster.

“Earthlings,” you muttered to yourself, amused.

When you finally landed on a rooftop in the Narrows, you let him go, gently, of course, and he stumbled forward, hair a complete disaster, his cape twisted and tangled. His face was pure fury.

“You’re such a bossy little thing,” you said with a teasing smirk.

“Little thing?” he exploded, voice cracking with indignation. “We’re the same freaking size!”

You crossed your arms, still grinning. “Not when you’re dangling, you’re not.”

He jabbed at his comm, muttering through clenched teeth. “B, this patrol is over. And you—” he pointed at you, cape still flapping behind him like a battle flag “—never, ever do that to me again!”

You just shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You’re welcome for the free flight.”

His groan of frustration echoed through the night, and you couldn’t help the small, victorious smile tugging at your lips.

It was easy to say that Kal-El, or Clark Kent, had a few harsh words for you once Batman filled him in on what happened in Gotham. You barely had time to land back in Metropolis before he was there, arms crossed, that disappointed look etched perfectly across his face.

“You toyed with him? In the middle of Gotham’s sky?” he said, his voice calm but firm, the kind of tone that made you feel like a kid again.

You tried to defend yourself, but he cut you off, his blue eyes hardening. “You know humans are fragile!”

The words hit like a punch. He wasn’t yelling, Clark almost never yelled, but the weight in his voice was enough. You glanced down, guilt tugging at your chest.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said softly. “He was being… bossy.”

Clark sighed loud. “He’s Batman’s partner. You don’t have to like him, but you do have to respect the people you work with. Especially the ones who don’t have powers to protect themselves.”

You shifted awkwardly, crossing your arms. “I was careful.”

His gaze softened slightly, but only slightly. “Careful for you isn’t always careful for them.”

You didn’t answer. The silence between you stretched, filled only by the low hum of the city far below.

“…I’ll apologize,” you finally muttered.

Clark’s expression eased into a small smile. “That’s all I ask.”

You rolled your eyes. “Does it have to be sincere?”

“Yes.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

The next time you saw each other, Batman and Superman were knee-deep in another crisis, this time, magic was tearing through Metropolis, and the Doom Patrol was already in over their heads. In the chaos, the World’s Finest decided it was best to split up and somehow, once again, Robin and Supergirl got paired together.

From the sky, your enhanced hearing caught every word of Robin’s frustrated rant below as you lifted off toward their target zone.

“She’s impossible! And it’s not that I have a problem with aliens—Starfire’s great—but Supergirl? She’s a psycho!”

Superman shot him a look sharp enough to stop a speeding bullet.

“Don’t talk like that about her, Robin.”

“Sorry, Superman, but—”

The apology died in his throat as you descended ahead, cape flaring like a streak of sunlight through the smoke. You didn’t even look back, just swallowed the nice words you had prepared for today.

“Supergirl,” Robin said as soon as you landed.

“Monkey,” you shot back, watching his eyes go wide inside his mask.

“What did you just call me?” Robin stammered, fists clenching.

“Don’t call humans monkeys,” Superman said, beside you both, arms crossed, his tone firm.

“Y—you’re the alien freak!” Robin snapped, pointing at you, cheeks burning beneath his mask.

“Language,” Batman interjected. “Focus on the mission.”

“Alien freak, really? I’m not the right type of alien for you?” you teased, unable to hold yourself. “It’s because I don’t have orange skin and don’t kiss you goodnight?” You made exaggerated kissing noises, letting the words hang in the air.

Robin’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Shut up” he sputtered, flailing slightly.

You smirked, letting the tension hang for just a beat before turning your attention to the magical chaos around you. Robin huffed, muttering under his breath, clearly torn between anger and exasperation, while Superman pinched the bridge of his nose, and Batman simply sighed.

You were never really good with feelings, especially with creatures so different from you, even if so many biological traits made you almost physically identical. It was like watching your adoptive parents cry over something trivial, but Robin didn’t just spark curiosity in you, but something about the tension in his body, the flush on his face, even the way his hands tightened, made your own body feel suddenly warm.

When he screamed at you in the field, when he lunged mid-step as if to strangle you with both hands, you just stared at him with that dazed, wide-eyed expression that made Superman and Batman exchange subtle, knowing glances.

This time, he wasn’t just frustrated, he was about to lose control. You’d said something sarcastic and cruel, and he was already swinging his fists before he could think. Batman reacted instantly, stepping in with inhuman speed and holding Robin firmly down, one arm across his chest, the other gripping his wrists, anchoring him like a human clamp.

“Let me go!” Robin struggled, gritting his teeth, veins visible along his forehead.

You tilted your head, watching him squirm and growl. There was a sudden thrill in your chest, a curious heat spreading through your body. Humming softly, almost to yourself, you thought, Hmm… what is this feeling?

Superman hovered a few feet away, eyebrow raised, clearly aware of the strange little moment playing out, while Batman’s grip never wavered, muscles coiled, silent but absolutely firm, ready to let go the second Robin calmed down. Robin’s angry protests sounded distant to you, replaced by the subtle, new awareness of your own pulse, and the way watching him struggle, so raw, so alive, made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

That was strange.

Because of that little encounter with the “monkey,” you started exploring more Earthling literature and psychology, trying to understand the strange behaviors and emotions humans seemed to take for granted. That’s when you stumbled across something utterly foreign, a foreign concept called sexuality.

On Krypton, reproduction didn’t involve sex.

Babies were created through advanced technology, and intimate physical relationships were entirely unnecessary. Your people didn’t kiss to express affection in a sexual way, didn’t experience desire as humans did, and certainly didn’t use physical contact for anything other than communication or efficiency. Everything you knew about intimacy was clinical, logical, and devoid of complications.

Yet here, on Earth, every page hinted at something thrilling, confusing, and slightly alarming. The way humans paired, touched, and reacted to one another, sometimes gentle, sometimes intense, made your pulse quicken in a way you had never experienced. There was an odd, almost magnetic pull in the way Robin’s reactions had made your body feel, and now, reading about sexuality, it all started to make a strange sort of sense.

You approached it scientifically at first, taking notes in your mind, cataloging behaviors and emotional responses. But beneath that logical framework, something new was stirring, a curiosity that was distinctly physical. That last encounter had sparked something inside you. And while you still didn’t fully understand it, you couldn’t deny the delicious, confusing warmth that came with the realization that there was more to human connection than efficiency, strategy, or logic.

And because of that, at the age of seventeen, you found yourself watching porn on your dad’s laptop. To you, it wasn’t something shameful or forbidden, it was just research. Every motion, every expression, every interaction was data, a way to understand this strange human behavior called sexuality. You observed with the same meticulous attention you gave any scientific experiment, cataloging responses, analyzing patterns, and trying to reconcile what you saw with your own kryptonian physiology and experiences.

As you watched it you slowly realized something entirely unexpected. You could totally imagine yourself in that type of situation, especially if Robin were involved.

“I’m feeling the primitive need to copulate with an Earthling,” you said, completely serious, right in the middle of dinner at your parents’ apartment.

The fork paused halfway to your dad’s mouth. Utensils clinked against plates. A stunned silence filled the room. They exchanged glances that were equal parts confusion, disbelief, and mild concern.

“Excuse me?” your mom finally said, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide both shock and curiosity.

“It is a basic biological impulse,” you continued, entirely deadpan. “My studies of human sexual behavior indicate that I am experiencing the urge to engage in copulation with a homo sapiens male.”

Your dad’s mouth opened, then closed again, as if he had forgotten how to chew.

“Well, you’re seventeen, that’s expected,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“What does me being seventeen have to do with anything?” you asked, tilting your head, genuinely confused.

“Uhm, well, teenagers—they have hormones and—” he started, flailing his hands in the air, clearly grasping for words. He paused, looked at your mom with desperate eyes, and added, “Yeah, Lorelai, what does her being seventeen have to do with anything?”

Your mom sighed loudly, a mixture of exasperation and resignation, as if she had faced this exact situation a dozen times in her head and none of the explanations would suffice.

She rubbed her temples, then tried again. “Well… humans, when they reach a certain age, sometimes feel… attracted to other humans. It’s natural.”

“Define natural,” you asked, tilting your head and folding your hands neatly on the table. “Are there measurable physiological processes associated with this so-called attraction? What is the expected behavioral output?”

Your dad blinked, caught mid-sentence. “Uh… hormones, emotions… and sometimes… um… actions?”

“Actions?” you repeated, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Explain these actions in full detail. I am unfamiliar with their parameters.”

Your mom groaned softly. “Dickens, I mean… yes, sometimes humans will… you know… engage in physical intimacy. That’s the action.”

You leaned back slightly, processing the information. “Fascinating. So, the primitive need I described is a combination of chemical, neurological, and psychological processes? And the observable output is… copulation?”

“Y-yes,” your dad admitted, voice tight with embarrassment, and your mom nodded, lips pursed like she was willing him to stay quiet before saying anything else.

“Then it is consistent with my studies,” you said, completely deadpan. “And it explains why I am experiencing the sensations previously observed in Robin.”

Your parents stared at you, stunned into silence.

“Damn, you really have to bang the weird kid that uses pixie boots?” your dad muttered under his breath.

“Just shut up, Josh,” the older woman snapped.

“He looks like a flamboyant theater kid,” he added, clearly trying to justify his comment, though it only made the tension thicker.

“Flamboyant?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. We’re just happy for you and, hm, your new personal… discovery.”

You smiled.

Of course, the next day, you were floating around Clark and Lois’s apartment, lost in thought. Lois noticed you first, glancing up from her coffee with that warm, knowing smile she always had for you. She’d always treated you with kindness, not just because you were young, but because your very presence seemed to make the love of her life feel a little less alone.

And maybe because, ever since you’d arrived, Clark had been talking more about the possibility of having kids.

“Hi, Supergirl,” she greeted, setting her mug down.

You landed gently, fidgeting for a moment before speaking. “Lois,” you started, serious and thoughtful, “as a human woman— have you ever noticed if Clark, as a kryptonian, displays… attraction toward you?”

The room went still. Lois blinked once, twice, processing what you’d just asked.

Lois blinked a few more times, then let out a soft laugh. “You really don’t tiptoe around topics, do you?”

You looked honestly puzzled. “Is that a human custom?”

She sighed, smiling despite herself. “No, it’s just… most people don’t ask questions like that over morning coffee.”

“I’m conducting research,” you said, perfectly serious.

“I figured.” Lois leaned against the counter, arms folded, the veteran reporter kicking in. “The short answer is yes. Clark feels attraction, just like anyone else. He’s still kryptonian, but he grew up here. His emotions are human enough that he falls in love the same way we do.”

You nodded thoughtfully, filing it away as new data. “Interesting. So it’s environmental adaptation rather than biological inheritance.”

“Exactly,” Lois said, pleased that you were following along, until you tilted your head again.

“And that also means… sex?”

The reporter froze, blinking once before a slow smile tugged at her lips.

“Sounds like you need a girl talk, Supergirl,” Lois laughed. “Come here. We’ll start with the basics, no research notes required.”

Already inside the apartment, you sat on the couch while Lois handed you a mug of coffee. She knew you didn’t actually need food or drink, solar energy was more than enough, but after some time on Earth, you’d grown fond of the taste.

Especially coffee.

Lois settled beside you, one eyebrow raised. “So,” she said with a grin, “who’s the person that’s got your panties in a twist?”

You blinked, not sure what that meant, but answered anyway with perfect seriousness. “Robin is making my panties in a twist.”

Lois choked on her coffee, coughing and laughing at the same time. “Oh, honey,” she wheezed, wiping her mouth, “we definitely need to talk about figures of speech before Clark hears you say that.”

So she gave you what she called a “big-sister talk” and a few tips about human men. Lois talked about patience, about learning to tell the difference between curiosity and genuine feeling, and about not over-analyzing every heartbeat. You tried to memorize each point, treating it like data, even as her tone softened into something more human than theoretical.

By the end of it, she squeezed your shoulder and said, “You’ll figure it out, kid. Just don’t make it homework.”

You flew back to your apartment still thoroughly confused about human courtship. Earthlings were so strange. “Bat your eyes at him”— what was that even supposed to mean?

Yeah, that’s totally not happening.

No fragile Earthling is worth enduring that level of humiliation.

ACT III ── PEOPLE SAY WE’RE ALIKE, THEY SAY WE GOT THE SAME HAIR.

As you and Dick Grayson grew up side by side — yes, you eventually figured out his secret identity, because that man sounded exactly the same in and out of that damn suit — the weird tension between you never really went away. Even after your seventeen-year-old self realized that most of what you’d felt for him wasn’t hate, just raw, uneducated curiosity about sex and emotions and whatever else made teenagers stupid, it didn’t disappear.

It just evolved.

Matured into something meaner and pettier, a constant friction that neither of you ever bothered to smooth out.

Years later, at one of those disgustingly glittery Wayne galas, the two of you collided again. He was in a tux, all charm and PR smiles. You were nursing a glass of champagne, counting the minutes until you could vanish. He turned too fast, laughing at something Barbara said, and splashed his drink straight onto your dress.

You looked down, deadpan, as expensive fabric shimmered under the spill. Then, very calmly, you leaned in close enough for only him to hear.

“Guess the circus monkey still doesn’t know how to handle glassware,” you said, voice soft and venomous.

His jaw tightened, that fake smile freezing for half a heartbeat. “Still hung up on that?” he muttered, eyes sharp. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “You threw the first rock. You called me Krypton’s charity case, remember?”

That did it. He laughed, low and mean, and murmured, “Yeah? Well, your whole planet did blow up in a single goddamn day.”

The two of you stood there, smiles plastered on your faces for the cameras, spitting venom through your teeth like it was foreplay.

You exhaled through your nose, sipped your champagne, and deadpanned, “Wow. Bet Bruce is so proud of his favorite attention-seeking whore.”

“Still jealous Clark liked me better?” he shot back instantly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Jealous?” You smirked, raising your glass in mock salute. “I just can’t believe Boy Wonder turned into Gotham’s biggest PR whore.”

He grinned, teeth bright and false under the gala lights. “Still can’t believe you’re allowed in the same room as adults.”

You didn’t miss a beat.

“And I can’t believe you’re allowed to be in a closed room with anyone, actually. Don’t you have, like… every STD known to man at this point?” Dick barked out the fakest, loudest laugh imaginable, that polished socialite laugh rich people use when they’re two seconds away from committing assault. Heads turned, camera flashes went off, and his hand tightened just slightly around his champagne glass.

“I fucking hate you,” he said through clenched teeth, still smiling for the crowd.

You tilted your glass, eyes glinting. “Alien fucker.”

Dick’s jaw tightened, lips twitching. “You wish you were Kory,” he shot back, voice low and dangerous, “so you’d be the one getting it.”

“Aw, they’re even laughing together, Clark. Finally not on each other’s throats for once,” Lois said, arm in arm with his husband and looking at you both from a safe distance, just in case you start throwing punches. “I told you—she’s finally maturing.”

Clark, thanks to his inconvenient super-hearing that had just caught you calling Nightwing an alien fucker, looked down at his wife and simply nodded.

“Sure,” he muttered, tone flat as steel.

It was still a freaking shock how much you could ragebait Dick Grayson, the nicest man on Earth, and reduce him to this petty, flustered version of himself, less charming, less suave, more like a teenager tugging at his crush’s pigtails on a playground.

The last time you two had a horrible fight was when a reporter asked about your relationship, given that you were the most famous former sidekicks in the hero community. Your answer had been simple, brutally honest, and delivered with deadpan precision:

“Nightwing is a cultural appropriator, and he brings shame to kryptonians. Nightwing is the god that protects us from evil. It’s like I called myself Jesus and started throwing punches while flashing people my ass.”

The reporters had stared at you, mouths open. Naturally, one of them immediately asked how Superman felt about that.

“Ahm… I actually gave him the idea to use that name…” Superman muttered, eyes widening.

Awkward silence.

You had just internally sighed. Of course Clark had to have a hand in this mess. Of course he couldn’t just let it lie. Meanwhile, Dick was somewhere, probably simultaneously fuming and mortified, because you had once again publicly shredded his choices with the precision of a kryptonian scalpel.

But, as always, he didn’t take that punch with grace and silence. The next time you picked up Blüdhaven’s newspaper, out of simple curiosity and nothing more, the big headline caught your eye: Nightwing Responds to Supergirl’s Allegations.

His answer was short, dripping with sarcasm:

“We should all take a moment to sympathize with Supergirl’s… let’s call it ‘adjustment period’ and, of course, her mental health issues. Just imagine your entire planet exploding, landing on some random rock with zero knowledge of literally anything except punching things and then, through sheer confusion, publicly humiliating me, a friend and field partner, for honoring the beautiful culture of Krypton. Truly heartbreaking. My heart bleeds but I forgive her. Also, yes, Jennifer, I am on the side of immigrants.”

“And, on a serious note, Mental Health Awareness Month is coming up. Reach out to your loved ones. Stay safe. And maybe… give your coworkers a little grace when they’re having a rough adjustment period. Love is always the answer, folks.”

Then, as if to seal the performance, the article described in detail the moment he winked at the journalist, who giggled like a schoolgirl. The whole scene reading like a perfect blend of mockery and charm.

“Fucking bitch.”

You perched on the window of his Blüdhaven apartment as the sun dipped below the skyline, fists banging against the glass.

“Wake the fuck up, Richard Grayson! I can see you. I have X-ray vision!”

And there he comes, in nothing but white boxers, muscles fully on display against his tanned skin. His raven-black hair is tousled from four hours of sleep, and his blue eyes are narrowed in irritation.

“Ah… it’s you,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and annoyance.

He rubbed his eyes, squinting at you like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “If you bang on my window like that again, I’m calling ICE on you.”

You were already inside his living room, rolling your eyes at his ridiculous bachelor decor.

So tacky.

“Excuse me? Haven’t you just told Blüdhaven’s newspaper how much you support immigrants?”

“And I do,” he said, sinking onto his couch, legs spread lazily. Your gaze flicked, just for a second, okay, to the way the white fabric of his boxer clung to him, outlining more than you expected. Your stomach did a little flip. “I just fucking hate you. So what do you want?”

You wished you could say it was a lie, that you weren’t taking a second to admire the strong line of his thigh disappearing into the fabric, the way the material stretched slightly, hinting at everything beneath…

But, hum, well, Dick was, in fact, a philanthropist at heart, donating Alfred’s inherited fortune to institutions in Blüdhaven, building a city capable of supporting all kinds of people, all while using that shitty law degree he had to help immigrants navigate the system. And right now, all that admirable stuff didn’t stop your eyes from lingering where the white boxer hugged him just so well.

Gods above.

“You told the press I had mental issues,” you snapped, glare locked on his face and not on his probably huge cock.

He didn’t flinch. “Yeah? You told them I’m a culture appropriator.”

“Because you are one,” you shot back, voice sharp enough to cut.

The room went still for a heartbeat, both of you breathing hard, fury and something heavier sparking between you.

“Listen,” you said, stepping closer until the air between you felt electric, “I’m speaking slowly so your simian brain can understand. You’re going to go there and tell them I’m mentally capable. Got it?”

His brows arched, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Or?”

Your jaw tightened. “What do you mean, or?”

He leaned back on the couch, eyes dragging over you with infuriating calm. “I mean it’s three in the morning, and you’re standing in my living room, barking orders like a lunatic. Are you sure you want to sell the world on your emotional stability?”

You stared at him, pulse spiking, hating the lazy way he looked at you, like he was dissecting you and enjoying every second of it.

Dick only tilted his head, that infuriating lazy smile spreading. “You’re insane, and I want you out of my apartment. Goodnight.”

He rose to go, all calm motion, and you moved faster, as you always do. Before he could reach the hall you’d closed the distance, slammed him back against the wall with a loud thud. Shelves shuddered, a few of his things clattered to the floor.

He never expected you to actually touch him.

Your forearm was flat against his throat, pressure controlled. The world narrowed to the heat of his skin under your own and the sound of his ragged breath.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you spat, teeth bared. “Did you forget who I am? Did you forget I can melt your face if I wanted to? I can snap you in half.”

For a second he didn’t answer. Then Dick’s eyes flashed, equal parts defiance and something like need, and that stupid grin cracked into something sharper.

“You think I don’t know that?” he said, voice rough.

The sound of his words scraped against your nerves. Closer now, your face inches from his, you could see the way his pupils dilated, the tremor in his jaw.

Hate and want were banging against the same door.

You looked at his lips, so soft and full, almost too perfect, and nearly screamed in frustration. How could a man look like that? How could a stupid, infuriating Earthling be so unreal? His dark hair was still mussed, his jaw shadowed, eyes bright with the kind of calm that only made him more impossible to ignore.

Every inch of him looked sculpted by some divine creature, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the faint bruise blooming under his jaw probably from patrol, the glint of defiance in his blue eyes. He shouldn’t have been beautiful, not like this, not when you wanted to hate him.

But your body didn’t listen. Your chest felt too tight, your blood running hot. Your sharp, disciplined mind was slipping through your fingers like smoke. Maybe it was just the long-term exposure to the yellow sun.

Maybe humans really were a toxin.

“Grayson…” you breathed, and even to your own ears, it sounded nothing like a threat.

He saw it immediately. He always did. For all your enhanced senses and kryptonian intellect, Dick Grayson was still the better detective. He caught the flicker in your eyes, the softening, the crack in your armor. He didn’t need super hearing to understand what your silence said.

He was fluent in you by now.

“Not gonna melt my face with your heat vision, Supergirl?” he murmured, voice low, teasing, but the sound of it slid down your spine like static.

His hands moved before you could react, fingers trailing down until they rested on your waist. Even through the thick fabric of your suit, his touch burned. His grip was firm, grounding, his thumbs tracing lazy, infuriating circles that made your breath catch. And when you looked up again, his smirk was gone. There was only that look, the kind that made your heart slam painfully against your ribs. You hated him for it.

You hated that he could make you feel so human.

“If you tell anyone about this, I swear—” you started, but the words died.

He moved first, or maybe you did. It didn’t matter. You collided like two storms meeting in mid-air. The kiss wasn’t soft, it was an angry crash, teeth and heat and fury. Your hands caught his shoulders and pulled him closer, hard enough that he protested. His fingers dug into your back, holding on as if either of you might vanish if you let go for half a second.

The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat. Anger tangled with want until you couldn’t tell them apart. He tasted like adrenaline and every argument you’d ever had.

You shoved him back against the wall just to feel him slam into it, just to hear the rough sound he made in the back of his throat. He came right back at you, matching every ounce of force, lips bruising, teeth catching. Neither of you were gentle, neither of you wanted to be. It wasn’t romantic, it was release, the kind that left you shaking.

When you finally tore apart, both of you were gasping for air. His lips were swollen, his chest heaving. The world tilted slightly, the floor under you cracked from the force of that last push. Kryptonian strength had a way of turning even a kiss into a battlefield.

Dick’s hands still hovered near your hips, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you back in or push you away. His eyes searched yours, every bit of him caught between wanting to fight and wanting to fuck you hard.

“If you tell anyone,” you said again, voice hoarse, rough, trembling with leftover adrenaline, “I’m killing you.”

He didn’t flinch.

His jaw clenched, breath ragged, and instead of answering, his hands went straight to your ass with possessiveness, grounding you in place under the pretty skirt of your Supergirl uniform. He dragged you closer again, until there was no space left between you.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dick muttered against you. His wet lips brushed your neck, licking and kissing your warm skin slowly as if he was tasting you, savoring you like a hot meal. You could feel his pulse hammering through the contact, fast and human against your kryptonian body, and somehow that contrast set every nerve in your body alight.

You’re gonna let an Earthling dominate you?

He nibbled at the sensitive skin of your neck, and your hips instinctively pressed against his. A soft whimper escaped your lips as you felt him straining over the thin fabric of his boxers, so tight it was practically see-through. Fuck, you could feel his cock twitching against your stomach. Heavy and warm, begging for your attention.

You were already sinking to your knees before your brain could catch up with what the fuck you were doing.

His blue eyes went wide.

“Whoa—already like this?” he teased.

“Shut up, monkey, just—” you leaned closer, glancing at his twitching bulge in front of you and, finally, licked him up, slowly, from his base to his warm tip. The salty pre-cum heavy on your tongue.

“Gosh,” he moaned softly, lips parted, “I thought that mouth of yours was only good for yelling at me.”

Without another word, he gripped your hair, tugging you closer, pressing his clothed cock against your lips and nose with the kind of possessive force that left your knees weak.

“Just like that, pretty girl,” he murmured, fingers lazily combing through your hair as you pressed tiny, hesitant kisses over the wet fabric, still insecure.

Then—

BZZZZZZ!

His comms blared loudly in the living room, shattering the charged moment.

Dick froze for a split second, eyebrows shooting up. “Oracle,” he groaned, trying to hold onto the tension between you both as he reached for the comm on the nearest shelf. His grip on your hair faltered just slightly, and you peeked up at him through your lashes.

Fuck.

You scrambled to stand, coughing awkwardly, cheeks flaming with pure embarrassment.

“Nightwing,” Oracle’s crisp, unrelenting voice buzzed through the speaker. “We have a situation. Now.”

Dick ran a hand down his face, sighing heavily, while his eyes flicked to you. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he muttered.

You didn’t wait a second. Before Dick could even protest, you were already pushing off the floor, cape fluttering behind you as you shot out the window in a blur of red and blue.

You were fast.

Way too fast. In a heartbeat, the city below blurred beneath you, and before you knew it, you were sliding through your own apartment door, still a little shaky from the whole awkwardness earlier.

Jesus Christ.

You were really about to—

To suck his cock.

The next day, Clark caught you brushing your teeth so aggressively that you broke the toothbrush.

“Hey, kid… you okay in there?”

From behind the door came a chorus of horrifying gagging and retching noises.

“Uh… amazing,” you croaked, holding up the mangled toothbrush like a tiny weapon.